ACT III

_Three days later, and evening again. ANNE is busy with a pencil and paper, an A.B.C., and her purse. She is trying to work out how much it costs to go home, and subtracting three and fourpence ha’penny from it. Having done this, she puts the paper, pencil, and purse in her bag, returns the A.B.C. to its home, and goes towards the door. One gathers that she has come to a decision._

* * * * *

ANNE (_calling_). Nich-o-las!

NICHOLAS (_from outside_). Hallo!

ANNE. Where—are—you?

NICHOLAS. Coming. (_He comes._) Just went upstairs to get a pipe. (_Putting his hand to his pocket_) And now I’ve forgotten it.

(_They go to the sofa together._)

ANNE. Oh, Nicholas, how silly you are! (_She sits down._)

NICHOLAS (_sitting close_). I don’t want to smoke, you know.

ANNE. I thought men always did.

NICHOLAS. Well, it depends what they’re doing.

(_There is no doubt what he is doing. He is making love to ANNE, the dog, and ANNE is encouraging him._)

ANNE (_looking away_). Oh!

NICHOLAS. I say, it has been rather jolly here the last three days, don’t you think?

ANNE. It _has_ been rather nice.

NICHOLAS. We’ve sort of got so friendly.

ANNE. We have, haven’t we?

NICHOLAS. You’ve been awfully nice to me.

ANNE. You’ve been nice to _me_.

NICHOLAS. I should have gone, you know, if it hadn’t been for you.

ANNE. I don’t know _what_ I should have done if you had gone.

NICHOLAS. You did ask me to stay, didn’t you?

ANNE. Yes, I couldn’t let you go.

NICHOLAS. Do you know what you said? You said, “Please, Mr. Nicholas, I want you to stay.” I shall always remember that. (_Fatuously to himself_) “Please, Mr. Nicholas, I want you to stay.” I wonder what made you think of saying that?

ANNE. I wanted us to be friends. I wanted to get to know you; to make you think of me as—as your friend.

NICHOLAS. We _are_ friends, Anne, aren’t we?

ANNE. I think we are now, Nicholas.

NICHOLAS (_with a sentimental sigh_). Friends!

(_ANNE looks at him, wondering if she shall risk it; then away again; then summons up her courage and takes the plunge._)

ANNE. Nicholas!

NICHOLAS. Yes?

ANNE (_timidly_). I—I want you to do something for me.

NICHOLAS. Anything, Anne, anything.

ANNE. I don’t know whether I ought to ask you.

NICHOLAS. Of course you ought!

ANNE. But you see, we _are_ friends—almost like brother and sister——

NICHOLAS (_disappointed_). Well, I shouldn’t put it quite like that——

ANNE. And I thought I might ask you——

NICHOLAS. Of course, Anne! You know I would do anything for you.

ANNE. Yes.... Well—well—— (_In a rush_) Well, then, will you lend me one pound two and sixpence till next Monday?

NICHOLAS. Lend you——!

ANNE. To-day’s Friday, I’ll send you the money off on Sunday. I promise. Of course I know one oughtn’t to borrow from men, but you’re different. Almost like a brother. I knew you would understand.

NICHOLAS. But—but—I _don’t_ understand.

ANNE (_ashamed_). You see, I—I only have three and fourpence ha’penny. And it costs one pound five and twopence to get home. (_Indignantly_) Oh, it’s a shame the way men always pay for us, and then when we really want money we haven’t got any.... But I will pay you back on Sunday. I have some money at home; I meant to have brought it.

NICHOLAS. But—but why do you suddenly——

ANNE. Suddenly? I’ve been wanting it ever since that first morning. I went upstairs to get my hat, meaning to walk straight out of the house—and then I looked in my purse and found—(_pathetically_) three and fourpence ha’penny. What was I to do?

NICHOLAS. Any one would have lent you anything.

ANNE (_coldly_). Leonard, for instance?

NICHOLAS (_thoughtfully_). Well ... no.... No. You couldn’t very well have touched Leonard. But Latimer——

ANNE. Mr. Latimer! The man who had brought us here, locked us up here, and started playing Providence to us—I was to go on my knees to _him_ and say, “Please, dear Mr. Latimer, could you lend me one pound two and sixpence, so that I may run away from your horrid house?” Really!

