Scene I--The period is 1863

_The sitting-room in_ Lucy Rimmerton's _lodgings. She is seated in front of the fire making some toast._

_Lucy._ There! I think that will do, although it isn't anything very great. [_Rises._] What a colour I must have! Harold says I always manage to toast myself very much better than I do the bread. [_Lights the gas, and begins arranging some flowers on the table._] His favourite flowers; I know he will be pleased when he sees them. How strange it is that he should really care for me!--I, who am so commonplace and ordinary, hardly pretty either, although he says I am. I always tell him he might have done so much better than propose to a poor governess without a penny.--Oh, if only his book proves a success!--a really great success!--how glorious it will be! Why doesn't the wretched publisher make haste and bring it out? I believe he is keeping it back on purpose. What dreadful creatures they are! At first--squabble, squabble, squabble; squabble about terms, squabble about this, another squabble about that, and then, when everything is finally arranged, delay, delay, delay. "You must wait for the publishing season." As though a book were a young lady whose future might be seriously jeopardised if it made its _début_ at an unfashionable time.

[_The door opens, and_ Harold _bursts into the room_.]

_Harold._ It's out, it's out; out at last.

_Lucy._ What, the book! Really! Where is it? Do show it to me.

_Harold._ Do you think you deserve it!

_Lucy._ Oh! don't tantalise me. Have you seen it? What is it like!

_Harold._ It is printed, and very much like other books.

_Lucy._ You are horrid. I believe you have it with you. Have you?

_Harold._ And what if I say yes?

_Lucy._ You have. Do let me see it.

_Harold._ And will you be very good if I do!

_Lucy._ I'll be angelic.

_Harold._ Then on that condition only--There! take it gently. [Lucy _snatches it, and cuts the string_.] I thought you never cut string?

_Lucy._ There is never a never that hasn't an exception.

_Harold._ Not a woman's, certainly.

_Lucy._ Oh! how nice it looks! And to think that it is yours, really and truly yours. "Grace: a Sketch. By Harold Sekbourne." It's delicious! [_Holding the book, dances round the room._]

_Harold._ I shall begin to be jealous. You will soon be more in love with my book than you are with me.

_Lucy._ And why shouldn't I be? Haven't you always said that a man's work is the best part of him?

_Harold._ If my silly sayings are to be brought up in evidence against me like this, I shall----

_Lucy._ You shall what?

_Harold._ Take the book back.

_Lucy._ Oh, will you? I should like to see you do it. [_Holds it behind her._] You have got to get it first.

_Harold._ And what are you going to give me for it?

_Lucy._ Isn't it a presentation copy?

_Harold._ It is the very first to leave the printer's.

_Lucy._ Then you ought not to want any payment.

_Harold._ I do though, all the same. Come--no payment, no book.

_Lucy._ There, there, there!

_Harold._ And there.

_Lucy._ Oh! don't! You'll stifle me. And is this for me; may I really keep it?

_Harold._ Of course you may; I brought it expressly for you.

_Lucy._ How nice of you! And you'll write my name in it?

_Harold._ I'll write the dedication.

_Lucy._ What do you mean?

_Harold._ You shall see. Pen and ink for the author! A new pen and virgin ink!

_Lucy._ Your Authorship has but to command to be obeyed.

_Harold._ [_Sitting down, writes._] It is printed in all the other copies, but this one I have had bound specially for you, with a blank sheet where the dedication comes, so that in your copy, and yours alone, I can write it myself. There.

_Lucy._ [_Looks over his shoulder and reads._] "To my Lady Luce." Oh, Harold, you have dedicated it to me!

_Harold._ Who else could I dedicate it to? although 'tis--

"Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that now It may immortal be."

_Lucy._ It is good of you.

_Harold._ [_Writes again._] "Harold Sekbourne"--what's to-day?--oh, yes, "3rd November, 1863."

_Lucy._ And will people know who the "Lady Luce" is?

_Harold._ They will some day. The dedication in my next book shall be "To my Lady Wife."

_Lucy._ I wonder if I shall ever be that. It seems so long coming.

_Harold._ I don't mind when it is--to-morrow, if you like.

_Lucy._ Don't talk nonsense, although it is my fault for beginning it. And now sit down--no, here in the arm-chair--and you shall have some nice tea.

[_She makes and pours out the tea as Harold talks._]

_Harold._ You won't have to wait long if this proves a success: and it will be one. I know it; I feel it. It isn't only that everybody who has read it, likes it; it's something else that I can't describe, not even to you; a feeling inside, that--call it conceit if you like, but it isn't conceit; it isn't conceit to feel confidence in oneself. Why, look at the trash, the arrant trash, that succeeds every day; you will say, perhaps, that it succeeds because it is trash, that trash is what people want--they certainly get it. But no book that ever had real stuff in it has failed yet, and I feel that--Ha! ha! the same old feeling mentioned above. Don't think me an awful prig, Luce. I don't talk to anybody else as I do to you; and if you only knew what a relief it is to me to let myself go a bit occasionally, you would excuse everything.

_Lucy._ You have a right to be conceited.

_Harold._ Not yet. I have done nothing yet; but I mean to. [_Takes up the book._] I wonder what will become of you and your fellows; what will be your future? Will you one day adorn the shelves of libraries, figure in catalogues of "Rare books and first editions," and be contended for by snuffy, long-clothed bibliomaniacs, who will bid one against the other for the honour of possessing you? Or will you descend to the tables of secondhand book-stalls marked at a great reduction; or lie in a heap, with other lumber, outside the shop-front, all this lot sixpence each, awaiting there, uncared for, unnoticed, and unknown, your ultimate destination, the dust-hole?

