Kitabı oxu: «The Honeymoon»

NOTES ON CHARACTERS IN ACT I

Flora Lloyd. Beautiful. Elegant. Charming. All in the highest degree possible. The whole play turns on these qualities in her.

Cedric Haslam. Renowned aviator. The taciturn inventive Englishman. Very self-controlled, but capable of passionate moments. Obstinate, with enormous force of character. His movements, gestures, and speech have a certain air of slow indolence, but are at the same time marked by that masculine harshness and brusqueness which would specially appeal to a woman like Flora. No one could guess from his demeanour that he is famous.

Charles Haslam. Boyish. Impulsive. Very self-centred. But very agreeable.

Mrs. Reach Haslam. Majestic. Richly dressed. The foremost woman-novelist in England and America. Her name a household word. No sense of humour. But she is very, very far from being a fool, and the part is not a low-comedy part. This play shows the least sympathetic side of her.

Mr. Reach Haslam. The husband of a celebrity. Strong sense of sardonic humour, which has very little outlet. Always exceedingly polite and even deferential to his wife, yet preserving his own dignity. A prim, dry, precise man.

Gaston. There are scores of Gastons in the hotels and restaurants of the West End. He does not differ from the type.

The Acting Rights of this Play are reserved. Applications for permission to perform should be made to Messrs. J. B. Pinker & Son, Talbot House, Arundel Street, Strand, London, W.C. 2, from whom all particulars as to terms may be obtained.

ACT I

A sitting-room in the only hotel at a small seaside resort in Essex. Old-fashioned Victorian furniture, producing a picturesque general effect. Some modern touch, such as a framed coloured advertisement of pneumatic tyres.

Door, R., leading to hall, principal entrance, and kitchen. Door, L., leading through a porch to the garden. A large window, divided into three portions by stonework, at the back: the panes are small; one of these portions is open, the others are closed.

Through the window can be seen a view of the garden, and the sea in the distance. The fireplace is not seen.

Cedric and Flora are seated at either side of a tea-table.

Time: Afternoon in June. Sunshine.

Flora. Another cup? (Cedric, looking at her, makes no reply.) Cedric! Another cup? (with a touch of very good-humoured impatience).

(Cedric rises, goes round the table to her, takes hold of her, and kisses her.)

Cedric. (Standing over her, she looking up at him.) I've been wanting to do that for about thirty solid minutes.

Flora. Then why didn't you, my poor boy? (Cedric gives a gesture to show that he doesn't know why) … Instead of keeping us both waiting like that! (Reflective.) And yet it's barely three hours since you kissed me in the vestry!

Cedric. Vestry be dashed! And here's another thing I've been wanting to do (he carefully kisses her ear).

Flora. My ear!

Cedric. Precisely, your ear! Strange!.. And I can tell you something even stranger. Shall I? (She nods.) When I'm standing over you I feel as if I should like to kill you! Yes, really, Fluff! It takes me all of a sudden! You know – when you lean out of a high balcony and you feel you must jump – well, it's that sort of a feeling.

Flora. What particular kind of homicide?

Cedric. Oh! (at a loss) a kind of a fierce crushing. (She smiles.) You think it's justifiable?

Flora. I don't mind so long as I know my risks.

Cedric. (After staring at her, with a convinced air.) We shall get on together all right!

Flora. Yes, I think we're doing rather well so far, considering (turning the ring on his finger).

Cedric. Considering what?

Flora. Considering how nervous we both are, naturally (drops his hand).

Cedric. (Moving away. Half to himself.) Yes, and we shall keep getting more nervous!

Flora. (Resuming exactly the same matter-of-fact tone as when she first put the question.) Another cup?

Cedric. (Similar tone.) How many have I had?

Flora. I don't know, dear.

Cedric. I've had enough, then.

Flora. Well, about our programme. Suppose we settle it a bit.

Cedric. Yes, let's. (Sits down.)

Flora. I do think it was a lovely idea to start off without any programme at all! Heaven itself couldn't say where we shan't be this time next week!

Cedric. Well, subject to your approval, I don't mind informing heaven that anyhow we shan't be here.

Flora. Tired of this place – already?

Cedric. On the contrary! But it's too small to hold a couple that have just walked out of a vestry. One hotel, one flagstaff, one boat, one sea. No pier, no tea-shop, no concert, and very probably no moon.

Flora. Extraordinary how even three hours of married life will change a man! You always used to be rather keen on quietness, solitude, old flannel suits, and so on.

Cedric. Now look here, Fluff! This honeymoon programme is important. Er – (hesitates).

Flora. (Nods.) Let's talk as man to man.

Cedric. The fact is I've always had a very distinct theory about honeymoons. Far from the madding crowd is a mistake on a honeymoon… Solitude! Wherever you are, if you're on a honeymoon, you'll get quite as much solitude as is good for you every twenty-four hours. Constant change and distraction – that's what wants arranging for. Solitude will arrange itself.

Flora. I didn't expect this from you, dear.

Cedric. (Hastily, apologetic.) Simply a theory! I've had no practical experience, and I'm perfectly ready to sit at your feet in the matter. Honestly, I don't care a straw. I may be wrong, and if you —

Flora. (Solemnly.) You aren't wrong! You're quite fearfully right!

Cedric. (After staring at her with a convinced air.) We shall get on together – that's a bedrock certainty! Now this place ought to be excellent for a beginning, but I should imagine that about a couple of days of it would do us.

Flora. I never suspected – no, really, I never did suspect – that any man could have as much common-sense, beforehand, as you have, Cedric. Not to speak of courage!

Cedric. Cheek, you mean. But then, of course, I am supposed to have a bit of nerve. Well, that's settled. We are to travel, then.

Flora. The point is, where?

Cedric. Where would you like?

Flora. (Radiantly.) Anywhere.

Cedric. What about Paris?

Flora. Oh, not Paris.

Cedric. Why not?

Flora. We should be simply mobbed. My dearest boy, have you ever heard speak of the simplicity of genius?

Cedric. I seem to have read about it somewhere, perhaps in the ladies' papers.

Flora. Well, you won't understand it, because you've got it – acutely.

Cedric. And here all these years I've been taking myself for rather a crafty person!

Flora. Do you know how many times I've counted your portrait in the weeklies this year? One hundred and forty-six! And that's not reckoning the pictures where your aeroplane's so high up that you only look like a fly in a mouse-trap.

Cedric. In my simple mind I'd always thought that the surest way never to be recognised in the street was to have your portrait in the papers.

Flora. And then there's your likeness to your mother! A hundred and fifty-one thousand copies of your dear mother's last novel sold up to yesterday – so I saw in the "Telegraph." And then her new novel out to-day!

Cedric. I'm not suggesting that we should camp out in Piccadilly for our honeymoon, my dove and my love; I said Paris.

Flora. All London will be in Paris.

Cedric. What – next week?

Flora. Every week. Excuse me asking a pointed question, dearest, but have you ever been to Paris – I mean, since the flood?

Cedric. Yes. My knowledge of the unwieldy goods department of the big railway stations is probably matchless.

Flora. Well, if you'd stepped outside the stations you'd know that Paris is now exclusively inhabited by nice respectable people from London and nice respectable people from Arizona; and when they aren't cricking their necks to look at aeroplanes, they're improving their minds with your dear mother's latest novel.

Cedric. (Mock serious.) Will you believe me – I'd no notion of this at all!

Flora. I tell you what – I wouldn't mind going to Paris under an assumed name.

Cedric. Oh, no!

Flora. Why not? It would be amusing.

Cedric. I don't see myself travelling under a false name. I suppose I am too English.

Flora. Well, I don't see myself in a Paris hotel as the bride of the most celebrated English aviator, and the daughter-in-law of the most celebrated English lady-novelist. I do not! (With a characteristic gesture.) Mobbed isn't the word for what we should be.