NICHOLAS. Well, you seem to have been pretty friendly with him these three days.

ANNE. Naturally I am polite to a man when I am staying in his house. That’s different.

NICHOLAS. As a matter of fact, Latimer has been jolly decent. Anyway, he has saved us both from making silly asses of ourselves.

ANNE. And you think I am grateful to him for that?... Doesn’t _any_ man understand _any_ woman?

NICHOLAS (_annoyed_). Are you suggesting that _I_ don’t understand women?

ANNE. I’m suggesting that you should lend me one pound two shillings and sixpence.

NICHOLAS (_sulkily, feeling in his pockets_). Of course, if you’re in such a confounded hurry to get away from here—— Do you mind all silver?

ANNE. Not at all.

NICHOLAS. In such a confounded hurry to get away from here—— (_He counts the money._)

ANNE. Why ever should I want to stay?

NICHOLAS. Well—well—— (_With a despairing shrug_) Oh, Lord!... Ten shillings ... fourteen and six ... why should she want to stay! Why do you think _I’m_ staying?

ANNE (_wickedly_). Because you’re so fond of Mr. Latimer. He’s so jolly decent.

NICHOLAS (_looking at the money in his hand_). One pound two shillings and sixpence. I suppose if I told you what I really thought about it all, you’d get on your high horse again and refuse the money from _me_. So I won’t tell you. Here you are.

ANNE (_gently_). You didn’t think I was in love with you, Nicholas? (_NICHOLAS looks uncomfortable._) In three days? Oh, Nicholas!

NICHOLAS. Well—well, I don’t see—— (_He holds out the money. But ANNE won’t take it on those terms._)

ANNE. From a friend?

NICHOLAS. From a friend.

ANNE. Lent to a friend?

NICHOLAS. Lent to a friend.

ANNE (_taking it_). Thank you, Nicholas. (_She hurries out, clasping the precious money. NICHOLAS will never see her again.... And then, suddenly, her head comes round the door_) Thank you very much, Nicholas! (_She is gone._)

NICHOLAS. Well, I’m damned!

(_He sits there gloomily, his legs stretched out, and regards his shoes. So far as we can tell he goes on saying, “Well, I’m damned” to himself. EUSTASIA and LEONARD come in. He is properly dressed now, but still under EUSTASIA’S care, and she has his arm, as if he were attempting a very difficult feat in walking across the hall._)

NICHOLAS (_looking round_). Hallo! (_Getting up_) Do you want to come here?

LEONARD (_hastily_). Don’t go, old boy, don’t go. Plenty of room for us all.

EUSTASIA. Thank you so much. Leonard is not very strong yet. His temperature is up again to-day. (_To LEONARD_) You will be better on the sofa, darling. (_Distantly to NICHOLAS_) I’m so sorry to trouble you.

NICHOLAS. Not at all. I was just going anyhow.

LEONARD (_sitting on the sofa_). Oh, nonsense. Stay and talk to us. Plenty of room for us all.

NICHOLAS (_feeling in his pockets_). Got to get my pipe. Left it upstairs, like an ass.

LEONARD (_taking out his case_). Have a cigarette instead?

NICHOLAS. Rather have a pipe, thanks. (_He makes for the door._)

LEONARD (_anxiously_). But you’ll come back?

NICHOLAS (_unwillingly_). Oh—er—righto.

[_He goes out._

LEONARD. Come and keep us company. (_To EUSTASIA, who is tucking him up_) Thanks, Eustasia, thanks. That’s quite all right.

EUSTASIA. Another cushion for your back, darling?

LEONARD. No, thanks.

EUSTASIA. Quite sure?

LEONARD. Quite sure, thanks.

EUSTASIA. I can easily get it for you.

LEONARD (_weakly_). Oh, very well.

EUSTASIA. That’s right. (_Getting the cushion_) You must be comfortable. Now, are you sure that’s all right?

LEONARD. Quite all right, thank you.