_Lucy._ You are horrid. What an idea!

_Harold._ No, I don't think that will be your end. [_Puts down the book._] You are not going to the dustbin, you are going to be a success. No more hack work for me after this. Why, supposing only the first edition is sold, I more than clear expenses, and if it runs to two--ten--twenty editions, I shall receive--the amount fairly takes my breath away. Twentieth thousand; doesn't it sound fine? We shall have our mansion in Grosvenor Square yet, Luce; and that charming, little old house we saw the other day up the river--we'll have that, too; so that we can run down here from Saturday to Monday, to get away from London fog and nastiness. Yes, I am going to be rich some day--rich--in ten years' time, if this book gets a fair start and I have anything like decent luck, I shall be the best known author in England. [_Rises._] The son of the old bookseller who failed will be able then to repay those who helped him when he wanted help, and, more delightful thought still, pay back those with interest who did their best to keep him down, when they could just as easily have helped him to rise. I am going to have a success, I feel it. In a few weeks' time I'll bring you a batch of criticisms that will astonish you. But what is the matter? why so silent all of a sudden? has my long and conceited tirade disgusted you?

_Lucy._ No, not at all.

_Harold._ Then what is it?

_Lucy._ I was only thinking that--[_hesitates_].

_Harold._ Thinking what? About me:

_Lucy._ Yes, about you and--and also about myself.

_Harold._ That is just as it should be, about us two together.

_Lucy._ Yes, but I was afraid----

_Harold._ [_Smiling._] Afraid! what of?

_Lucy._ Nothing, nothing really. I am ashamed that--let me give you some more tea.

_Harold._ No, thanks. Come, let me hear, make a clean breast of it.

_Lucy._ I can't, really; you would only laugh at me.

_Harold._ Then why deny me a pleasure, for you know I love to laugh?

_Lucy._ Well, then--if you become famous--and rich----

_Harold._ If I do; well?

_Lucy._ You won't--you won't forget me, will you?

_Harold._ Forget you, what an idea! Why do I want to become famous? why do I want to become rich? For my own sake? for the sake of the money? Neither. I want it for your sake, so that you can be rich; so that you can have everything you can possibly want. I don't mind roughing it a bit myself, but----

_Lucy._ No more do I: I am sure we might be very happy living even here.

_Harold._ No, thank you; no second pair fronts for me, or, rather, none for my wife. I want you to forget all about this place, as though it had never existed; I want you to only remember your giving lessons as a nightmare which has passed and gone. I want you to take a position in the world, to go into society----

_Lucy._ But, Harold----

_Harold._ To entertain, receive, lead----

_Lucy._ But I could never lead. I detest receiving. I hate entertaining----

_Harold._ Except me.

_Lucy._ I often wonder if I do. You are so clever and I----

_Harold._ Such a goose. Whatever put such ideas into your head? Why, you are actually crying.

_Lucy._ I am not.

_Harold._ Then what is that? [_Puts his finger against her cheek._] What is that little sparkling drop?

_Lucy._ It must be a tear of joy, then.

_Harold._ Which shall be used to christen the book!

_Lucy._ Oh, don't--there, you have left a mark.

_Harold._ It is your fault. My finger wouldn't have done it by itself. Are you going to be silly any more?

_Lucy._ No, I am not.

_Harold._ And you are going to love me, believe in me, and trust me?

_Lucy._ I do all three--implicitly.

_Harold._ [_He kisses her._] The seal of the trinity. [_Looks at his watch._] By jove, I must be going.

_Lucy._ So soon?

_Harold._ Rather; I have to dine in Berkeley Square at eight o'clock, at Sir Humphrey Mockton's. You would like their house, it's a beauty, a seventeenth or eighteenth century one, with such a gorgeous old staircase. He's awfully rich, and just a little bit vulgar--"wool" I think it was, or "cottons," or some other commodity; but his daughter is charming--I should say daughters, as there are two of them, so you needn't be jealous.

_Lucy._ Jealous? of course I am not. Have you known them long?

_Harold._ Oh! some little time. They are awfully keen to see my book. I am going to take--send them a copy. You see I must be civil to these people, they know such an awful lot of the right sort; and their recommendation of a book will have more weight than fifty advertisements. So good-bye. [_Takes his overcoat._]

_Lucy._ Let me help you. But you are going without noticing my flowers.

_Harold._ I have been admiring them all along, except when I was looking at you.

_Lucy._ Don't be silly.

_Harold._ They are charming. Sir Humphrey has some orchids just the same colours; you ought to see them; he has basketsful sent up every week from his place in Surrey.

_Lucy._ No wonder my poor little chrysanthemums didn't impress you.

_Harold._ What nonsense! I would give more for one little flower from you, than for the contents of all his conservatories.

_Lucy._ Then you shall have that for nothing.

_Harold._ Don't, it will destroy the bunch.

_Lucy._ What does that matter? they are all yours.

_Harold._ You do your best to spoil me.

_Lucy._ [_Pins the flower into his button-hole._] Don't talk nonsense. There!

_Harold._ What a swell you have made me look!

_Lucy._ Good-bye; when shall I see you again?

_Harold._ Not until Sunday, I am afraid; I am so busy just now. But I'll come round early, and, if fine, we'll go and lunch at Richmond, and have a good walk across the Park afterwards. Would you like it?

_Lucy._ Above all things, but--but don't spend all your money on me.

_Harold._ Bother the money! I am going to be rich. Good-bye till Sunday.

_Lucy._ _Au revoir_; and while you are dining in your grand house, with lots of grand people, I am going to enjoy a delightful evening here, not alone, as I shall have your book for company. Good-bye.

Six Months elapse between Scene I. and Scene II.