Chapter 1

_A room in Mary Gray's flat in the West End, August, 1914._

_There is a door_ R., _leading into the hall. There is also a door_ L., _but it only leads into a cupboard that_ Mary _really needs._

Marmaduke Beltravers, _a well-dressed man of thirty-five, is standing by a small table pressing his suit_ (_his matrimonial suit, of course_), _but without success. His bold black eyes are flashing._ Mary's _lovely face (_by an ingenious manipulation of the limelight_) is quivering._

_Marmaduke Beltravers_ (_hoarsely_). I have laid at your feet my hand, my heart and my flourishing business, and thus--thus I am supplanted by that puling saint, George Jeffreys. A-ha! [_Gnaws his moustache._

_Enter_ George Jeffreys, _an English gentleman._

_George Jeffreys_ (_furiously_). You here? You hound! You blackguard! You ...

_Mary_ (_realising that this is going to be no place for a lady_). The butcher--know his ring. [_Exit by door_ R.

_G.J._ (_pointing fiercely to cupboard_). Go!

_M.B._ (_going_). Bah! You triumph now, but my day will dawn yettah. (_Starts._) What was that?

_Newsboy_ (_outside_). War with Germany! War with Germany!

_G.J._ War? Then I am a pauper. [_He does not say how, but presumably he knows best._

_M.B._ (_ceasing to go_). My day has dawned _now_.

_G.J._ How so?

_M.B._ Your conscience calls you, does it not, to enlist? (George _nods._) I have no conscience. While you fight I shall continue to press my suit.

_G.J._ (_despairingly to himself_). Alas! what chance will that sweet girl have against his dark saturnine beauty and his wealth? (_Aloud, hopefully, as a thought strikes him_) But stay--war with Germany--perhaps you are a pauper also?

_M.B._ Not I, indeed. I am a maker of munitions. A-ha! [_Twirls his moustache._

_G.J._ (_losing his temper_). Cur! [_Exit, to enlist, into cupboard. Before he has time to realise his mistake the curtain falls._