ACT II.

(_The drawing-room of_ MR. MOLLENTRAVE'S _house in Cadogan Square. At back_ L. _door leads to an inner room_. MOLLENTRAVE _is seated glancing over proof-sheets. Suddenly he calls_ "MR. DEXTER!" DEXTER _enters from the inner room up_ L.)

MOLLEN. (_Is sitting_ R. _of_ C. _table_) I have a few corrections to make for the new edition. Have you your note-book?

DEXTER (_enters_ L. U. E. _producing it_) Yes, sir.

MOLLEN. Sit down, sit down. (DEXTER _sits_ L. _of_ C. _table_) By the way, you've written that letter for me to Lord Contareen?

DEXTER. I have it in there for you to sign, sir, with the others.

MOLLEN. What date did I fix for his--reappearance, Dexter?

DEXTER. (_turning up pages_) I can give you the exact sentence, sir. (_reading_) "You have sown the seed, my dear sir, expect its germination in about six weeks. Then I shall invite you to examine the shoots."

MOLLEN. Yes, that will do! that will do. Couldn't be clearer. Now, Dexter, to return. I don't quite like the sub-title of that new chapter on Marriage, Dexter. Read it.

DEXTER. "The Marriage-Course. The First Lap."

MOLLEN. Exactly. It's too concrete. And suggests other laps to follow.

DEXTER. (_chuckling_) Yes, sir. Lapses.

MOLLEN. (_glancing severely at him over his spectacles_) Dexter, this is not the first time you have offended in this fashion. I beg it may be the last.

DEXTER. (_contritely_) Sir--

MOLLEN. Let me remind you that marriage was not invented merely to give the comic man a chance. Not a word, not a word--we need say no more. (_Rise, crosses to bookshelves_ R. _taking out book_) I want a new sub-title--something symbolic, tasteful, and yet adapted to the gravity of the situation.

DEXTER. How would "stage" do, sir?

MOLLEN. It savours of the theatre. My work has a large circulation among Nonconformists.

DEXTER. "Phase," sir?

MOLLEN. (_across to_ L. _back of table_) Invariably associated with the moon, or Napoleon. I seek a word that shall happily suggest the first disillusions of the young couple. Stay, I have it! The "Marriage Links" we will call it--there you have the symbol--and for sub-title:--(_down_ L.) "The First Bunker." (MOLLENTRAVE _rubs his hands, delighted at his invention_)

(MARTIN _the butler enters with_ LORD CONTAREEN, _a well-groomed, vacuous-looking man of forty_.)

MOLLEN. The First Bunk--(_sees_ CONTAREEN _reproachfully, crossing to up_ R. C. _front of table_) Contareen! You here! That's wrong!

(_They shake hands_, DEXTER _rises_.)

DEXTER. (_rising_) Shall I go now, sir?

MOLLEN. Yes, Dexter. You understand that I take you down with me to Swanage to-morrow?

DEXTER. Yes, sir--certainly, good-day, sir.

MOLLEN. Good-day to you.

(DEXTER _goes up_ L. MOLLENTRAVE _turns to_ CONTAREEN.)

(_Up_ R. C.) It's wrong, my dear fellow--it's wrong! To-day's Friday--she refused you on Wednesday. Too soon!

CONTAREEN. (_eagerly_) Mollentrave--I--(_down_ R. C.)

MOLLEN. (_emphatically, down_ C.) I have promised that you shall marry my daughter. I have assured you that I have no doubt whatever as to her affection. Then why this--precipitancy?

CONTAREEN. She refused me very decidedly. (_sits on settee_ R.)

MOLLEN. My poor Rosamund is a widow. (_up_ L. C. _across_ C. _and down_ R. C.) Also she has had the advantage of correcting my proof-sheets. She has read that passion wins maids, and perseverance widows. She follows the rule. Do the same!

CONTAREEN. I thought--

MOLLEN. Every siege must be conducted on scientific principles. You should now be back in your trenches. Digging, sir--digging!

CONTAREEN. (_eagerly_) Look here, Lady Pentruddock has asked me down to her place in Shropshire.

MOLLEN. Well?

CONTAREEN. Her sister will be there--Muriel, I mean, not Gladys. Muriel has charm.

MOLLEN. Granted. And then?

CONTAREEN. Your daughter knows Lady Muriel. When she learns that I shall be under the same roof with that fascinating person--eh?