Cedric. (Gazing at her.) You must have noticed that I'm not what you'd call gushing. I've known myself go for a month without using a single superlative; but really, my most dear girl, my Fluffiest, when you strike an attitude like that, you're more marvellously and ineffably adorable than ever. Your beauty, your charm, your enormous slap-upness – (changing his tone) – Well, ecstasy is not my line… I only said Paris because the mater asked me if I thought we should be going there, and I told her it was possible.

Flora. Will she be there?

Cedric. No, no! Only, if we should happen to go there, she wanted me to count the panes of glass in a lamp-post on the Alexander III. bridge. One of her realistic details, you know. I expect she's got her hero staring absently up at that lamp-post – after an indiscreet evening… She may be depending on me.

Flora. But surely that isn't a reason why we should go to Paris! Your dear mother might have wanted to know the number of ribs in the umbrella of the King of Siam – should we have had to book to Bangkok?

Cedric. I was only —

Flora. Husband, I must tell you something about your mother. I've kept it a secret from you. Do you know what made her give up her terrific scheme of our being married in the cathedral by the Bishop, surrounded by the press of Europe?

Cedric. I thought our angel-tongues persuaded her out of it.

Flora. Not at all. A threat did it. I dropped in on her one day for a little private chat while you were at Blackpool. She was just going to arrange with the Bishop. I told her confidentially – but of course nicely– that if she wouldn't agree to us being married by a curate at Chelmsford, with nobody but her and your father and Charlie present, and nothing whatever in the papers for at least a fortnight, then I should insist on being married at a registry office.

Cedric. The deuce you did! What did she say?

Flora. She merely said: "Of course your wish is our law, Mrs. Lloyd." But the next day she was calling me "Flora" again.

Cedric. The mater folded up like that?

Flora. There! (Laughing.) Listen to your own tone, dearest. Naturally she folded up. She only needs proper treatment.

Cedric. Well, I had a bit of a stir with her when I decided to give up my amateur status; but I must say as a rule I get on very well with the mater.

Flora. So do I. It's because I get on so well with her that we had a curate to-day instead of the Bishop. Rather a jolly curate, didn't you think?

Cedric. Struck me as a queer lot.

Flora. Of course they're all queer. I liked him because when he asked me to sign my name he didn't say (imitating the snigger of a curate) "for the last time." They always do, you know. It's almost part of the service, for them. And if he had said it, I do believe I should have screamed.

Cedric. I say, Fluff, why after hiding this secret for several weeks – it's practically a double life that you've been leading – why do you reveal it just at this particular moment?

Flora. Oh – sheer caprice, my dearest! It just popped into my head.

Cedric. (Somewhat troubled and awkward.) So your notion is that the mater's moral empire over her family and the British public might be checked without grave loss of life, eh?

Flora. Cedric! (Cedric looks at her, arrested and questioning.) What's the rarest thing in the world? Quick?

Cedric. Common-sense, of course.

Flora. Oh! Good! I was afraid you might say a well-cooked potato.

Cedric. You ought to know me better than that.

Flora. But, Cedric, it's only now that we're beginning to make each other's acquaintance.

Cedric. That's true! But how did you know that common-sense is the rarest thing in the world?

Flora. Because I've got so very little of it myself. But even a very little will go a long way. Now, have I told you that our marriage isn't going to be like ordinary marriages – I mean, really?

Cedric. Well, you haven't exactly told me, but you've allowed me to suspect the fact.

Flora. Most marriages, and especially most honeymoons, are third-rate simply because the people concerned in them don't bring their bit of common-sense to bear on the problems that are (mock platform manner) – er – continually arising. (Laughing.) I intend to keep my bit of common-sense healthy by constant exercise. Common-sense, steadily applied, will solve any problem.

Cedric. (Emphatically.) Any! (After a pause.) Always provided —

Flora. (Surprised.) Always provided?

Cedric. My dear, in this outpouring of wisdom I, too, must have my share. Common-sense will solve any problem – any! – always provided it is employed simultaneously with politeness. During a long and varied career as a bachelor, dear spouse (mock platform manner), I have noticed that marriage is usually the death of politeness between a man and a woman. I have noticed that the stronger the passion the weaker the manners. Now, my theory is that politeness, instead of decreasing with intimacy – should increase! And when I say "politeness" I mean common, superficial politeness. I don't mean the deep-down sort of thing that you can only detect with a divining-rod… Pardon, you were saying?

Flora. Cedric! (Impulsively rushes to him and kisses him.) How right you are! It's exactly what I've been thinking for years. Now, as to common-sense and the programme. It would be against common-sense for us to begin by annoying your mother. If you really do think your mother would be in the least upset by our not going to Paris, naturally I shall be delighted to go. We could stop just long enough to inspect the lamp-post – and then off again.

Cedric. Oh, no! Oh, no! Of course she won't be upset!

Flora. That's settled, then. Do you know I've had the tiniest idea of going to Ostend, and then taking the Orient express to Buda-Pesth? I'm dying to see Hungary, simply dying.

Cedric. My dearest, your life shall be saved regardless of cost.

Flora. I do want an expensive honeymoon. Not because I'm extravagant, but because a honeymoon is a solemn, important thing.

Cedric. A symbol.

Flora. A symbol. And it ought to be done – well, adequately.

Cedric. Nineteen thousand pounds odd of mine is now on deposit at my bank – all honestly taken by me out of the pockets of ratepayers of various important towns in less than a year. And when that's gone I can always get more at about the same rate, as you know.

Flora. Cedric! There is to be no flying during our honeymoon?

Cedric. Certainly not!

Flora. And it is to last a full month, naturally.

Cedric. A full calendar month – with no address for letters.

Flora. (Sigh of ecstatic anticipation.) Two or three days, you said, here?

Cedric. Yes, don't you think it's enough?

Flora. Oh! quite. We shall be gone before anybody's had time to guess – (breaking off). Dearest, don't you think we came into the hotel rather well?

Cedric. Fine. No one could suspect that we hadn't been born married. I was proud of both of us.

(Enter Gaston, R.)

Gaston. Shall I clear the table? (Beginning to do so before receiving permission.)

Flora. Yes. (Flora and Cedric rise.)

Gaston. (With a cheerful air, quite unconscious of his impudent manner.) I suppose you stay here long time?

Flora. (Determined to snub the waiter.) Really!

Cedric. Why?

Gaston. Oh! honeymoon. Dull place. Fresh married English people demand generally dull place.

(Flora collapses and exit hurriedly into the garden, L. Cedric, with more leisurely dignity, lights a cigarette and is about to follow her when he stops and turns.)

Cedric. By the way, I don't think we shall stay long.

Gaston. (After looking at Flora in the garden, impartially and cheerfully.) It is strange how English people have shame of being married. One would say it was a crime in England. A young man and young lady in English hotel – they like better that one should think they not married. It is different in Switzerland. In Switzerland we are proud. We tell all the world. Why not?

Cedric. So you come from Switzerland?

Gaston. Oh, yes. I am not English (eagerly.) Geneva. My father is a fabricant, a —

Cedric. Manufacturer.

Gaston. Yes, manufacturer of door-mats. My father makes door-mats for all the hotels in Switzerland. Very big! Very important! He says – I must go into the hotel business. He will buy me a hotel. I learn everything. We do that in Switzerland. We are scientifique. I have been in the kitchens. Now I am waiter. No shame. Nobody could guess I am a gentleman.

Cedric. You mustn't be too hard on yourself, my friend. And so you've come to England?

Gaston. My father says, Go to England. Study the English caractère in England. Very valuable. When I come to London I could not speak English – no!

Cedric. When was that? Last week?

Gaston. No. It is a year, nearly. But I had at once a situation, the first day, at the Grand Babylon Hotel.

Cedric. Rather awkward, wasn't it, not knowing English?

Gaston. Yes. That fatigues one – to hear a strange language all the day.

