ACT II

SCENE.--_The same as Act I. Evening after dinner the same day. The room is lighted with lamps, but as it is a still warm evening, the curtains are not drawn over the glass door which leads into the garden and is open._

[_Enter EVANS, L. He places cigars and cigarettes on occasional table, and lights a small spirit cigar-lamp._ [_Exit._] _Voices of ladies and a ripple of laughter heard from the drawing-room, and for a moment the sound made by fingers running lightly and irresponsibly over the keys of the piano. Enter COLONEL ARMITAGE, followed by GUNNING and PARBURY. ARMITAGE goes to mantelpiece. GUNNING selects the easiest chair in the room. PARBURY goes to occasional table. ARMITAGE is a well-preserved man of sixty-five, very carefully dressed--something of an elderly dandy._

PARBURY.

Cigarette or cigar, George?

GUNNING.

Thanks, I have a cigarette.

[_Takes one from his case and lights it._

PARBURY.

Colonel?

COLONEL.

Thank you, I'll take a cigar. I think, however, I'll--er--smoke it in the garden. Mabel's limited appreciation of tobacco----

PARBURY.

Oh, Mabel won't mind--she's quite educated.

COLONEL.

Not beyond the cigarette, I fancy.

[_He strolls to the glass door, lights his cigar, and steps out. For a few moments he is still seen, then he wanders away._

GUNNING.

Nice old chap, your father-in-law.

PARBURY.

Isn't he? I'm quite fond of him. [_Pause. They smoke in silence, PARBURY standing at mantelpiece._] What are you thinking of?

GUNNING.

I'm not thinking. I'm digesting. I had an excellent dinner.

_Enter EVANS with coffee, &c. GUNNING takes coffee._

EVANS.

Cognac, sir, or green chartreuse?

GUNNING.

Cognac. [_He takes glass._] Thank you.

PARBURY.

Colonel, here's your coffee.

COLONEL.

[_Outside._] I'll have it out here, if I may.

[_PARBURY takes his coffee and liqueur._

PARBURY.

Serve Colonel Armitage's coffee in the garden.

EVANS.

Yes, sir.

[_Exit EVANS, L._

GUNNING.

I've wired for the champagne.

PARBURY.

[_Uneasily._] Oh, yes!

[_Slight pause._

GUNNING.

I notice the glass keeps up well.

PARBURY.

Really? Good!

[_Slight pause._

GUNNING.

Yes, we ought to have capital weather.

PARBURY.

Capital! [_He is very embarrassed._] If it doesn't rain it'll be pretty--er--fine.

[_Drinks. Puts his cup on mantelpiece._

GUNNING.

[_Favours him with a slow stare._] What's the matter, old man?

PARBURY.

Nothing in the world. Why?

GUNNING.

Oh, it doesn't matter. But I think the change will do you good. [_Slight pause._] By the way, would to-morrow afternoon suit you for a start?

PARBURY.

[_Standing with his back to the fireplace, looking up at the ceiling._] I'm not going, old man.

GUNNING.

[_Indifferently._] Oh!

_Re-enter EVANS, R., from garden, and exit L. Silence till he has gone._

PARBURY.

Well, you don't seem surprised.

GUNNING.

[_Effecting a yawn._] I never permit myself to be surprised.

PARBURY.

Or disappointed.

GUNNING.

Oh yes, I own I'm disappointed. I looked for a good time for a few days. You were the only one of the old lot available, and you were the best of them. I can't bear the new lot. They wear strange colours, drop their "g's," and get on one's nerves.

PARBURY.

I'm really sorry, George.

GUNNING.

Don't bother. One simply goes alone. [_Discreetly._] The calls of business are often irresistible.

PARBURY.

Don't rot. You know what the situation is.

GUNNING.

Mine is one of those poor intelligences that never know without information.

PARBURY.

I'll supply it.

[_Sits on arm of chair, R.C._

GUNNING.

Don't, if it matters.

PARBURY.

I will, though it does matter. [_Grimly._] My wife wept.

GUNNING.

Unanswerable argument.

PARBURY.

Quite. George, what the devil is a man to do?

GUNNING.

I knew a man who once interfered between a husband and wife who were disagreeing. The husband and wife each got a black eye. The man got two.

PARBURY.

You might at least talk.

GUNNING.

Oh, certainly.

PARBURY.

You know the situation.

GUNNING.

Well, if one dare say so, I fancy you are suffering from the tyranny of a fascinating egoism.