MOLLEN. (_to_ L. _of table_ C.) I see, I see. Well--(_he ponders_)

CONTAREEN. If I tell Lady Claude that I--er--accept her decision cheerfully--eh?--and inform her that I--Lady Muriel--don't you think?

MOLLEN. (_judicially_) The idea has merit.

CONTAREEN. (_humbly_) I got it out of the book.

MOLLEN. Of course. That goes without saying. (_sit_ L. _of table_ C.) Well, no harm can be done. Though a line to me, from Pentruddock Castle would have been better.

CONTAREEN. Perhaps. But still--I say, you're backing me up?

MOLLEN. I'm supporting you admirably. I have repeatedly expressed my delight at her having refused you.

CONTAREEN. (_staggered_) I say!

MOLLEN. I dwell with satisfaction on the prospect of not seeing you again--

CONTAREEN. Look here!

MOLLEN. And have more than once hinted at a past that is probably strewn with forlorn Nancies and Janes--

CONTAREEN. (_aghast--rise_) By Jove!

MOLLEN. "To kindle the flame of love in the feminine bosom"--I quote from the fifteenth chapter--(_he presses the bell_) "the third party should vehemently, and persistently, denounce the person whom he desires to see enthroned."

CONTAREEN. But still!

MOLLEN. Leave it to me, my dear fellow, leave it to me! I tell you it works like a charm!

(CONT. _re-sits settee_ R.)

(MARTIN _comes in_ R.)

MOLLEN. Inform Lady Claude that Lord Contareen is here, and ask her to be good enough to descend.

MARTIN. Yes, sir. (_he goes_)

MOLLEN. Now see--when Rosamund comes, I shall retire into the back room there, and write a letter. I shall give you three minutes. Then you take your leave.

CONTAREEN. Quite so. Three minutes will do!

MOLLEN. And remember--be sprightly! Not a trace of acidity! Persiflage is good--in moderation--_Bring_ in Lady Pentruddock's sister--but don't _drag_ her in! You understand?

CONTAREEN. Perfectly, perfectly. Oh yes, I see. Gad, Mollentrave, I've always done what you told me. But those Nancies and Janes, you know--

MOLLEN. Tut, tut, women like a dash of colour! Now mind--your visit to-day is merely a p. p. c. card--the whistle that heralds the shunting of the train--

CONTAREEN. Quite so. (_whistle_) I must remember that.

MOLLEN. (_rise, cross to_ R. C.) Your line is delicacy. You feel it only due to her, and so forth. Your tone must be soft, mellifluous--a south wind rustling over orange trees. Orange trees, mark you--_not_ cypresses!

CONTAREEN. (_rise_) Exactly. Orange trees--_not cypresses_. I see.

MOLLEN. (_takes_ CONT. _across_ L. C.) Take no notice of her confusion. Be bland, respectful. Retire gracefully. (CONT. _crosses to_ L. _front of_ MOLLEN.) A gentle pressure of the hand. No more.

CONT. (L.) I'll do it. I'll do it! You're wonderful, Mollentrave, but I say--

MOLLEN. (L. C.) H'sh! (_up_ L. C. _to top of table_)

(LADY CLAUDE _enters_ R. _with book_)

LADY C. (_down_ C.) How are you, Lord Contareen?

CONTAREEN. (_down_ C.--_suddenly smitten with confusion_) I'm very well, thank you, Lady Claude--never was better, never was better!

(_He looks to_ MOLLENTRAVE _away_ L. _a step_)

MOLLEN. (_up_ C. _top of table--to_ LADY CLAUDE) My dear, you will excuse me--I have a line to write to--to--oh yes, to Balsted, of course, about the train to-morrow. We take the 11.20--he may as well join us. Your pardon, Contareen--I shall not be a moment.

(LADY C. _puts book away_ R.)

(MOLLENTRAVE _goes into the inner room_ L. U. E. _rubbing his hands_.)

CONTAREEN. (_disconcerted_) Balsted! the lawyer fellow!

LADY C. (_smiling_) The great barrister--yes. He is coming to Swanage.

CONTAREEN. The deuce he is! Old friend of yours, isn't he?

LADY C. (_sit_ R. _of_ C. _table, sitting_) I have known him a number of years.

CONTAREEN. Confound it, ain't he a bachelor? (_To_ L. _of table_ C. _from_ L.)

LADY C. He was when I last saw him.

CONTAREEN. And how long ago was that?

LADY C. I should think an hour and a half.