Cedric. I meant for the customers.

Gaston. (Nonchalant gesture.) They are now well habituated. Many of them learn French or German, it saves time. English people are so practical. They are not logique, but they are practical. Now to-day I speak German, Italian, as perfectly as English.

Cedric. Remarkable! But surely a man of your enormous ability is wasted in a sleepy place like this… Perhaps you find it amusing, though.

Gaston. (Shakes his head. Passionately.) Dull! It is for my health that I am here. Sleepy! Ah, my God! (Disdainfully.) But all England sleeps… But next month I go to Germany. I shall have done England.

Cedric. You like Germany.

Gaston. Ah! What a country! What organisation! What science! Never sleeps! Always conquers! (Patronisingly.) Do you think in your business the Germans will not conquer, at the end?

Cedric. My business?

Gaston. Yes. Aeroplanes.

Cedric. So you know that?

Gaston. I know everything… Look at anileen!

Cedric. Anileen?

Gaston. Yes. Anileen – colours.

Cedric. Ah! You mean aniline dyes.

Gaston. Yes, I said so.

Cedric. What about them?

Gaston. What about them? England invented them. Germany has taken them from you – all. That is science. All German now. So with aeroplanes. England and France – proud, very proud. But at the end, you will see … at the end.

Cedric. Oh!

Gaston. And soon.

Cedric. I say, if it isn't a rude question, how did you guess that we were – er – on our honeymoon? It might be useful for me to know.

Gaston. Ah, now – again! I read, I study. I alone in this sleepy place. By example, no afternoon newspapers – none – came into this place till I ordered one at the railway. I insisted. "The Piccadilly Gazette" – you know – Thackeray – "written by gentlemen for gentlemen." I read it every day. Ah! And is it not afraid of Germany!

Cedric. Do you mean there's something about my marriage in the "Piccadilly Gazette"?

Gaston. Yes. Do you want to read it?

Cedric. Well, I should rather like to see it, if I'm not interfering with your studies.

Gaston. (Taking paper out of his pocket.) There! (Stands waiting in a suggestive attitude.)

Cedric. (Accepting paper.) Thanks! (Looks at him and gives him a tip.)

Gaston. (Pocketing the coin.) Thanks!.. And you will see about Klopstock too. (Picking up tray.)

Cedric. What about Klopstock?

Gaston. He comes to England soon as he has flyed at Breslau. Ah! You will see! (Exit R. with tray.)

(Cedric sits down with paper, and begins to read.)

Cedric. (Quietly.) Oh!

(He drops the end of his cigarette into a flower-pot; then takes a cigar from his case, cuts it, puts it in his mouth, and produces a matchbox, but does not light it.)

Cedric. Oh, indeed!

(He goes to the window, and taps on one of the closed panes. After a moment Flora appears at the open part of the window. Cedric, with a motion of the hand, indicates that he wishes her to enter.)

Flora. (Off, in a conspiratorial whisper.) Has the reader of hearts quite gone? (Cedric nods.) Come out. (Cedric beckons her inwards with his finger.)

(Enter Flora, L.)

Flora. Oh, Cedric! What a blow! We're the honeymoon couple now of Pixton-on-Sea. How did he guess?

Cedric. (Scarcely listening to her.) Fluff, read this (hands her paper with his finger on a particular paragraph). Top of second column.

Flora. (Reads.) "We are informed that Mr. Cedric Haslam, the celebrated aviator (Cedric shows surprise) was married privately this morning at Chelmsford to Mrs. Flora Lloyd, widow of the late Mr. Artemus Lloyd, stockbroker, who at one time was a well-known figure in the Kaffir Circus. Mr. and Mrs. Reach Haslam, the bridegroom's parents, and his brother, Mr. Charles Haslam, were present. The happy pair are spending the first part of the honeymoon at Pixton-on-Sea. By a curious coincidence, Mrs. Reach Haslam's new novel, 'The Wiving of the Chancellor,' appears on the very day of the marriage of her eldest son." (Shaking her head.) Only one thing is possible. Flight. Immediate flight! And plenty of it! Cedric, I suppose this is your dear mother's doing?

Cedric. I should doubt it. More probably some accidental leakage. She hates the very thought of self-advertisement.

Flora. Oh! I know. But I've always noticed she's somewhat unlucky in the matter of leakages. Your father ought to study plumbing.

Cedric. (Slightly impatient.) That's nothing. That's not what I wanted you to read. I hadn't even noticed that. Look! (Pointing to a paragraph.)

Flora. "Dissensions in the Cabinet. Extraordinary rumours."

Cedric. No, no. (Takes the paper and reads.) "The German Invasion. To-morrow, upon the conclusion of the Breslau meeting, Herr Klopstock will pack up his victorious new mono-plane and start for England. He announces his intention of trying within three weeks for the ten thousand pounds prize recently offered by the Aero Club to the first aviator who flies over Snowdon. Herr Klopstock, who has already, we understand, taken the whole of a hotel at Beddgelert for the accommodation of his staff, is convinced that his machine will rise easily to at least four thousand feet. The Kaiser has just christened the aeroplane the Black Eagle, by telegraph, and has assured the renowned aviator and ex-professor of the heartiest good wishes of himself and his house. His youngest grandchild, Prince – um – um – Fatherland – um – The news will certainly create a considerable sensation in England as it has done in Germany." I should say it would.

NOTES ON CHARACTERS IN ACT II

The Bishop of Chelmsford. Celibate. The typical Bishop who, while the bent of his mind is reactionary, convinces himself that he is exceedingly modern, and moving with the rapid times. No real intellectual quality, but energetic and self-adaptive.

Mr. Frampington. A bland young man, with perfect manners and perfect sangfroid. A single-minded person of immense intellectual and spiritual originality. To himself he does not seem at all peculiar, but merely natural.

Cuthbert. Just a plain modern butler. I particularly do not want this trifling part to be embroidered by the conventional butler "business." If any genuine realistic butler "business" can be brought into it, well and good.

ACT II

Mrs. Reach Haslam's study. A large apartment, richly and suitably furnished. The retreat of one of the most successful, most wealthy, and most majestic novelists in the world. Large and splendid desk (for two people, sitting opposite each other) about the middle of the room. Door back leading to hall, etc. Door, L., leading to drawing-room. Down stage, left, a sofa, which is partly hidden by a screen from the view of anyone entering by door, L. Date calendar on desk. Telephone.

All the Haslams except Charles are in evening dress. Flora is elaborately attired, with a light Egyptian shawl on her shoulders, and a fan.

Time: Same evening. Immediately after dinner.

The Bishop is waiting, alone. Enter to him, from door back, Mrs. Reach Haslam followed by Mr. Reach Haslam.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (As she enters.) Ah! Bishop. How good of you! (Shakes hands.)

Bishop. (Shaking hands with Mr. Reach Haslam.) My dear Mrs. Reach Haslam. Not at all! I blush for my diocese – that such a deplorable and distressing accident should have occurred in it.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Then it really is true?

Bishop. But I told you on the telephone.

Mrs. R. Haslam. I know, I know! I was only hoping against hope that perhaps after all you might have found that the marriage was legal.

Bishop. (Shaking his head.) No. His late father was undoubtedly in orders, his late brother also. But he himself was no more ordained than you are. (To Mr. Reach Haslam, who recoils.) He presumed on his relationships… In fact, his sole qualification seems to have been two old suits of his brother's.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well, after all, it is perhaps better so.

Bishop. Better, dear lady?

Mrs. R. Haslam. I mean that you have not brought good news at the eleventh hour. Really – (Looking at Mr. Reach Haslam.)

Mr. R. Haslam. (To whom the Bishop, puzzled, turns for an explanation.) My wife, with her novelist's instinct, perceives the situation that would be created if we had to go into the drawing-room now and say to them suddenly, "Well, you are married, after all."