PARBURY.

I'm suffering from the tyranny of tears.

GUNNING.

What I can't understand is how a man of your strong nature arrived where you are.

PARBURY.

I'll make an effort to tell you. To begin with, I suppose I'm fairly good-natured.

GUNNING.

Oh yes!

PARBURY.

Or say, if you like, of indolent habit, which after all often passes for the same thing. Then of course I was in love--I am still. One drifted. It's so easy to give way in little things--really not unpleasant when you're in love. And then there's one's work, which fills the mind and makes the little things appear smaller than they are. I say one drifted.

GUNNING.

Sometimes, if I know you, you rebelled. What then?

PARBURY.

[_Promptly._] Tears! And over such absurdly paltry things! Oh, the farcical tragedy of it all! I wished to go shooting for a few days. Tears! I fancied dining and spending the evening with an old chum. Tears! I would go on a walking tour for a week. Tears! Some one would ask me for three days' hunting. Tears! Tears, you understand, always on hand. Tears--tears--tears _ad----_ [_Pulling himself up._] No.

GUNNING.

[_Quietly._] No--not _ad nauseam._

PARBURY.

No, that would be too low a thing to say.

[_Goes up R.C. Takes stopper out of the decanter._

GUNNING.

Do you know, Clement, I really like you tremendously.

PARBURY.

Thanks, old man. Have some more brandy?

GUNNING.

No thanks. [_Pause._] Don't stop. I'm interested.

PARBURY.

That's all. I drifted, almost unconsciously, right up to to-day, for all the world like the man in the moral story-book one read as a child on Sundays, who drifted in his boat on the Erie River towards Niagara. To-night I'm conscious--I'm awake--I can feel the water gliding along the boat's keel. I can see Niagara. I don't like it. What the devil's one to do?

GUNNING.

Get out and walk.

[_Pause. They smoke._

PARBURY.

Of course, I shall change it all. I must, but it will be beastly work.

GUNNING.

Beastly. When do you begin?

PARBURY.

When occasion serves. I can't go back over this yachting business. I've said I'm not going.

GUNNING.

Quite right.

[_Slight pause._

PARBURY.

Oh, if the _exigeant_ women only knew--if they only knew!

_Enter COLONEL ARMITAGE, R._

Talking of brandies, this is Hennessy '63. Have some, Colonel?

COLONEL.

Perhaps half a glass.

[_Takes brandy and sits._

_Enter MRS. PARBURY, L., from drawing-room._

MRS. PARBURY.

Miss Woodward and I are boring each other. Shall we come to you, or will you come to us? [_GUNNING and ARMITAGE rise._] There, the question's answered.

[_Sits on sofa, L._

_Enter MISS WOODWARD, L. She goes to the desk._

GUNNING.

[_To MRS. PARBURY._] You were playing the piano just now?

MRS. PARBURY.

Yes, but I play wretchedly nowadays. I gave up practising when we married.

GUNNING.

One should never give up an accomplishment.

COLONEL.

You used to play charmingly, Mabel.

MRS. PARBURY.

You thought so, dear, and that was enough for me. [_She rises and crosses to C._] Why don't we sit in the garden? It's a perfect night. [_COLONEL strolls off to garden._] [_MRS. PARBURY goes to PARBURY, who is standing by fireplace, and takes his arm. In a low voice._] Are you still angry?

PARBURY.

[_As they go out to the garden._] I angry with you! Nonsense. [_He pats her hand._] Poor little woman! Poor little woman!

[_Exit MR. and MRS. PARBURY._

GUNNING.

[_Crossing to R.C. top of the table._] Are you not coming, Miss Woodward?

MISS WOODWARD.

No, thank you. I have some work to do.

GUNNING.

But you seem to me to be always working.

MISS WOODWARD.

I needn't, you know. I do it because I like it.

GUNNING.

What are you doing now?

MISS WOODWARD.

Correcting proof sheets of a new novel. It will save Mr. Parbury the trouble of doing it to-morrow.

GUNNING.

I wanted you to talk to me.

MISS WOODWARD.

What about?

GUNNING.

Yourself.

MISS WOODWARD.

I'm not interesting.

GUNNING.

On the contrary.

MISS WOODWARD.

What do you wish to know?

GUNNING.

All about you. May I?

MISS WOODWARD.

Will you go away and leave me to work if I tell you?

GUNNING.

Yes.