EUSTASIA. Sure, darling? Anything else you want, I can get it for you at once. A rug over your knees?

LEONARD. No, thank you, Eustasia. (_Now_ he _is saying it._)

EUSTASIA. You wouldn’t like a hot-water bottle?

LEONARD (_with a sigh_). No, thank you, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. You’ve only got to say, you know. Now shall we talk, or would you like me to read to you? (_She settles down next to him._)

LEONARD (_choosing the lesser evil_). I think read—no, I mean, talk—no, read to me.

EUSTASIA. It’s for you to say, darling.

LEONARD (_his eyes closed_). Read to me, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA (_opening her book_). We’ll go on from where we left off. We didn’t get very far—I marked the place.... Yes, here we are. “... the sandy deserts of Arabia and Africa.... 4.” And then there’s a little footnote at the bottom; that’s how I remember it. (_Reading the footnote_) “Tacit. Annal. l. ii., Dion Cassius l. lvi. p. 833, and the speech of Augustus himself.” That doesn’t seem to mean much. “It receives great light from the learned notes of his French translator, M. Spanheim.” Well, that’s a good thing. Spanheim—sounds more like a German, doesn’t it? Now are you sure you’re quite comfortable, dear?

LEONARD (_his eyes closed_). Yes, thank you, Eustasia.

EUSTASIA. Then I’ll begin. (_In her reading-aloud voice_) “Happily for the repose of mankind, the moderate system recommended by the wisdom of Augustus was adopted by the fears and vices of his immediate successors. Engaged in the pursuit of pleasure or the exercise of tyranny, the first Caesars seldom showed themselves to the armies or to the provinces; nor were they disposed to suffer that those triumphs which their indolence neglected should be usurped by the conduct and valour of their lieutenants.” (_Speeding up_) “The military fame of a subject was considered as an insolent invasion of the Imperial prerogative; and it became the duty as well as interest of every Roman General to guard the frontiers entrusted to his care”—(_recklessly_) “without aspiring for conquests which might have proved no less fatal to himself than to the vanquished barbarians.”... And then there’s another little footnote. Perhaps it would be better if I read all the little footnotes afterwards—what do you think, darling? Or shall we take them as they come?

LEONARD (_without opening his eyes_). Yes, dear.

EUSTASIA. Very well. This is footnote 5. “Germanicus, Suetonius Paulinus and Agricola”—(_she stumbles over the names_)—“were checked and recalled in the course of their victories. Corbulo was put to death.” Oh, what a shame! “Military merit, as it is admirably expressed by Tacitus, was, in the strictest sense of the word——” well, there are _two_ words, and they are both in Latin. I suppose Tacitus wrote in Latin. But it doesn’t really matter, because it’s only a little footnote. (_Anxiously_) Are you liking the book, darling?

LEONARD. Very much, dear.

EUSTASIA. It’s nicely written, but I don’t think it’s very exciting. I don’t think Mr. Latimer has a very good taste in books. I asked him to recommend me something really interesting to read aloud, and he said that the two most interesting books he knew were Carlyle’s _French Revolution_ and—and—(_looking at the cover_) Gibbon’s _Roman Empire_.... Fancy, there are four volumes of it and six hundred pages in a volume. We’re at page 3 now. (_She reads a line or two to herself._) Oh, now, this is rather interesting, because it’s all about _us_. “The only accession which the Roman Empire received during the first century of the Christian era was the province of Britain.” Fancy! “The proximity of its situation to the coast of Gaul seemed to invite their arms, the pleasing though doubtful intelligence of a pearl fishery attracted their avarice.” And then there’s a little footnote—I suppose that’s to say it was Whitstable. (_Getting to it_) Oh no—“The British pearls proved, however, of little value, on account of their dark and livid colour.” How horrid. “Tacitus observes——” well, then, Tacitus says something again.... I _wish_ he would write in English.... Now where was I? Something about the pearls. Oh yes. “After a war of about forty years”—good gracious!—“undertaken by the most stupid, maintained by the most dissolute, and——”

(_NICHOLAS returns with his pipe._)

NICHOLAS. Oh, sorry, I’m interrupting.