Mrs. R. Haslam. Excessively delicate. They would naturally have to leave the house at once.

Bishop. Quite so. I cannot tell you how relieved I was to get your wire saying that you had overtaken them in time. Young people make such a mystery of the honeymoon nowadays that often they don't even leave a postal address. A dangerous innovation!

Mr. R. Haslam. Evidently.

Bishop. I gather that you have brought them both here, poor things!

Mrs. R. Haslam. It seemed the wisest course. I consulted my husband, and he quite agreed with me that in view of the unusual circumstances we ought to act with the greatest prudence – for their sakes! And so we motored quietly back to town and got here just in time for dinner. My son drove. I sat by his side. There wasn't room for their heavy luggage, and so Charlie is bringing that up by train. Charles is my other son… (Sighs.) And here we are!

Bishop. Admirable! It's a case of —

Mr. R. Haslam. As you were.

Bishop. Just so! Really a terrible blow to them – must have been! And to you, and to you! An appalling shock! How have they borne it?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well – (turning to Mr. R. Haslam). Father, how should you say they have borne it?

Mr. R. Haslam. Grimly. That is – on the grim side.

Bishop. Ah!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Of course, my Lord, we are taking it for granted that the matter can be put right to-morrow, without fail, and beyond question. I have tried to comfort them with that absolute assurance.

Bishop. My dear lady. Without fail! At any hour! any hour … up to three o'clock. That is why I have come specially to town – to convince you by my presence of my horror at the – er – crime, my sympathy with its innocent victims, and my utter determination that the ceremony shall be performed again to-morrow morning under my personal supervision and guarantee. I feel that I cannot do too much.

(During the last words enter Cuthbert, back, with salver of letters and press cuttings, followed by parlour-maid with a tray of newspaper packets.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Will you excuse my husband while he deals with the post?

Bishop. I beg – (Mr. Reach Haslam sits down to desk and takes the post. Exeunt Servants.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. I ought to apologise for receiving you in my study, but I thought – my husband thought – we had better see you first alone. Are those the press cuttings, father?

(Mr. Reach Haslam, nodding, opens press cuttings.)

Bishop. But for this unfortunate contretemps, what a charming coincidence that your new book should be published to-day of all days!

Mrs. R. Haslam. So you find time in your busy life, Bishop, to keep abreast of modern literature – even novels?

Bishop. Even novels! My dear lady, there is no greater force for good.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Or for evil – alas!

Bishop. Quite so! I have often thought – I have indeed said so from the platform – that the two most truly important influences for good in our generation are your novels and the leaflets of the National Society for Promoting the Education of the Poor in the Principles of the Established Church.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Indeed! Father, do you recall that press-cutting?

Mr. R. Haslam. (Busy.) No.

Bishop. It was reported in our Diocesan Magazine.

Mrs. R. Haslam. And yet, my dear Bishop, I have more than once felt it my duty to criticise the Church rather sharply in my work.

Bishop. I know, I know. We bow the head, we kiss the rod.

Mrs. R. Haslam. In my new novel I am back in politics again. Have you seen it yet?

Bishop. No, not yet. But I have already ordered it from Boot's.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Boot's?

Bishop. Yes, the cash chemists. I find their circulating library the most economical of all. And I have to be particular. As you know, I publish every year a detailed account of all my expenditure, personal and otherwise, and too large a sum for books might be misconstrued as self-indulgence, especially in a bachelor.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Ah, yes. (Handing him a book.) Here is a copy.

Bishop. Pretty cover.

Mr. R. Haslam. (To his wife, in a low tone.) Twenty-one columns.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Pleased.) Really!

Bishop. (Looking up.) Twenty-one columns?

Mrs. R. Haslam. We are treating you without ceremony, my dear Bishop. My husband has just calculated the total length of the reviews of my book that have appeared in the London papers on the first day. Of course we attach no value whatever to the actual opinions expressed – the critics have to work in such a hurry – and they are so sadly unfitted for their work, poor dears – but the amount of space given is an excellent indication of the public importance ascribed to the book.

Bishop. (Who has been inspecting the book.) How true!

Mrs. R. Haslam. (To Mr. Reach Haslam.) Anything special?

Mr. R. Haslam. No. "Surpassed herself," seven or eight times. "Masterpiece," fourteen times. The "Piccadilly Gazette" is unfavourable.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Very?

Mr. R. Haslam. Yes.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Better tell me.

Mr. R. Haslam. (Deprecating gesture, reads.) "The book is of course admirable in workmanship, knowledge and insight, but Mrs. Reach Haslam has not, if the truth must be told, surpassed herself."

Mrs. R. Haslam. If I'd known about that when I saw their lady reporter this morning!..

Bishop. (Putting the book down.) Enthralling narrative! Enthralling! Now, my dear lady (rising).

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Interrupting him.) Please sit down. As you are having a glimpse of me in my profession to-night, I want to ask you one or two professional questions – about the psychology of that false curate.

Bishop. (Sitting down again.) Yes, yes. Psychology. Just so.

Mrs. R. Haslam. I never lose an opportunity of gathering material. Father, will you mind taking down? My husband is good enough to act as my stenographer.

Bishop. Touching!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Now I noticed nothing remarkable about that curate.

Bishop. (Agreeing.) No. And yet, you know – curious thing – he's a gentleman, quite! Oh, quite! And I even remember once meeting his father, when I was Court Chaplain, at a garden party in aid of the Additional Curates Society.

Mr. R. Haslam. (Repeating what he has written.) Curates Society.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But why should he choose to personate a curate? That is what is so interesting to a novelist. Why a curate? It couldn't have been for the money, or the glory.

Mr. R. Haslam. Glory.

Bishop. The case is highly peculiar. He is certainly not without means, or brains. My opinion is that his action was due to excessive intellectual curiosity. He told me he wanted to feel what it was like to be a curate.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Yet he looked quite sane.

Bishop. Oh, quite! Astonishing story! His brother, through the influence of the Primate, had been engaged as curate, by the Vicar of St. Saviour's, Chelmsford, subject to an interview. This brother had been doing some chaplaining in Switzerland – just rough winter work. On the way home he died suddenly in Paris. Well, our friend of this morning calmly took up the dead man's identity. Came to Chelmsford, conquered the simple Vicar, and was at once accepted. That was two months ago.

Mr. R. Haslam. Ago.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But how dangerous.

Bishop. So I pointed out to him. His reply was that it was just the danger that had attracted him – coupled with the desire to understand why the members of his family had had such a passion for curacy. It seems that two of his sisters have espoused curates. This will be a grievous blow for all of them.

Mr. R. Haslam. All of them.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But why should the man be struck with remorse just now?

Bishop. Well, his explanation is that he was so moved by the bride's beauty.

Mr. R. Haslam. Duty.

Bishop. Beauty. (Gesture of mild triumph from Mr. Reach Haslam to Mrs. Reach Haslam.) He could not bear to think that any action of his should cause – er – inconvenience to a woman so beautiful. Hence he came to me at once. Fortunately I happened to be at the Palace.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Had he performed any other marriages?

Bishop. Happily none; but he had celebrated ten funerals and four baptisms. However these did not seem to trouble him in the least, I regret to say. It was the wedding alone that roused his conscience.

Mr. R. Haslam. Conscience.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Of course you sent for the police.

Bishop. I trust and believe that he is now in prison. But I did not send for the police. The Church has its dignity to maintain against the civil judicature in these modern days. Also with so much irreligion – shall I say? – flaunting in the very air, She must avoid scandal – particularly local scandal. London scandal is less deleterious. Accordingly I brought the young man up to town with me, and I put him into a cab for the police-station, where he will surrender himself of his own free will to the law. I prefer that way. It is, perhaps, original; but nowadays we Bishops have to be original.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But do you really suppose he has surrendered?

Bishop. I am sure of it. I cannot pretend to your skill in reading character, dear lady, but I know a gentleman at sight.