[_Comes down by chair R.C._

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Putting down her pen, and resting her cheek on her hand._] I'm the thirteenth daughter of a parson. Why my parents had thirteen daughters, I don't know; but I suppose it was because they are very poor. We were all given the names of flowers--Rose, Lily, Tulip, Mignonette--I can't remember them all--but Hyacinth fell to my lot. Why we were called after flowers, I don't know; but I suppose it was because we are none of us the least like flowers. My eldest sister married my father's curate. I don't know why, but I suppose it was because she came first and is the plainest in the family.

GUNNING.

[_Laughing._] Yes, well?

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Speaking in an even, emotionless way._] Two other of my sisters run a Kindergarten, and one other is a governess. Personally I would rather be a domestic servant. The others remain at home, help in the house, and await husbands. I fear they will wait in vain, because there are so many women in our part of the country and so few men. For my part I seized an early opportunity of learning shorthand and typewriting--and--well, here I am. Now you know the story of my life.

[_She returns to her work._

GUNNING.

I'm afraid it was deuced impertinent of me to ask.

MISS WOODWARD.

Not at all--only eminently man-like.

[_Pause. She works, he smokes._

GUNNING.

And so you have found your happiness.

MISS WOODWARD.

Oh no. I've only just started to look for it.

GUNNING.

Oh ho! Ambitious!

MISS WOODWARD.

Very. Have you ever been poor?

GUNNING.

Yes, at one time--had to pawn things.

MISS WOODWARD.

I mean being one of fifteen in family--large inferior joints to last for days--hot, cold, hashed, minced, shepherd's pie--[_GUNNING shudders at this_]--too much potatoes--too much boiled rice--too much bread and dripping--too much weak tea--too much polishing up of things not worth polishing up--too much darning on too little material--and for ever giving thanks out of all proportion to the benefits received. I wish some one would write the history of a hat or a frock--I mean a hat or a frock that has marched steadily and sullenly under various guises through an entire family such as ours, from the mother down to the youngest girl. What might be written of the thoughts that had been thought under such a hat, or of the hearts that had felt under such a frock!

GUNNING.

Why don't you write the story?

MISS WOODWARD.

Perhaps some day I shall try. [_Returns to her work._] In the meantime you ought to go. You promised, you know. You have nothing more to learn. I don't think in all my life I've talked so much about myself as I have to you, a stranger.

[_She keeps her eyes on her work._

GUNNING.

You have been engagingly frank. I do hope I shall have another opportunity----

MISS WOODWARD.

Not at all likely, Mr. Gunning. [_Pause._] Goodnight. [_Still without looking up._]

[_GUNNING looks at her, goes up to the window, turns, looks at her again._

GUNNING.

[_At window._] Good-night, Miss Woodward.

[_Exit to garden, R._

[_MISS WOODWARD goes on with her work for a few moments, then drops her face on her hand in her favourite attitude._

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Soliloquising._] Rather than go back, I--well, I know I'd rather die. [_She looks over the pages for a moment or two, then yawns slightly; she gathers her pages together and places a paperweight over them._] That will have to do. [_She rises, looks off R._] There was actually a man ready to take a sort of languid interest in me. Quite a new experience. [_She takes up PARBURY'S photograph and speaks to it._] You don't take an interest in me of any kind, do you? [_To the photograph._] You never will, and I don't think I want you to. But I do want to stay near you, because you are so strong--

_Enter MRS. PARBURY from garden carrying the COLONEL'S coffee cup and saucer._

--and so weak, and so kind, and so foolish.

[_MRS. PARBURY has come down and is watching her unobserved. MISS WOODWARD slowly raises the photograph to her lips. The cup and saucer drop from MRS. PARBURY'S hand to the floor and are broken. MISS WOODWARD, much startled, slowly turns towards MRS. PARBURY, and their eyes meet. There is a pause. Suddenly, with a quick movement, MRS. PARBURY snatches the photograph from MISS WOODWARD._

MRS. PARBURY.

How dare you! How dare you! [_Long pause. She is almost breathless. Then she partly regains self-control._] What train do you intend taking?

MISS WOODWARD.

[R.C.] I don't understand you.

MRS. PARBURY.

I mean for your home, of course.

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Moves as if she had received a blow, and clasps her hands together._] I am not going home.

MRS. PARBURY.

Oh, indeed you are. You don't suppose you can stay here, do you?

MISS WOODWARD.

Why shouldn't I?