CONTAREEN. (_very perturbed_) (_sit_ L. _of_ C. _table_) Eh? Quite so, quite so. No concern of mine, of course, and all that. Well, what I had to say--the fact is that I--confound Balsted--he's put me off!

LADY C. (_wondering_) Put you off? Off what, Lord Contareen?

CONTAREEN. You see, I didn't know you were going to have visitors at Swanage.

LADY C. (_smiling_) Well, that's not unnatural, is it? We've such a large place there!

CONTAREEN. (_eagerly_) I suppose you wouldn't like me to--

LADY C. After what has occurred, perhaps--

CONTAREEN. (_pleading_) I've only asked you once, you know--

LADY C. (_emphatically_) But I do most earnestly beg you to believe that my decision is final, and irrevocable.

CONTAREEN. (_humbly, rise_) I don't think I made it quite clear to you to what extent I ad--

(MOLLENTRAVE _coughs loudly from the inner room_.)

CONTAREEN. (_quickly_) To what extent I ad--ad--advocate! Funny, isn't it! (_up stage_ C. _a step_) Besides, we're too old, and that sort of thing--

LADY C. (_puzzled_) I beg your pardon--

CONTAREEN. (_top of table_ C.) Oh, nothing, nothing--a joke that's all--mere persiflage! What I wanted to say was--to break it--h'm delicately--that I was going away too--to Lady Pentruddock's, you know--

LADY C. Indeed? I hope you will have a most pleasant time.

CONTAREEN. Thanks--sure to, sure to! Seems that her sister's there--Muriel, you know, not Gladys. Fine woman, Muriel.

LADY C. (_indifferently_) Very.

CONTAREEN. (_artfully_) Old friend of mine--and I fancy that she--she--you see--well, I--and I rather want to--eh, don't you think?

LADY C. (_clapping her hands_) Admirable! Oh, I'm so glad!

CONTAREEN. (_quickly_) Nothing done yet, of course! There still is time--

LADY C. Time?

CONTAREEN. My visit to-day is merely a kind of--whistle, you know. 'Bout ship, eh? You don't mind?

LADY C. Mind? I! My dear Lord Contareen, I assure you--

CONTAREEN. You've no objection, I mean, to my going down there?

LADY C. Far from it! Indeed, I should most strongly recommend a change of scene. (_rise and away_ R.)

CONTAREEN. (_cunningly, down_ L. _to_ C.) And of actors, Lady Claude, eh, of actors? Ha, ha! I'm anxious of course, that you shouldn't think me--(_he pauses_)

LADY C. (_Impatiently, sit on sofa_ R.) Think you what, Lord Contareen?

CONTAREEN. Not regard it as sudden, eh? Too abrupt and that sort of thing?

LADY C. On the contrary, I shall be delighted!

CONTAREEN. (R. C. _disconcerted_) Oh! delighted!

LADY C. I assure you! I have the greatest respect for Lady Gladys--

CONTAREEN. Muriel, Muriel--not Gladys--

LADY C. Your pardon--I should have said Lady Muriel. Let me declare to you, most earnestly and sincerely, that you have my very best wishes for your success.

CONTAREEN. Of course I've said nothing yet--but once down there--weak man, charming woman--

LADY C. Let us know as soon as it's settled! And I will congratulate you, with my whole heart! Believe it, Lord Contareen!

(MOLLENTRAVE _comes in_, L. U. E. _and goes to top of table_ C. _with a discreet preliminary cough_.)

CONTAREEN. (_Looks round to_ L.) Just going, Mollentrave--just going, Lady Claude--au revoir!

LADY C. Good-bye. And my love to Lady Muriel!

CONTAREEN. (_up_ R. C.) Quite so, quite so. Good-bye, Mollentrave. I'm afraid I've made an awful hash--

MOLLEN. (_up_ R. C. _on his_ L.) Good-bye, my dear fellow--good-bye. (_in his ear_) She's piqued--she's piqued! Spade-work--nothing like it! (_aloud_) Good-bye!

(CONTAREEN _goes_ R. MOLLENTRAVE _returns to the centre of the room, rubbing his hands_.)

LADY C. (_very earnestly_) Papa, don't practise on me!

MOLLEN. (_blandly_) My child?

LADY C. There are so many specimens for you to play with! Look on me as an exception--a freak, if you like. But _I_, at least, am not a rule of three sum!