Mr. R. Haslam. Sight.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Of course, if one put such a story into a novel, it would never be believed. That's the worst of real life.

Bishop. And yet this distressing affair reminded me strongly of the false archdeacon in "The Woman of Kent."

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Pleased.) Ah! You remember my early book?

Bishop. (Protestingly.) My dear lady! You have no more earnest student! And may I add that from the first I found that episode of the false archdeacon entirely convincing. Its convincingness was one of the very few points on which I shared the opinions of the late Mr. Gladstone. "The Woman of Kent" has always been a favourite of mine among your novels. It must have had a vast circulation.

Mrs. R. Haslam. How many copies, father?

Mr. R. Haslam. (Without looking up from the desk.) One hundred and seventy-two thousand.

Bishop. Wonderful memory!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Is it not? He knows more about my books than I do myself, far more.

Bishop. Touching. (Rising.) I must go – reluctantly. Now what time shall we say for to-morrow morning? I am absolutely at your disposal.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But do we understand that you mean to conduct the ceremony in person?

Bishop. I do. I wish particularly to show by my presence at the altar my sense of what complete reparation is due to you – due to you all.

Mrs. R. Haslam. I think we had better consult Flora herself. (Rings bell.) As you know, my original intention was that you should be asked to preside at the ceremony. But the young people insisted on a simple curate – doubtless from modesty, my dear Bishop… Would that I had been firm in the first instance!

(Enter Cuthbert, back.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Is Mrs. Lloyd in the drawing-room?

Cuthbert. Yes, ma'am.

Mrs. R. Haslam. With Mr. Cedric?

Cuthbert. No, ma'am. She is alone.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Will you tell her that I should be very much obliged if she could join us here for a moment.

Cuthbert. Yes, ma'am… A representative of the "Piccadilly Gazette" has just called, ma'am – for information. A male representative.

Mrs. R. Haslam. "The Piccadilly"! (To Mr. R. Haslam.) The audacity! (To Cuthbert.) About what? (Cuthbert makes a gesture of embarrassment.) You told him to call again to-morrow?

Cuthbert. No, ma'am. He's waiting.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Father, would you mind going out to him? (Exit Cuthbert.) I really wonder at Cuthbert! (To Bishop.) We have an absolute rule against seeing journalists after dinner. As you know, Bishop, I detest notoriety. Hence our rule. And yet Cuthbert allows this man to wait!

Mr. R. Haslam. (Going to door.) Cuthbert is not himself. Cuthbert has been staggered by the events of the day. The strain of pretending that nothing in the least unusual has happened must be tremendous. Allowance should be made for Cuthbert. How shall I treat this invader?

(The Bishop dips into the novel.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well, without actually mentioning their review, perhaps you might just indicate by your manner —

Mr. R. Haslam. These journalists are so obtuse, but still —

Mrs. R. Haslam. I think perhaps if you said that we cannot understand how a purely private matter can interest the public, but that if they must know, the Bishop is here in person, and – (Mr. Reach Haslam nods.) You think that will be judicious?

Mr. R. Haslam. Quite. (Exit back.)

Bishop. (Putting down the book.) Enthralling!

(Enter Flora, L.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Flora, darling, this is the Bishop of Chelmsford – Mrs. Lloyd, my – er – prospective daughter-in-law.

Flora. (Stiffly.) My lord.

Bishop. My dear young lady, I have already tried to express to Mrs. Haslam my consternation, my shame, at the —

Flora. (Smiling coldly.) I am sure that is sufficient.

Mrs. R. Haslam. The Bishop has come to town specially to see us, Flora. In order to guard against any possibility of further accident, he has kindly suggested that he should officiate himself to-morrow morning.

Flora. (To Bishop.) It's really very good of you.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Relieved.) Is it not?

Bishop. At what hour? I am entirely at your disposal.

Flora. Oh, any time!

Bishop. Noon? If you come down by the nine-fifteen train —

Flora. That will do perfectly.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Where is Cedric, dear?

Flora. I have no idea. Shall I see? (Exit, L.)

Bishop. The dear child has evidently been much upset.

Mrs. R. Haslam. We all have.

Bishop. Ravishing creature! Who was Mr. Lloyd?

Mrs. R. Haslam. He seems to have been on the Stock Exchange. He was a Chelmsford man, and had a house just outside the town.

Bishop. Indeed! I never met him. Did he leave a large fortune?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Oh, no! The house – not much else, I believe.

Bishop. Probably an admiration for your work was the original basis of the – er —

Mrs. R. Haslam. Oh, no! I was first introduced to Mrs. Lloyd by Charlie, my second son. In fact, quite confidentially, Bishop; we thought it was a match between them.

Bishop. But heaven decided otherwise?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Cedric decided otherwise.

(Enter Mr. R. Haslam, back.)

Mr. R. Haslam. Flora tells me that it is arranged for to-morrow.

Bishop. Yes. I have just been hearing from Mrs. Haslam how this beautiful young lady has attracted both your sons.

Mr. R. Haslam. Very catching. Ran through the family.

Bishop. Ha, ha! (Seriously.) Ravishing creature!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Has Charlie come yet?

Mr. R. Haslam. No.

Mrs. R. Haslam. If he isn't here soon I fear he'll be late for the office. And he's had no sleep to-day, poor boy. (To Bishop.) Charles is the assistant manager of the circulation department of the "Daily Sentinel," and his hours are from 9.30 at night till three in the morning.

Bishop. How trying! I'm afraid we little think when we open our newspaper at breakfast – I always read the "Sentinel" – we little think what an immense amount of endeavour —

(Enter Charles, back.)

Charles. Hullo! Mater. No trace of any dinner for me in the dining-room. Here you stick me up with the luggage and all the dirty work —

Mrs. R. Haslam. Charles, the Bishop of Chelmsford.

Bishop. We have met once before, I think. (Shaking hands.) Now, dear Mrs. Haslam (looking at his watch), I have half an hour to get to Liverpool Street.

Mrs. R. Haslam. You return to Chelmsford to-night?

Bishop. Essential! I have a midnight procession of drunkards. You know they call me "the drunkards' Bishop." I am proud of the title.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Shaking hands.) Exceedingly good of you to have come.

Bishop. Not at all. The obligation is mine for your forbearance. Now – may I presume on our slight acquaintanceship? If at any time you should think of adding a Bishop to your wonderful gallery of contemporary portraits, and I could be of assistance – need I say more?

Mrs. R. Haslam. I have already drawn two.

Bishop. Really?

Mr. R. Haslam. Suffragans, my dear.

Bishop. Ah! Suffragans! I thought I could not have forgotten two Bishops. Till to-morrow then, at noon. Young man, till to-morrow. (Shakes hands with Charles.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. (As Bishop and Mr. R. Haslam go out.) Father, would you mind speaking firmly to Cuthbert about Charlie's dinner?

(Exeunt Bishop and Mr. Reach Haslam, back.)

Charles. Why the Bishop?

Mrs. R. Haslam. He came up specially to arrange for to-morrow. Certainly it was the least he could do.

Charles. To-morrow?

Mrs. R. Haslam. The wedding.

Charles. Oh yes, of course, I was forgetting.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Really, Charlie, you get more and more absent-minded as you grow older. I'm not sorry Cedric won't let you meddle with aeroplanes. The wedding will be at noon to-morrow. We go down by the nine-fifteen.

Charles. With all that luggage again! It would have been simpler to leave it where it was. Seven trunks! What with cabs, tips, fares, excess, and a special omnibus, somebody owes me one pound thirteen, not to speak of compensation for the total loss of tea, dinner, and temper.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well, you are always enthusiastic about Flora's clothes. We acted for the best. We couldn't tell exactly what would happen. Fortunately the Bishop saw at once that it was his duty to take things in hand himself.