MRS. PARBURY.

How dare you ask that when I have just caught you in the act of kissing my husband's photograph?

MISS WOODWARD.

That was in a moment of abstraction. I wasn't even thinking of Mr. Parbury.

MRS. PARBURY.

Oh! And you are the daughter of a clergyman! [_She goes up and fetches the A.B.C. from bookcase, and offers it to MISS WOODWARD._] Here is the A.B.C.

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Turning away._] I have no use for it just now, thank you.

MRS. PARBURY.

Then I'll look you out an early morning train myself. [_Sits L._] Let me see--[_turning over leaves_]--Carfields, Worcestershire, isn't it? Here it is. 7.20. I suppose that's too early. 9.35; that will do. Please understand you are to take the 9.35 from Paddington in the morning.

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Firmly._] I shall do nothing of the kind.

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Ignoring the remark._] In the meanwhile there is no necessity that my husband should know the reason of your going. You can make some excuse. I wouldn't have him know for worlds.

MISS WOODWARD.

Of course he shall never know from me--but I want you to quite understand, Mrs. Parbury, that I am _not_ going to Carfields to-morrow. Rather than go home under the circumstances I would starve in the gutter.

MRS. PARBURY.

Well, you must find a lodging till you get other employment. You will have a month's salary, of course. Anyway, I'm determined you leave this house in the morning.

[_Goes up C. Puts A.B.C. on chair up L.C._

MISS WOODWARD.

Is there any real occasion for my leaving?

MRS. PARBURY.

Haven't you sufficient delicacy of feeling left to teach you that?

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Warmly._] I don't think I need lessons of delicacy of feeling from you. [_Slight pause._] I'm sorry I said that, and it means a great deal for me to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry too about the photograph. I think it all might be forgotten.

MRS. PARBURY.

Forgotten!

MISS WOODWARD.

After all, I'm only a girl; and I've worked very hard for Mr. Parbury. I think you might be more lenient.

MRS. PARBURY.

[_At fireplace._] I'm very sorry for you, Miss Woodward; but I owe a duty to myself and to my husband. You must go in the morning.

[_She moves to return to garden._

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Crosses to L.C._] Mrs. Parbury!

MRS. PARBURY.

Well?

MISS WOODWARD.

I suppose I ought to be a lady and go, because you, the mistress of the house, wish me to. But I don't feel a bit like a lady just now. I only feel like a poor girl whose chances in life are being ruined for a very small and innocent folly.

MRS. PARBURY.

Well, what does all this mean?

MISS WOODWARD.

[_Fiercely._] It means that I am in Mr. Parbury's employment, not yours, and that I will take my dismissal from him only.

MRS. PARBURY.

Oh, I can promise you that. [_She calls into the garden._] Clement!

[_Exit MRS. PARBURY to garden, R._

[_MISS WOODWARD throws a hard look after her. Then her eyes fall on the broken cup and saucer. She stoops, collects the fragments, and puts them in waste-paper basket. Then she goes to desk, sits and works on proof sheets as before._

_Enter MR. and MRS. PARBURY, R._

PARBURY.

Working again, Miss Woodward! Really, you are indefatigable!

MISS WOODWARD.

I'm only correcting these proof sheets.

MRS. PARBURY.

No doubt Miss Woodward wishes to finish the work to-night, as she is leaving to-morrow.

PARBURY.

Leaving to-morrow?

MISS WOODWARD.

I think Mrs. Parbury is mistaken.

PARBURY.

[_To MRS. PARBURY._] What do you mean, dear?

MRS. PARBURY.

I wish her to go.

PARBURY.

Why?

MRS. PARBURY.

I can't tell you. It is not a thing you would understand. It is simply impossible for her to remain. In her heart she knows I am right.

[_Slight pause. PARBURY goes to MISS WOODWARD._

PARBURY.

Are you satisfied here?

MISS WOODWARD.

Perfectly.

PARBURY.

You have no wish to go away?

MISS WOODWARD.

Not while you wish me to remain.

PARBURY.

Do you know why my wife wishes you to go?

MISS WOODWARD.

Yes.

PARBURY.

Will you kindly tell me?

MISS WOODWARD.

I'm sorry I can't. I've promised. But--[_with a look at MRS. PARBURY_]--I don't think that Mrs. Parbury's reasons are adequate.

[_Pause. PARBURY is thoughtful._

PARBURY.