LEONARD (_waking up_). No, no. Eustasia was just reading to me. (_To her_) You mustn’t tire yourself, dear. (_To NICHOLAS_) Stay and talk.

NICHOLAS. What’s the book? Carlyle’s _French Revolution_?

EUSTASIA (_primly_). Certainly not. (_Looking at the title again_) Gibbon’s _Roman Empire_.

NICHOLAS. Any good?

EUSTASIA. Fascinating, isn’t it, Leonard?

LEONARD. Very.

NICHOLAS. You ought to try Carlyle, old chap.

LEONARD. Is _he_ good?

NICHOLAS (_who has had eight pages read aloud to him by EUSTASIA_). Oh, topping.

EUSTASIA (_looking at her watch_). Good gracious! I ought to be dressing.

LEONARD (_looking at his_). Yes, it _is_ about time.

NICHOLAS (_looking at his_). Yes.

EUSTASIA. Leonard, darling, I don’t think it would be safe for you to change. Not to-night; to-morrow if you like.

LEONARD. I say, look here, you said that last night.

EUSTASIA. Ah, but your temperature has gone up again.

NICHOLAS. I expect that’s only because the book was so exciting.

LEONARD. Yes, that’s right.

EUSTASIA. But I took his temperature _before_ I began reading.

NICHOLAS. Perhaps yesterday’s instalment was still hanging about a bit.

EUSTASIA (_to LEONARD_). No, darling, not to-night. Just to please his Eustasia.

LEONARD (_sulkily_). All right.

EUSTASIA. That’s a good boy. (_She walks to the door, NICHOLAS going with her to open it._) And if he’s _very_ good, and Eustasia is _very_ quick dressing, perhaps she’ll read him another little bit of that nice book before dinner.

[_She goes out._

LEONARD. I say, don’t go, old chap. You can change in five minutes.

NICHOLAS. Righto.

(_He comes back. There is silence for a little._)

LEONARD. I say!

NICHOLAS. Yes?

LEONARD (_thinking better of it_). Oh, nothing.

NICHOLAS (_after a pause_). Curious creatures, women.

LEONARD. Amazing.

NICHOLAS. They’re so unexpected.

LEONARD. So unreasonable.

NICHOLAS. Yes....

LEONARD (_suddenly_). I hate England at this time of year.

NICHOLAS. So do I.

LEONARD. Do you go South as a rule?

NICHOLAS. As a rule.

LEONARD. Monte?

NICHOLAS. Sometimes. We _had_ thought—I half thought of Nice.

LEONARD. Not bad. We were—I think I prefer Cannes myself.

NICHOLAS. There’s not much in it.

LEONARD. No.... (_After a pause_) Between ourselves, you know—quite between ourselves—I’m about fed up with women.

NICHOLAS. Absolutely.

LEONARD. You are too?

NICHOLAS. Rather. I should think so.

LEONARD. They’re so dashed unreasonable.

NICHOLAS. So unexpected....

LEONARD (_suddenly_). Had you booked your rooms?

NICHOLAS. At Nice? Yes.

LEONARD. So had I.

NICHOLAS. At Cannes?

LEONARD. Yes.... I say, what about it?

NICHOLAS. Do you mean—— (_He waves a hand at the door._)

LEONARD. Yes.

NICHOLAS. Evaporating?

LEONARD. Yes. Quite quietly, you know.

NICHOLAS. Without ostentation.

LEONARD. That’s it.

NICHOLAS. It’s rather a scheme. And then we shouldn’t waste the rooms. At least, only one set of them. I’ll tell you what. I’ll toss you whether we go to Nice or Cannes.

LEONARD. Right. (_He takes out a coin and tosses._)

NICHOLAS. Tails.

LEONARD (_uncovering the coin_). Heads. Do you mind coming to Cannes?

NICHOLAS. Just as soon, really. When shall we go? To-morrow?

LEONARD. Mightn’t get a chance to-morrow. Why not to-night? It seems a pity to waste the opportunity.

NICHOLAS. You mean while Eustasia’s dressing?

LEONARD. The—er—opportunity. Sleep the night at Dover and cross to-morrow morning.

NICHOLAS. She’ll be after us.