Charles. I should say that what the Bishop saw was a chance of getting himself into one of your books, mater.

Mrs. R. Haslam. That also is possible.

Charles. (Imitating the Bishop.) "Need I say more?" What a cuckoo!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Charles!

(Enter Cedric, L.)

Cedric. Has that dashed Bishop actually departed? I began to think he was going to spend the night here.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Cedric! I am ready to make great allowances, but I really do not know what has come over my sons.

Cedric. Sorry, mother. (To Charles.) Hello! You back?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Flora's told you it's all arranged for noon to-morrow?

Cedric. No. Haven't seen her.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well, it is. And now, my boys, you can't stay any longer in your mother's study. My article for "Harper's" must absolutely be finished to-night. Your father and I had been expecting a placid afternoon and evening of work.

Charles. By the way, Rick. About that Klopstock business. Of course you've seen the papers. (Cedric nods.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Oh, yes. I quite intended to mention that, Cedric; but really one has had so many things to think about – and my article, too! How very awkward it is, isn't it?

Charles. I met one of our johnnies at Liverpool Street, and he was a little excited about it. And I may inform you it isn't often our johnnies do get excited.

Cedric. Oh! (Sits down on sofa.)

Charles. He told me they'd received a later wire at the office, from Breslau, saying that Klopstock has had a private trial over a mountain near there – I forget the name – and done it, my boy! Done it on his head!

Cedric. Has he, indeed?

Charles. And he'll be over here in a week or ten days, it seems. They want to know at the office exactly what you're going to do. So I told the johnnie I should be seeing you to-night, and I'd bring an official message. I had to explain to him a bit what had happened – couldn't help it. I suppose you'll be forced to cut the honeymoon next week and begin to get things into shape at once.

Mrs. R. Haslam. It is annoying for you, dear, and for Flora, too!

Cedric. I shan't do any such thing.

Charles. You surely won't let him —

Cedric. I shan't do anything for a full month.

Charles. Do you mean to say you'll let Klopstock get in first.

Cedric. If Klopstock chooses to try during my honeymoon, I can't help that, can I? Let somebody else have a shot. I'm not the only aviator in England, confound it!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Cedric!

Charles. You're the only aviator in England that can get in front of Klopstock over Snowdon.

Cedric. I can't help that.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But, Cedric – surely your duty —

Cedric. Oh! d – (stopping himself).

(Enter Flora. As soon as she perceives Cedric, who has been hidden from her by the screen, she makes as if to leave the room again.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Recalling her.) Flora.

Flora. (With false simplicity.) So you are back, Charlie. What an angel you've been to worry yourself with all that big luggage.

Charlie. Oh! That's all right (surveying her). I see you had at least one frock in the portmanteau. We were just discussing the Snowdon flight. So you two have decided —

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Turning to Flora again, pained.) You are forgetting the terrible scandal that will ensue if you persist in your present course, dear Flora. The honeymoon actually begun! and then – this bombshell! How shall we break it to the Bishop? How can I ever look the Bishop in the face again! How can I ever look anybody in the face again?.. To-day of all days, when my new book has just come out! And with my article to finish, on the decline of the birthrate among the well-to-do classes!.. How can we explain to people that the marriage is broken off when there's certain to be an account of the wedding in every paper to-morrow morning?

Flora. That, at any rate, isn't my fault. By-the-way, how did that paragraph get into the "Piccadilly Gazette"? (Mischievously.) I suppose it must have slipped in while you were looking the other way.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (With controlled acerbity.) When you begin to figure prominently in the life of your country, Flora, you'll understand, perhaps, a little better than you do now that newspaper reporters, whatever their sex, simply will not be denied. They reside on the doorstep. One cannot be rude. At least I can't.

Flora. I hope I never shall figure prominently in the life of my country. But I want to figure prominently in the life of my husband.

Mrs. R. Haslam. The newspapers —

Cedric. Excuse me, mater, but isn't this right off the point?

Mrs. R. Haslam. (To herself.) And I was looking forward to a quiet half hour with my press-cuttings!

(Silence.)

(Enter Mr. Reach Haslam cautiously, back.)

Mr. R. Haslam. (Mildly cheerful.) Well, where have you got to?

Flora. I think we're gradually working back again to the importance of marriage in the life of the husband.

Mr. R. Haslam. That's better! That's better! (Sits.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Flora, you'll pardon me offering my opinion, as an experienced student of human nature, but when you say "the importance of marriage," I think you really mean your own individual importance. Personal vanity is very misleading.

Flora. Oh! It is.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Your attitude might be more defensible if you were a different kind of woman. I don't say it would be more defensible, but it might be.

Cedric. Oh, look here, mater —

Mrs. R. Haslam. Cedric, may I venture to converse in my own study?

Flora. (To Cedric.) Don't you understand that this is not your act? (Rising.) How a different kind of woman?

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Quietly courteous.) I mean, if you brought more to the marriage.

Flora. Money? I'm not rich, but you see I'm rich enough to despise ten thousand pounds.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Protesting.) Flora! Please don't mention such a thing! Have I mentioned it? I think we Haslams are as capable as anybody of despising ten thousand pounds. (Very kindly.) No, I mean, if you had more to show in the way of – shall I say? – striking personal talent. You can have no rôle except that of wife, purely social and domestic. And yet your attitude seems somehow to claim the privileges of a – a great singer, or a great pianist, or —

Flora. A great novelist?

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Imperturbable.) No, no. I was thinking more of public performers… Genius… If you had genius, talents. Mind, I'm not blaming you for not having them. I make no reflection whatever… Of course you are good, I hope, and you're beautiful.

Flora. So they say.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But beauty is a mere gift – from heaven.

Flora. My dear, what's the difference between a talent, and a gift from heaven? I remember not very long since you were really quite annoyed because the "Saturday Review," I think it was, referred to you as "Mrs. Reach Haslam, the talented novelist." Whereas you are constantly being called the "gifted novelist," and you like it. (She begins to sit down.)

Mr. R. Haslam. Pardon me. "Like" is too strong a word. My wife prefers to be mentioned as "Mrs. Reach Haslam," simply – don't you, dear? One doesn't expect to read in the papers "Mr. Balfour, the talented statesman," "Lord Northcliffe, the talented statesman." One expects only "Mr. Balfour," "Lord Northcliffe."

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Waving him graciously into silence. To Flora.) I willingly admit, dear, that in its origin a talent – like mine, if you insist —is a gift from heaven. But what years of study are necessary to perfect it! Whereas mere beauty, charm —

Flora. (Having sat down, and finally arranged her fan and shawl, etc.) It's taken me at least seven years of intense study to learn to sit down like that – and in another two years I shall do it even better. (With a delightful smile.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Graciously lenient.) But seriously —

Flora. Seriously? (Stopping, in a different tone.) My dear, did the Bishop say anything when I left the room?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Say anything! About what?

Flora. About me.

Mr. R. Haslam. He remarked that you were a ravishing creature.

Flora. Jokingly?

Mr. R. Haslam. No. He was quite serious.

Flora. That's just it. If it was only frivolous, empty-headed boys who were serious about it, but it isn't. The most high-minded, middle-aged men are serious about it. Why, even chaffeurs and policemen are serious about it. There must be something in it. Wherever I go people are more serious about me than about anybody else – even if singers and pianists happen to be present. If I arrive late at the theatres I'm the play for at least two minutes. And I assure you in the streets it often occurs that men I don't know hurry after me very seriously about it – even if I'm veiled. And yet you and I have the same dressmaker! It's always been like that – ever since my first marriage. And it's getting more and more marked. I don't mind telling you, my dear, that my own secret view of my importance is perhaps as modest as yours is of yours – but what can you and I do against the universal opinion? I've begin to bow before the storm. It's the wisest course. You talk about what I bring to the marriage (proudly). I bring to the marriage the gift of heaven, cultivated by the labour of a lifetime, and, as to its value, there's only one estimate, except yours (with a catch in her voice) – and Cedric's! Cedric puts an aeroplane higher.