[_To MRS. PARBURY._] Have you anything more to say?

MRS. PARBURY.

I have only to repeat that it is quite impossible for Miss Woodward to stay.

PARBURY.

Well, I have made up my mind that there is something very foolish under all this, and I shall not allow it to deprive me of Miss Woodward's services. [_MRS. PARBURY looks surprised._] I don't mind saying in her presence that she is invaluable to me. I should never be able to replace her. [_Sense of relief on MISS WOODWARD'S part._] Now, come. [_Looking from one to the other._] What is it? A tiff--a stupid misunderstanding? Oh, you women, why will you fuss about little things? Make it up, do. Think of "The Roll of Ages." Shake hands, cry, embrace, kiss, or whatever your pet method may be. Weep if you like, though personally I'd rather you didn't. Anyway, as far as I am concerned, the incident is closed.

[_He turns to go._

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Doggedly._] Miss Woodward leaves this house in the morning.

PARBURY.

[_Looks at his wife for a moment, then turns to MISS WOODWARD._] Miss Woodward, would you be so very kind----

[_He opens the door for her with great courtesy. MISS WOODWARD bows, and exits L. He comes to C._

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Turning to him with assumed brightness._] Now, darling, it will be different. Of course, I couldn't say much before her. You were quite right to be nice and courteous to her now she is going.

PARBURY.

But I assure you she is not.

[_They are C. MRS. PARBURY takes his arm caressingly._

MRS. PARBURY.

But she is--believe me, she is. Of course, we don't want to be hard on her, and she shall have a month's salary and a strong recommendation.

PARBURY.

[_Disengaging his arm._] My dear Mabel, I absolutely refuse to act in the dark. I hate mysteries. If you care to tell me what all this bother is about, I'll judge for myself what's the right thing to do.

[_Sits on sofa._

MRS. PARBURY.

I can't--it's impossible. There are some things that men can't be trusted to know about. You must leave this matter to me.

[_Sits next him._

PARBURY.

That I quite decline to do.

[_She again takes his arm and talks rapidly, gradually rather hysterically, towards the end appearing about to cry._

MRS. PARBURY.

Darling, do listen. You don't understand. You have never been like this with me before. I'm sure I'm not asking very much. You can easily get another secretary. Another time you shall have a man one, as you originally wanted to. You were right, dear--you often are. [_PARBURY rises; crosses to R. MRS. PARBURY follows him._] Darling, do be reasonable. I've been a good wife to you, haven't I? I've always respected your wishes, and not bothered you more than I could help. This is only a little thing, and you must let me have my own way. You must trust me absolutely, dear. You know anything I would do would only be for your good, for you know that I love you. [_She takes out her handkerchief._] I adore you, darling. You must give way--you must--you must!

PARBURY.

[_Stepping back from her._] If you cry I shall leave the room.

[_Sits R. Begins to write._

MRS. PARBURY.

[_With her back to the audience, in a low voice._] I wasn't going to cry.

PARBURY.

I'm glad to hear it.

[_MRS. PARBURY puts her handkerchief away and turns._

MRS. PARBURY.

I had no intention of crying, dear. [_PARBURY still writes. Pause. She comes to desk._] Shall I write out an advertisement for you, dear?

PARBURY.

What for?

MRS. PARBURY.

For a new secretary--a man.

PARBURY.

No. My mind's made up. I shall not change my secretary.

MRS. PARBURY.

Clement!

PARBURY.

[_Rises and goes to her._] Listen, my dear Mabel. Perhaps I'm a good deal to blame for the pain you are going to suffer now, and I'm very sorry for you; in many ways you are the best little woman in the world. I've been weak and yielding, and I've gradually allowed you to acquire a great deal more power than you know how to use wisely.

MRS. PARBURY.

Really, Clement, you must be raving.

PARBURY.

Listen, my dear, listen. What's been the result? You've taken from me my habits. You've taken from me my friends. You've taken from me my clubs. You've taken from me my self-esteem, my joy in life, my high spirits, the cheery devil that God implanted in me; but, damn it, you must leave me my secretary.

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Excitedly walking the stage._] Oh, I understand now. You use this exaggerated language, you make these cruel accusations, you work yourself into a passion, because you have grown to think more of Miss Woodward than of me.

PARBURY.

Now you know that to be a purely fantastic interpretation of what I said. [_She takes out handkerchief._] I observe with pain, too, that you are about to cry again.