MOLLEN. (_sitting on stool_ C. _patting her hand_) My dear Rosamund!

LADY C. (_rise_) How _could_ you imagine that such an inane, idiotic creature as that--

MOLLEN. It is certainly strange that he should go to Pentruddock. Your resentment is justified.

LADY C. (_up_ R. _and across back of table to down_ L. C. _scornfully_) Resentment!

MOLLEN. I shouldn't be in the least surprised if Lady Muriel secured him!

LADY C. Oh, she may have him, with all my heart, and all my sympathy too!

MOLLEN. (_slyly_) Of course, my dear, I'm aware that _you_ don't care for him. How could you?

LADY C. (_down_ L. _smiling in spite of herself_) You refuse to believe me? I cannot convince you?

MOLLEN. (_stroking her condescendingly_) My dear--

LADY C. (L. C.) After all that has happened! After what you have seen of my life! And you really believe that I ever could care for this man! That I, a creature with a heart and soul, am pigeon-holed in your book, and bound to conform to its maxims!

MOLLEN. (_fatuously_) On the contrary--I--

LADY C. (_up and down_ L. C.) Is it his title appeals to you--his houses, his money? Years ago, I was obedient--my husband, too, had a title--and you know how dearly I paid for it.... Weave no webs round me! The fly has grown wary--and it has had the advantage, too, of studying the wiles of the spider!

MOLLEN. I quite admit, my dear, that Contareen's change of attitude is reprehensible--very. And I have not the least doubt--

LADY C. (_smiling sorrowfully_) You are incorrigible!

MOLLEN. My dear child! Since I tell you--

LADY C. Ah--I see that I shall have to provide you--with material for a new chapter!

(_She kisses him--he purrs complacently. The door opens and_ MARTIN _ushers in_ SIR JOSEPH, _who is wildly excited_.)

MARTIN. Sir Joseph Balsted.

MOLLEN. (_eagerly_) Balsted! (_rise and across to_ R.)

SIR J. (R. C.) Mollentrave,--awful--the little idiot imagined you were proposing for me!

MOLLEN. (_sitting_ R.) No! No!

SIR J. She thought you meant _me_!

MOLLEN. Balsted, how could you! Why, when I left the room she had accepted Everard!

SIR J. And I sent the boy to her--he comes back, pale as a ghost--and says she's engaged--to ME! (_sit_ R. _of_ C. _table_)

(LADY CLAUDE _up_ L. _and down_ L. _convulsed with_ _laughter. Both men turn to her._)

MOLLEN. (_reproachfully_) My dear Rosamund, your hilarity is misplaced.

LADY C. (_contritely but still choking, sit_ L. _by work table_) I'm very sorry--

MOLLEN. Our friend has unfortunately entangled himself in a most serious dilemma--

SIR J. I! That's good! _You_ did the proposing!

MOLLEN. You heard me--you even complimented me!

SIR J. (_rise_) It flashed across me at the time--you never mentioned his name!

MOLLEN. (_with an indulgent smile_) Not mention his name! I!

SIR J. If she had accepted Everard, would she, one moment after, have consented to marry me?

MOLLEN. Do not excite yourself, my dear Balsted! What happened, I see it, was this. I dug the hole, and gave you the tree to put in. You popped in the wrong one!

LADY C. What happened, Sir Joseph, after you heard the news?

SIR J. (_to_ LADY C.) I rushed on here at once. (_to_ MOLLEN.) You've got me into this scrape--get me out!

MOLLEN. My dear friend, my services are of course at your disposal. But, truly, how could you? The affair was so simple!

SIR J. Well, one thing's certain at any rate--she's not in love with Everard--

MOLLEN. (_shaking his head_) That's not certain at all!

SIR J. (_impatiently_) What! When the little fool's in love with me!

MOLLEN. That's not proved.

SIR J. Not proved! When she wants to marry me!

MOLLEN. Didn't I tell you she was an invertebrate sentimentalist? You forgot that. Had you left her undisturbed in the belief that you meant Everard, she'd have gone to the altar with Everard. You persuaded her I had spoken for you--she switched her love on to you. That's the case in a nutshell.

SIR J. Preposterous!

MOLLEN. There you may trust my, let us say, wider experience. But tell me, Everard! He did not undeceive her?

SIR J. No--heroics! She loves you, he says to me--uncle, she loves you! He seemed to take it for granted I _must_ love her! And he hoped--we'd be happy! You'll go now--at once?