Cedric. I beg your pardon —

Flora. (With emotion.) Yes, you do! Yes, you do! When there came a conflict between my honeymoon and your aeroplane, you decided instantly against the honeymoon, before I'd even been asked! You didn't even consult me.

Cedric. Aeroplane! Aeroplane! You keep on saying aeroplane, but —

Flora. (Calmer.) Listen. I know you've given way. I know you've offered not to sacrifice the honeymoon, but don't you really think still in your own mind that the honeymoon ought to be sacrificed? (Cedric does not answer – pause.) You know perfectly well it's a relief to you that I've cried off! Come, honestly now?

Mr. R. Haslam. (Warningly, under his breath.) Not too honestly.

Cedric. (Quietly.) Yes, I do think part of the honeymoon ought to be sacrificed. And I never dreamed that you would think otherwise. It's a difference of opinion that simply staggers me. It doesn't only stagger me – it frightens me. It makes one reflect, you know.

Flora. Then you are relieved? You're grateful.

Cedric. (Moved and stammering.) I ought to be. Of course you're the only person who could cry off.

Flora. What do you mean?

Cedric. Some things a man can't do.

Flora. Do you sit there and say that if I hadn't cut the knot, you'd have gone on, and you'd have let me go on, with a marriage you didn't believe in? Because you're a man, and there are some things a man can't do! Can't a man show as much pluck as a woman? That does settle it! (Controlling herself.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Flora, you'll regret you've thrown Cedric over. You'll certainly want to come back to him.

Flora. (Disdainfully.) Shall I! (Politely.) Good-night, Mrs. Haslam.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But where are you going?

Flora. I don't know. How can I stay here? My official connection with this house is ended. I shall go to a hotel. Good-night. So many thanks!

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Rising and going to her; firmly.) I'm sure you'll oblige me by not scandalising the servants. You can choose a hotel to-morrow morning. I'll go with you to your room, if I may. All your trunks will be up there by this time.

(Exeunt Flora, submissive, and Mrs. Reach Haslam, back.)

(Mr. Reach Haslam slowly prepares for work at desk.)

Cedric. I'm off into the garden. (Pulls out his cigarette case.) (Exit, L.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Aside as Cedric goes.) Nincompoop!

(Enter Mrs. Reach Haslam.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Dear, before I go on with that article, I should like to make a few notes on Flora's demeanour, while the thing's fresh in my mind. One never knows when that kind of stuff won't come in useful.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Where's the boy?

Mr. R. Haslam. In the garden. (Half to himself.) Of all places!

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Collecting her thoughts and beginning to dictate.) "Essentially hysterical in a crisis, but does not pull a face before weeping, probably owing to advice from toilette specialist." Yes, full stop.

(Curtain.)

ACT III

Garden of the Reach Haslams' house in Palace Gardens. House front to the left. At the back, shrubberies and trees. In centre, an arbour or pergola, with the open side to the footlights. Under the shelter of this a table, with remains of a meal.

Time: Next morning 4 a.m. Magnificent sunrise.

Cedric is sitting at the table, having finished eating. He is still in evening dress, and dishevelled.

(Enter Charles through shrubberies from back. He wears the same costume as in previous act, with hat, stick, etc.)

Cedric. Hello?

Charles. So you're here, are you?

Cedric. (Wiping his mouth.) I am.

Charles. Well, what's happened?

Cedric. What do you mean?

Charles. What do I mean? You and Flora, of course!

Cedric. Nothing more.

Charles. Then is it off?

Cedric. (With a nervous laugh.) Right bang off! (Pause.)

Charles. You look as if you'd been up all night.

Cedric. (Nods.) What time is it? My watch has stopped.

Charles. About four. I'm a trifle late. (Sits down to table.) Well, my boy, I've got a bit of news for you. I don't know whether it'll influence you, but – (startled). Look here, have you been eating my supper?

Cedric. Was it for you?

Charles. I must say this really is a bit too thick!

Cedric. How should I know it was for you?

Charles. Of course you knew!

Cedric. It was all laid here. The fact is, I went off to sleep. I must have slept solid for about four hours. When I woke up just now, I was as hungry as a dog, so I just – I never thought —

Charles. Never thought be damned!

Cedric. Awfully sorry. Here's some bread. What's this news?

Charles. (Taking bread.) What's the good of being sorry? It was entirely on account of you I had no tea yesterday and no dinner either, and now I'm dashed if you haven't gone and eaten my supper too!

Cedric. What's this news?

Charles. (Eating.) If I hadn't had some sultana at the office I don't know what I should have done. I've a good mind not to tell you! (Taking paper from his pocket.) Here! This is a second edition, just off the machines (opening paper). Oh, curse! Mind the ink! (Looking at his hands, after giving paper to Cedric, who examines it.) There you are! (indicating a paragraph in the paper).

(Cedric reads, then rises.)

Cedric. (After reflection.) See here, boy. You just go to bed out of the way and don't ever let on that you've shown me this paper or even knew what there was in it. Do you hear? (Putting paper in his pocket.)

Charles. I hear. But why?

Cedric. Never mind why.

Charles. But the newsagent will deliver the mater's copy here at eight o'clock, and by half-past eight you may bet everybody in the place —

Cedric. I'm going to do something long before eight o'clock.

Charles. What are you going to do?

Cedric. I'm going to see Flora, and tell her I've altered my view completely. If she knew I'd seen the paper she'd be bound to think I'd only come round because of that, and she wouldn't listen to me – don't you see, idiot?

Charles. I see. But haven't you altered your view because of that?

Cedric. (Coldly.) What's that got to do with you? The point is that at any rate I can go honeymooning now with a free mind. That's the point.

Charles. And do you reckon all this'll be on the straight?

Cedric. I don't care whether it's on the straight or not. (Savagely.) I've got to have that woman– confound her! and I'm going to.

Charles. Where is she?

Cedric. She's in the spare room next to the mater's.

Charles. And how do you intend to get at her?

Cedric. I'm going to call her, and ask her to dress and come down at once. Then I shall talk to her, here. With a bit of luck I may be off with her and on the way to Colchester at six o'clock. Is there plenty of petrol in the stable?

Charles. Yes. I say – it's not right, you know!

Cedric. Shut up. (Going.) Did Fisher clean the car last night?

Charles. How do I know? He ought to have done. I say —

Cedric. (Stopping.) Well?

Charles. I suppose you don't want any advice from me?

Cedric. No. (Turns and stops again.) What?

Charles. I was only going to say that you'd better change those clothes and make yourself look less of an absolute waster.

Cedric. Well, of course! I expect I can dress quicker than she can, can't I? I've thought of all that.

(He turns finally to leave.)

(Enter Flora from house, meeting him. She is fully dressed in morning street attire, and carries a handbag.)

Flora. (Staggered.) Good morning!

Cedric. (Staggered.) Good morning!

Charles. Hello, Flo! What's the meaning of this?

Flora. Couldn't sleep.

Cedric. (Hastily and nervously.) I shall be down in two jiffs. (Aside to Charles.) See you don't let her go. (Exit into house.)

Flora. I guessed you'd be having your supper just about now. That's why I came down here.

Charles. (Pleased.) That's fine. Only I'm not having my supper. Cedric's eaten it all. He's been out here all night, and he's eaten it all – except this (showing bread).

Flora. My poor boy! But here's a couple of bananas. Have you ever tried banana sandwiches?

Charles. No. Are they any good?

Flora. Are they any good! Never had a banana sandwich! Shall I make you some?

Charles. I wish you would. (Silence, while she sets about sandwiches.)

Flora. Well, how long shall I have to wait?

Charles. Wait?

Flora. To hear what happened to Mr. Frampington, of course. Did they take him in at Bow Street?

Charles. Oh, yes.