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Puts handkerchief up her sleeve, controls her anger, and becomes very determined._] You are quite wrong. Probably I shall never again know the relief of tears. Your callousness and obstinacy seem to have dried up all the tenderness in me. Miss Woodward leaves this house in the morning, or _I_ leave it to-night.

PARBURY.

[_Coming to her._] Oh, come, come, Mabel, that is too ridiculous.

MRS. PARBURY.

I'm very, very serious. Please, for your own sake, understand that. Which is it to be?

PARBURY.

There, dear, let's drop it now. Don't you think domestic squabbles like this, besides being boring, are just a little--may one say it, vulgar? Let's go back to the garden.

MRS. PARBURY.

Which is it to be?

PARBURY.

[_Shrugs his shoulders._] Of course, you know I'm decided. Miss Woodward stays.

MRS. PARBURY.

Very well.

[_She goes to bell L. of fireplace and rings. PARBURY goes up, takes a book, and negligently turns over the leaves, secretly, however, watching his wife. Pause until_

_Enter EVANS, L._

MRS. PARBURY.

Where is Caroline?

EVANS.

She's in her room, ma'am.

MRS. PARBURY.

Send her to me, please.

EVANS.

Yes, ma'am!

[_Exit EVANS, L._

MRS. PARBURY.

I needn't keep you from your friend, Mr. Gunning, any longer.

PARBURY.

I'm all right here, dear; I'm perfectly contented. [_He turns over leaves._] There is such a wise passage here. I'd like to read it to you. [_She makes a gesture of irritation._] No! Well, it must keep.

_Enter CAROLINE, L._

MRS. PARBURY.

Caroline, I shall want you to pack a few things for me.

CAROLINE.

What shall you want, ma'am?

MRS. PARBURY.

I'll come upstairs and show you.

CAROLINE.

Yes, ma'am.

[_Exit CAROLINE, L. Slight pause._

PARBURY.

[_Rising from his leaning attitude against table up stage, putting down the book, and coming down two steps._] You foolish little woman. You know this is impossible. Be reasonable.

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Firmly._] Which is it to be?

PARBURY.

[_With a gesture conveys that the subject is closed and returns to his former attitude._] I think I have a right to ask what you propose doing.

MRS. PARBURY.

I propose going home with my father.

[_The laugh of the COLONEL is heard in the garden. Then he appears at the entrance, still laughing. GUNNING appears behind him. The COLONEL enters. GUNNING remains at the window smoking._

COLONEL.

[_To PARBURY._] That's really the funniest thing I've heard for years. Have you heard that story, Clement?

PARBURY.

What story?

COLONEL.

Story of--[_Then he sees MRS. PARBURY._] Oh, quite a drawing-room story, believe me, dear.

MRS. PARBURY.

Father, I wish to speak to you.

COLONEL.

Certainly, dear. What is it?

[_Crosses to sofa, L. Sits. PARBURY exchanges a look with GUNNING._

GUNNING.

[_Coming down quickly._] Mrs. Parbury, I must reluctantly say good-night. Your charming house is almost in the country, and I've to get back to London. I thank you for----

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Interrupting._] Please don't go, Mr. Gunning. It's quite early, and Clement and you, as such _very old_ friends, must still have a great deal to talk about.

PARBURY.

[_Taking GUNNING'S arm._] No, George, you really mustn't go.

[_Leads him up to window, R._

GUNNING.

I assure you, my dear chap----

PARBURY.

[_Interrupting._] But I make it a personal favour. Dear student of life, stay and observe.

[_They remain up at window._

MRS. PARBURY.

Dear father, I wish you to take me home with you to-night.

COLONEL.

[_Surprised._] Certainly, dear, but----

MRS. PARBURY.

Don't question me. [_Puts her hand on his shoulder._] You love me, don't you?

COLONEL.

Naturally, my dear. But nowadays, of course, I take second place.

MRS. PARBURY.

I thought so too, but I was wrong. Wait for me a few minutes.

COLONEL.

[_Hesitatingly, after glancing at PARBURY and again at his daughter._] One moment, Mabel. This is all so sudden.

MRS. PARBURY.

Father, do you hesitate to receive me?

COLONEL.

Good heavens, no! But Clement----

MRS. PARBURY.

Shhh!

[_Puts her hand over his mouth._

COLONEL.

Oh! I was thinking, my dear, that unfortunately there is no mother to receive you now. I'm only an old bachelor, and you'll be--er--give me a word.