LEONARD. Nonsense.

NICHOLAS. My dear man, you don’t know Eustasia.

LEONARD. I don’t know Eustasia? Well!

NICHOLAS (_with conviction_). She’ll be after you like a bird. You’ve never seen Eustasia when she has got somebody ill to look after.

LEONARD. I’ve never seen Eustasia? Well!

NICHOLAS. My dear chap, you’ve only had three days of her; I’ve had six.... Lord!... Look here. We shall have to——

_Enter LATIMER._

LATIMER. What, Leonard, all alone?

NICHOLAS. I say, you’re the very man we want.

LEONARD (_frowning_——). S’sh.

LATIMER. Leonard, don’t “s’sh” Nicholas when he wants to speak to me.

NICHOLAS (_to LEONARD_). It’s all right, old chap, Latimer is a sportsman.

LATIMER (_to LEONARD_). There! You see the sort of reputation I have in the West End. (_To NICHOLAS_) What is it you want to do? Run away?

LEONARD. Well—er——

NICHOLAS. I say, however did you guess?

LATIMER. Leonard’s car has had steam up for the last twenty-four hours, waiting for a word from its owner.

LEONARD (_seeing the south of France_). By Jove!

LATIMER. And you are going with him, Nicholas?

NICHOLAS. Yes. Thought I might as well be getting on. Very grateful and all that, but can’t stay here for ever.

LATIMER (_wondering what has happened between NICHOLAS and ANNE_). So you are going too! I thought—— Well! Nicholas is going too.

LEONARD. I say, you do understand—I mean about—er—I mean, when I’m quite well again—start afresh and all that. Cosset _her_ a bit. But when you’re ill—or supposed to be ill—— Well, I mean, ask Nicholas.

NICHOLAS. Oh, rather.

LATIMER. My dear Leonard, why these explanations? Who am I to interfere in other people’s matrimonial affairs? You and Nicholas are going away—good-bye. (_He holds out his hand._)

NICHOLAS. Yes, but what about Eustasia? She’s not going to miss the chance of cosseting Leonard just when she is getting into it. She’ll be after him like a bird.

LATIMER. I see. So you want me to keep her here?

NICHOLAS. That’s the idea, if you could.

LATIMER. How can I keep her here if she doesn’t want to stay?

LEONARD. Well, how do you keep _any_body here?

LATIMER. Really, Leonard, I am surprised at you. By the charm of my old-world courtesy and hospitality, of course.

LEONARD. Oh! Well, I doubt if that keeps Eustasia.

LATIMER (_shaking his head sadly_). I am afraid that that is only too true. In fact, the more I think of it, the more I realise that there is only one thing which will keep this devoted wife from her afflicted and suffering husband.

LEONARD and NICHOLAS. What?

_DOMINIC comes in._

LATIMER. His lordship and Mr. Nicholas are leaving at once. His lordship’s car will wait for them outside the gates. See that a bag is packed for them.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

LATIMER. And come back when you’ve seen about that.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

[_He goes out._

LATIMER. The car can return for the rest of your luggage, and take it over in the morning.

NICHOLAS. Good!

LEONARD. Er—thanks very much. (_Anxiously_) What were you going to say about the only way of—er——

LATIMER. The only way of keeping this devoted wife from her afflicted and suffering husband?

LEONARD (_gruffly_). Yes. What is it?

LATIMER. Somebody else must have a temperature. Somebody else must be ill. Eustasia must have somebody else to cosset.

NICHOLAS. I say, how awfully sporting of you!

LATIMER. Sporting?

NICHOLAS. To sacrifice yourself like that.

LATIMER. I? You don’t think _I_ am going to sacrifice myself, do you? No, no, it’s Dominic.

DOMINIC (_coming in_). Yes, sir.

LATIMER. Dominic, are you ever ill?

DOMINIC. Never, sir, barring a slight shortness of the breath.

LATIMER (_to the others_). That’s awkward. I don’t think you can cosset a shortness of the breath.

NICHOLAS (_to DOMINIC_). I say, you could pretend to be ill, couldn’t you?

DOMINIC. With what object, sir?