Flora. Do you know – I'm rather sorry. Somehow I should have liked him to get clear away. Here! (Gives him a sandwich, which he eats. Then solemnly) Now, Charlie, I'm going. I want to be gone before anybody's up.

Charles. What occurred last night?

Flora. Oh! terrific scenes! terrific scenes! and I really can't face your mother this morning at breakfast. I couldn't do it. And it's quite unnecessary. So I'm going to the Great Western Hotel. I shall pretend I've arrived by a night train. And I want you to see that my trunks are brought there later. Here! (Gives him another sandwich.)

Charles. All serene! Thanks! (After thought.) I say —I rather like Frampington, too.

Flora. Why?

Charles. I don't know. It's due to him – somehow – I feel like you feel… I say, Flora, has it ever occurred to you that I'm a mere cipher in this house?

Flora. Really?

Charles. I'm nobody. I'm pitched about everywhere.

Flora. You don't mean – my trunks?

Charles. Not a bit. Of course I don't. I mean the way they treat me. Here Cedric's a perfect duke, in his own line. But will he have me on the works? Not much. Says I must strike out for myself, and all sorts of tommyrot. And in the end I'm set to night-work like a blooming nigger. People might think we were hard up for five quid a week, instead of simply rolling in coin – rolling in it! Why shouldn't I go round the world or something! I'm only twenty-two.

Flora. That all?

Charles. I go out and work all night. Then I come home and discover Cedric couldn't find anything better to do than eat my supper. Five servants in this house. But do you suppose there'd have been the least chance of me getting anything to eat before eight o'clock, at the earliest, if you hadn't invented these sandwiches? Not much! Thanks! (Takes two more.) But that's not what I meant. What I really meant was – who introduced my people to you? I did. I knew you at the Baths Club six months before his lordship Cedric and the mater kindly invited themselves to have tea with me there, and then I didn't count any more! Cedric simply shovelled me up and chucked me into a corner. In less than twenty-four hours he was in love with you. But did he ask my permission? Did he think about me for one instant? Not much! The fact is, they simply make use of me … and so – I rather like Frampington. Understand?

Flora. Yes.

Charles. Of course, I'm sorry about what's happened – as far as you are concerned. But as far as Cedric's concerned, I can't help thinking it serves him jolly well right. Cedric's too cocksure – in everything.

Flora. That's quite true.

Charles. (Hesitating.) Yes.

Flora. What else have you got on your mind?

Charles. Well, I don't know if I ought to tell you.

Flora. Certainly you ought to tell me.

Charles. You think so?

Flora. Unless, of course, you agree with all the things your dear mother's been saying to me.

Charles. It's about Klopstock.

Flora. About Klopstock?

Charles. He's had an accident.

Flora. What?

Charles. Broken his leg.

Flora. How? Came down too quickly?

Charles. No. Driving to his hotel last night his motor ran into a statue of Bismarck, and he was thrown out.

Flora. Motor cars are really too dangerous. I wonder any aviator cares to trust himself to them.

Charles. (Admiringly.) Now it's very funny. I often want to say things like that, only I can never think of them. Cedric – he can come out with them sometimes, and so can the dad. But you're the only woman I ever struck that could.

Flora. Charlie, you're a dear. I suppose he'll be laid up for five or six weeks.

Charles. Who? Klopstock? You bet. You see what it means?

Flora. Quite. What I don't see is why you should have hesitated to tell me about it. I suppose you've told Cedric?

Charles. Yes. I brought an early copy of the paper with it in.

Flora. Where is it?

Charles. Cedric's cleared off with it.

Flora. Well, if Cedric knows, why shouldn't I?

Charles. Ask me another! Look here, I'm giving the show away, but I've got my conscience to think of. This is a serious matter. I mean – really serious! I don't like it, but it's my duty to warn you.

Flora. Well?

Charles. Cedric told me I wasn't to say a word. He said I wasn't to let on that I'd told him.

Flora. And did you promise?

Charles. I should think I didn't. Not me!

Flora. Had Cedric been out here all night?

Charles. Yes. Told me he slept like a top in that chair, then woke up and ate my supper.

Flora. But why should he want you not to say anything about Klopstock? (Enter Cedric, in a lounge suit, somewhat awry, with a hat. Flora continues in the same tone to Charles.) Here, have this last one (offering him another sandwich. To Cedric). It appears you've been eating what doesn't belong to you. So I've done my best with bananas and stale bread to fill the breach.

Charles. (Nervous.) You've forgotten your hair, my boy.

Cedric. (With a gesture; low to Charles.) Hook it! (He repeats the gesture.)

(Exit Charles unwillingly, into house.)

Flora. (Primly.) I'm just going. I meant to leave before any of you were up. I thought that would be the wisest thing to do. But Charles begged me to stop and look after him a bit.

Cedric. What's he been entertaining you with?

Flora. Oh! his grievances. They're rather real, you know.

Cedric. Do you know, when I went in just now I was meaning to knock at your door and ask you to get up at once. Curious thing, that you should have been coming downstairs at that very moment!

Flora. Why this desire to begin the day so early?

Cedric. Look here, Flora, let's go, now! Fisher won't be up, but the car's cleaned and there's plenty of petrol. Come on. Just you and I.

Flora. (Innocently.) Where?

Cedric. Chelmsford. I can wake the Bishop and tell him we want the job done at eight o'clock instead of twelve. Any old verger and charwoman will do for witnesses. The thing will be all over before the mater's out of bed. We can telephone to 'em from Chelmsford with the pleasing news. (Pause. As Flora says nothing, he continues, rather less confidently.) It'll give 'em an appetite for breakfast.

Flora. (Ironically.) Any other details?

Cedric. (With rough persuasiveness.) Come on!

Flora. (Ironically.) Then you've decided that we are to get married, after all?

Cedric. Well, a marriage can't be broken off like – like this! It's unthinkable. What would any unprejudiced outsider say, if he was asked? He'd say we were off our blooming heads. The thing simply won't bear examination. (Moves towards her.) Come —

Flora. And I'm to be carried by storm?.. Great saving of argument!

Cedric. Now listen —

Flora. Well?

Cedric. Will you talk man to man? Straight?

Flora. As one honest Injun to another!

Cedric. (Picking up a dish off the table.) If you make one more joke, I'll smash every darned bit of crockery on this table. (Gesture of destruction.)

Flora. (Coldly.) Now if I agree to listen quietly and talk reasonably, it mustn't be understood that I'm open to argument. (Sits down.)

Cedric. All right, all right!

Flora. Because I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. The thing that's – that's really upset our applecart may seem perfectly childish to the unprejudiced outsider. But I don't propose to consult the unprejudiced outsider. Might as well take the case before a jury and engage a couple of K.C.'s. You know as well as I know that it isn't perfectly childish. It isn't childish at all. Its fundamental. We've been unlucky. But then in another sense we've been lucky. We're free. We aren't tied, thank Heaven. Man to man, Cedric, it would be too much humiliation – yes, humiliation – for me to marry anybody that looks on marriage as you look on it. And as it's just as impossible for you to change your opinion as it is for me to change mine, we shan't exactly go down to Colchester this morning… More's the pity.

Cedric. Well, I have changed my opinion. So let's go.

Flora. You've changed your opinion? How have you changed your opinion?

Cedric. I've sat there all this blessed night thinking it over.

Flora. Really?

Cedric. Yes. Do you suppose I could sleep any more than you could? What do you take me for? The more I thought it over, the more I saw I'd been mistaken. Now – half a minute! I can't honestly blame myself, you know. And so I won't pretend to – especially as we're talking straight. I told you what I felt, right out, and then I offered to give way. I couldn't do anything else. Well, you wouldn't have that. Mind you, I think you were quite right in refusing to let me give way against my better judgment. I admire you for that even more than I did. But I don't give way now against my judgment – I give way with it.