MOLLEN. I'm willing of course. Only let us first, calmly, review the situation.

(SIR J. _sits_ R. _of_ C. _table_.)

Assume that I tell your ward bluntly of her mistake--well, what's the result?

SIR J. That I'm free!

MOLLEN. Yes! But at what cost!

SIR J. Cost! What do you mean?

MOLLEN. The situation of which you complained this afternoon will remain, will it not? And intensified--a million times. Nay, it will have become--impossible!

SIR J. All this is beyond me! he turns appealingly to Lady Claude! Lady Claude!

LADY C. It is beyond me too, Sir Joseph--but papa knows--he is infallible!

MOLLEN. The girl has confessed her love for you. A love, mark you, that does not exist, but that _my_ explanation will call into being!

SIR J. (_pettishly_) Absurd!

MOLLEN. But it's true! Her feeling for you, at present a mere wayward infatuation, will at once swell into romantic passion. She'll begin to wither--

SIR J. Wither?

MOLLEN. Fade on the stalk! Refuse her food--live on poetry and tea! Be a martyr! Then anæmia acts in. Doctors, nurses, cures--and all the time, mind you, she's hugging an imaginary grief!

SIR J. (_Impatiently_) But, why, in the name of Heaven--

MOLLEN. Heaven only knows. _I_ didn't make women--I have merely observed them. If you don't believe me, ask Rosamund.

LADY C. (_demurely_) Sir Joseph knows, I always agree with Papa.

MOLLEN. (_rise and up_ R. C.) And, mark you, more, when I tell her you meant the nephew, she at once proceeds to hate the nephew.

SIR J. (_feebly_) Hate him!

MOLLEN. Inevitably.

SIR J. Lady Claude!

LADY C. Papa means that her vanity will be piqued.

SIR J. Vanity!

MOLLEN. Complacently the essential ingredient of a young woman's affections.

LADY C. The book says she will demand an eternity to pass.

MOLLEN. A feminine figure of speech that resolves itself into months! But think of those months with her sighing, dying, crying! (_down_ R. C.)

SIR J. (_groaning_) What a catastrophe!

MOLLEN. (_up_ R. _of_ SIR J.) You're sure--quite sure--you won't marry her?

SIR J. (_angrily_) Mollentrave! (_rising_) If _this_ is all the help you can give me--

MOLLEN. (_forcing him back in his chair_) Alternatives! I merely suggest alternatives! You don't marry--that's settled, agreed. But I see no reason why you should not be--engaged!

SIR J. (_rising_, MOLLEN. _sits him again_) Engaged! You're mad!

MOLLEN. (_round back of_ C. _table_) Secret engagement! You tell her--paternal again--you give her a month to reflect. Secrecy all round--except us. You bound--she free.

SIR J. How does that help me?

MOLLEN. Follow me closely. (_to_ L. _of table_ C.) During that month you become--senile.

SIR J. Senile! Why, hang it, I'm only forty-five!

MOLLEN. And she's nineteen! Strip off your limelight--to her you're Methuselah! (_sitting_ L. _of_ C. _table_.)

SIR J. (_protesting_) I--

MOLLEN. (_breaking in impetuously_) My dear friend, you don't really imagine that she loves _you_? Whatever's real in her loves Everard--or any other good-looking young fellow of his age whom she chances to meet. What she admires in you is your talent, your position, your power. Very well, take them off!

SIR J. (_blankly_) How can I?

MOLLEN. I've told you--be senile. Fidgety, crotchety--sensitive to draughts--dyspeptic--adore your food. Flannel nightcap--false teeth--

SIR J. (_indignantly rising_) I haven't!

MOLLEN. _Imagine_ you have.

(SIR J. _re-sits_.)

Speak of them often! Boil your milk! Retire at nine, have your paper warmed. Tell her you mean to resign the House, give up the Bar, live in the country, ten miles from a station, and write a book on Constitutional Law!

SIR J. All that, eh?

MOLLEN. And dictate to her five hours a day! Find fault with her spelling--be always finding fault!

SIR J. Lively for both of us! But look here--seeing that she has lived with me for a year, and I _haven't_ been senile--

MOLLEN. (_with a petulant gesture_) Tut, tut, tut! Hitherto, you've concealed your--little ailments! But, now that you've won her, are sure of her, you show yourself--as you are! (_rise_) Oh, it's simple enough! And so much for frontal attack. (_a step_) As for skirmishes, we'll ask Rosamund to be good enough to flirt with the nephew--

SIR J. (_turning to her_) To flirt--you?