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Kisses him, and goes to door, L. She looks across the room at her husband, and then whispers to herself._] He'll never let me go.

[_Exit, L._

PARBURY.

[_To GUNNING._] She'll not go, my dear fellow.

GUNNING.

Humph! You think not? Anyway, _I_ must,

PARBURY.

Don't.

GUNNING.

The domestic atmosphere is volcanic, and I feel remorseful.

PARBURY.

Nonsense, it had to come. You must see me through it now.

GUNNING.

How beastly selfish you married men are!

[_They come down._

COLONEL.

Clement, I'm in a difficulty.

PARBURY.

You mean about Mabel, Colonel?

COLONEL.

Yes.

PARBURY.

She proposes going home with you.

COLONEL.

Yes.

PARBURY.

[_Smiling confidently._] I don't think she'll go.

_Enter EVANS, L._

EVANS.

[_To COLONEL._] Your carriage, sir. [_PARBURY looks uneasy._]

[_Exit EVANS, L._

COLONEL.

[_Whistles. Looks at his watch._] I think she means it. I ordered my man to wait in the Avenue till he was called. Mabel has evidently had him called.

[_PARBURY is thoughtful._

COLONEL.

I don't wish to be in the least degree meddlesome; but, well, there it is!

PARBURY.

The question, I suppose, is what's it all about?

COLONEL.

Well, yes. I suppose that's it; although I don't in the least wish to know.

PARBURY.

You hear, George; what's it all about?

GUNNING.

[_Down R., almost angrily._] Now, how the deuce should I know? Colonel, you would be very kind if you would use your authority to prevent Clement dragging me into his domestic difficulties. Married men have a cowardly way of endeavouring to involve their friends. Perhaps you have noticed it.

COLONEL.

I have, Mr. Gunning. My experience of married life extended over a period of twenty-six years.

GUNNING.

May one discreetly express the hope that they were very happy years?

COLONEL.

Very happy years, with, however, I must admit, intermittent troubles. Mabel's mother was one of the best women in the world, but, if I may say so without disloyalty, she was just a little--a little--er--give me a word.

PARBURY.

Would the word _exigeant_ apply?

COLONEL.

Admirably. Perhaps you have noticed in Mabel the slightest tendency? Eh?

PARBURY.

Well, well!

COLONEL.

Her mother's jealousy, too, was something amazing. I hope I'm not conceited, but in those days I was just a little--er--popular, and perhaps I ought not to confess it, a little--er--give me a word.

GUNNING.

Human.

[_They laugh slightly._

COLONEL.

[_With affected severity._] Clement, I hope you are not too human?

PARBURY.

Quite the contrary, I assure you, Colonel.

COLONEL.

Then why--I suppose, after all, it is my duty to ask--why does Mabel come home with me to-night?

PARBURY.

She is simply using pressure to get her own way in a matter in which I think her way the wrong way.

COLONEL.

Gad! they do like their own way, don't they? Well, no doubt she'll be more reasonable to-morrow. I think I may trust you.

PARBURY.

You may--absolutely.

_Enter MRS. PARBURY. She has put on a hat and a cloak._

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Going to GUNNING._] You'll forgive me, I'm sure, Mr. Gunning. Good-night. You'll have Clement all to yourself.

GUNNING.

Good-night, Mrs. Parbury.

[_They shake hands. PARBURY joins her, C._

PARBURY.

[_In a low voice._] Don't go, Mabel. It's very foolish.

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Softening._] You could prevent me if you wished.

PARBURY.

I'm opposed to all violence.

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Hard again._] Which way is it to be?

PARBURY.

[_Firmly._] My way, dear.

[_Goes up C. to fireplace._

MRS. PARBURY.

[_Alone, C._] Good heavens! He'll really let me go. [_Hesitates for a moment, then draws herself up._] Come, father.

COLONEL.

Good-night, Mr. Gunning. Good-night, Clement.

PARBURY and GUNNING.

Good-night, Colonel.

[_Exeunt MRS. PARBURY and the COLONEL._

PARBURY.

[_Comes down, a little astonished._] By Jove, she's really going!

[_GUNNING sits. PARBURY stands C., listening. Pause. Then there is the noise of a carriage door being shut._

EVANS.

[_Outside._] Home!

[_PARBURY somewhat unsteadily lights a cigarette. He then catches GUNNING'S eye. They look at each other._

_Slow Curtain._

END OF ACT II.