LADY C. (_merrily_) The poor boy will need consolation. And if I can be of service--

MOLLEN. (_up to_ L. _of table_ C. _with a flourish_) Within two days she has the boy at her feet! Then your bride becomes jealous. Your tyranny offends her--she begins to see you are old. Romance drops off like paper from a damp wall. Everard's coolness piqued her--she proceeds to discover that she loves Everard. You in dressing gown and slippers--he young Greek god. And, after a month's steady digging--we arrive--at--the real girl!

SIR J. A month....

MOLLEN. May be less, may be less! Finally, explanation--you discover her in tears--you play the noble Roman, release her unconditionally, Rosamund sends Everard to her--you join their hands. Slow music. Curtain. See?

SIR J. (_rise and down_ R.) I don't like the idea of an engagement, even though it be secret. But look here--if I did this--how about Everard? What should I say to him?

MOLLEN. (_to bottom of_ C. _table_) Let him believe--as he already believes--that you admire what's-her-name--but mention the month's probation. Hint darkly at possibility of happy ending. (_to_ R. C. L. _of_ SIR J.) Bring Everard down to Swanage--I answer for the rest!

SIR J. (_hesitating_) It sounds plausible--though it's a fearful undertaking! But, before deciding, I should like a word with Lady Claude. Will you allow me?

MOLLEN. Certainly, certainly. I'll smoke a cigarette down-stairs--my habit, before dressing. (_cross up_ R.) You'll find habits useful by the way--I've one or two that I'll tell you. I'll see you before you go!

(_He retires cheerfully humming a tune_, R.)

SIR J. (_to_ L. C.) Lady Claude, I've asked for this because--I scarcely know where I am, or what I'm saying! Your father rattles on--he seems convincing--he may be right--but my instinct tells me that, in this fearful muddle, _you_ are the surer guide!

LADY C. I?

SIR. J. You! If I spoke rather cynically this afternoon--if I have grown to think rather hardly of women--remember that there was one whom I--loved--and she--wouldn't have me!

(LADY CLAUDE _makes a gesture_.)

Oh, don't be alarmed--I won't drag up the past. No doubt, then, I was merely a wild, impetuous youngster, like my poor Everard to-day. But--I have not forgotten--how deeply I--felt it.... And here I seem, through my carelessness, to have created sorrow for two young lives.... I'm a selfish man, of course--I've shown it plainly enough!--but still I've tried--honestly tried--to do my duty--by both of them.... Now I am urged to play an odious comedy--for it _is_ odious, is it not?

LADY C. Deception can never be pleasant.... You have all my sympathy.

SIR J. I need it, I need it! Women, after all, are an unknown quantity to me. Your father has compiled a series of tables, has dissected and analysed--he may be right, I don't know--but I want _you_ to guide me! You, and you only!

LADY C. (_gently_) What can I tell you? (_rise and cross_ C. _and sitting on stool_)

SIR J. (L. C.) In the first place, this. Is it not rather my duty promptly to undeceive the girl, at any cost? Have I the right to--play with her affections?

LADY C. (_hesitating_) Sir Joseph--

SIR J. Remember, I loved her father. He entrusted his daughter to me, his old friend.... To-day, when I think of him!

LADY C. You want my honest opinion?

SIR J. I do.

LADY C. Then what I have to say is said in a very few words. One should not trifle with the heart of a girl!

SIR J. What am I to do?

LADY C. It is you, and you only, who can decide.

SIR J. Tell me what you think!

LADY C. The poor child has probably long adored you in secret. She will have read sentiment into your very least words--

SIR J. (_with sudden recollection_) Ha! the flowers on my table, day after day!

LADY C. Laid there by her each morning, fondly, tenderly--

SIR J. Advise me! I will follow you, blindly!

LADY C. Do what is kindest!

SIR J. If I undeceive her--the picture your father has drawn--and your father understands women--

LADY C. What he says may be true of ninety-nine out of a hundred--there is always the hundredth.

SIR J. The hundredth--yes--I don't know--I know her so little! The disillusioning process _might_ be effective?

LADY C. It might. One cannot tell.

SIR J. (_eagerly_) Then shall I do it? Shall I?

LADY C. You must know best.

SIR J. (_with deep feeling_) Rosamund, I am appealing to you--for your help!

LADY C. (_very earnestly, rise_) Then, no! I would do the honest, the straightforward thing!... Go to her yourself, tell her--of the mistake--but oh, so softly, so gently, (C.) that her poor little heart shall rest itself upon yours, and not feel--too ashamed! Point out how unwise it would be! Be so full of pity that the wound ... shall be scarcely a bruise.... Be so tender, so human, that her poor little tears shall freshen her heart, and not scald it.... And let there be tears in your heart too--and no trace of--laughter.... There! That is my advice. But I may be wrong....

SIR J. No, you are right--I feel it! I go at once. (_round back of table to up_ R. C.) You will tell your father. (_coming down_ C. _to_ R. _of_ LADY C.) And, my dear friend, my very dear friend, I--thank you!

(_He takes her hand, which she allows for a moment to rest in his. Suddenly_ MOLLENTRAVE'S _voice is heard outside_. SIR JOSEPH _falls back_. _The door opens and_ MOLLENTRAVE ENTERS, _perking and smiling, followed by_ MARGARET.)

SIR J. (_away_ R. _aghast_) Margaret!

MOLLEN. (_very volubly_ R. C.) My dear fellow, Miss Messilent has had the charming idea to come here and fetch you. Miss Messilent, let me introduce you to my daughter, Lady Claude Derenham. An admirer of your fiancé--like us all!

SIR J. (R. _blankly_) Oh!

MARG. (C. _shyly_) Peters told me where you had gone--I thought--

MOLLEN. (R. C. _beaming_) Sweet of you! Balsted, I've told the young lady how immensely pleased we all are! And how lucky we think you, at your time of life, to have secured so lovely a bride!

SIR J. (_clearing his throat_) I--er--I--

MOLLEN. My dear Balsted, I am sure I am not speaking my opinion alone when I say that never did--November--find so delicious a May! When is the wedding to be?

SIR J. (_away_ R. _savagely, beneath his breath_) Wedding, wedding--

MARG. (_sitting on stool_ C. LADY C. _sits_ L. _of_ C. _table--coyly_) He made me promise it would be soon--

MOLLEN. (_chuckling_) Ah, he did, did he? At our age, you see, a man's in a hurry--eh, Balsted? Well, you're all coming with us to Swanage to-morrow--

MARG. (_surprised_) Swanage?

MOLLEN. Yes--we've arranged with Sir Joseph. He didn't tell you? Very remiss, of course--very remiss. He's a trifle dictatorial, I'm afraid--but you mustn't mind that--you mustn't mind that!

SIR J. (_trying in vain to get hold of_ MOLLENTRAVE) Mollentrave, I want--

(SIR J. _goes up_ R. _to_ L. _of_ LADY C., _who rises_)

MOLLEN. (_to_ MARGARET) When you marry a distinguished--and _elderly_ man, my dear, you must of course put up with a few little drawbacks. May must be content with November's--ivy! Eh?

MARG. (_rising and away_ R. _to sofa and sitting_) Oh, but he's not so very elderly--

MOLLEN. (_following her to_ R.) Oh no, I married a much older last week! I'll show you his photograph. (_shows photograph_)

(_He draws close to_ MARGARET _and whispers merrily to her_, SIR JOSEPH _goes to_ LADY CLAUDE.)

SIR J. (L.) He has done it! I can't retreat now! It's impossible!

LADY C. (L. C.) No--I'm afraid.

SIR J. (_Both go up_ L. C.) (_wildly_) Oh, that father of yours! Well, there it is--we must start--disillusioning! Senile!--ha! and the rest! There's nothing else for it! You'll help me?

LADY C. Of course I'll do what I can!

MARG. (_rising_) Joseph!

(SIR J. _crosses to_ R.)

MARG. (_Up_ R. C. _holding_ SIR J.'S _arm, he is on her_ L. _She turns to_ LADY CLAUDE) Good-bye, Lady Claude, I need (_up_ R. C.) scarcely say my husband's friends will be mine.

(MOLLEN. _goes up_ R. _to open double doors_.)

SIR J. (_up_ R. C. _groaning_) Husband!

MARG. Good-bye, Mr. Mollentrave--(_sweetly_) Come, Joseph!

SIR J. Oh!!!

(_They_ EXIT R.)

(_She passes her arm beamingly through his and walks him off._ MOLLENTRAVE _turns smiling to_ LADY CLAUDE _and rubs his hands_.)

CURTAIN.