NICHOLAS. Well—er——

LATIMER. Her ladyship is training to be a nurse. She has already cured two very obstinate cases of nasal catarrh accompanied by debility and a fluctuating temperature. If she brings one more case off successfully, she earns the diploma and the gold medal of the Royal Therapeutical Society.

NICHOLAS. That’s right.

DOMINIC. And you would wish me to be that third case, sir?

NICHOLAS. That’s the idea.

DOMINIC. And be cosseted back to health by her ladyship?

LATIMER. Such would be your inestimable privilege.

DOMINIC. I am sorry, sir. I must beg respectfully to decline.

NICHOLAS. I say, be a sport.

LEONARD (_awkwardly_). Of course we should—— Naturally you would not—er—lose anything by—er——

LATIMER. His lordship wishes to imply that not only would your mental horizon be widened during the period of convalescence, but that material blessings would also flow. Isn’t that right, Leonard?

NICHOLAS. A commission on the gold medal. Naturally.

DOMINIC. I am sorry, sir. I am afraid I cannot see my way.

NICHOLAS. I say——

LATIMER. Thank you, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Thank you, sir.

[_He goes out._

NICHOLAS. Well, that’s torn it. (_To LATIMER_) If you’re quite sure that you wouldn’t like to have a go? It’s the chance of a lifetime to learn all about the French Revolution.

LATIMER. Well, well! Something must be done. (_He smiles suddenly_) After all, why not?

LEONARD (_eagerly_). You will?

LATIMER. I will.

NICHOLAS. I say——

LATIMER (_waving them off_). No, no. Don’t wait. Fly.

LEONARD. Yes, we’d better be moving. Come on!

NICHOLAS (_with a grin, as he goes_). There’s an awfully good bit in the second chapter——

LATIMER (_holding up a finger_). Listen! I hear her coming.

LEONARD. Good Lord!

(_They fly._

_LATIMER, left alone, gives himself up to thought. What illness shall he have? He rings one of his many bells, and DOMINIC comes in._)

LATIMER. Oh, Dominic. In consequence of your obstinate good-health, I am going to sacrifice myself—I mean, I myself am going to embrace this great opportunity of mental and spiritual development.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. Very good of you, I’m sure, sir.

LATIMER. What sort of illness would you recommend?

DOMINIC. How about a nice sprained ankle, sir?

LATIMER. You think that would go well?

DOMINIC. It would avoid any interference with the customary habits at meal-time, sir. There’s a sort of monotony about bread-and-milk; no inspiration about it, sir, whether treated as a beverage or as a comestible.

LATIMER. I hadn’t thought about bread-and-milk.

DOMINIC. You’ll find that you will have little else to think about, sir, if you attempt anything stomachic. Of course you could have the usual nasty cold, sir.

LATIMER. No, no, not that. Let us be original....

DOMINIC. How about Xerostomia, sir? Spelt with an x.

LATIMER. Is that good?

DOMINIC. Joseph tells me that his father has had it for a long time.

LATIMER. Oh! Then perhaps we oughtn’t to deprive him of it.

DOMINIC. I looked it up in the dictionary one Sunday afternoon, sir. They describe it there as “an abnormal dryness of the mouth.”

LATIMER. I said I wanted to be original, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Quite so, sir.

(_They both think in silence._)

LATIMER. Perhaps I had better leave it to the inspiration of the moment.

EUSTASIA (_off_). Dominic! Dominic!

DOMINIC. This appears to be the moment, sir.

LATIMER. Quick. (_Bustling him off_) Don’t let her ladyship come in for a moment. I must assume a recumbent position.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

[_He goes out._

(_LATIMER lies down at full length on the sofa and begins to groan; putting a hand first on his stomach, then on his head, then on his elbow. EUSTASIA does not come. He cautiously raises his head; the room is empty._)

LATIMER (_disappointedly_). Throwing it away! (_He hears footsteps, and settles down again._)

(_ANNE comes in, hat on, bag in hand. She is just at the door when a groan reaches her. She stops. Another groan comes. She puts down her bag and comes towards the sofa with an “Oh!” of anxiety._)

LATIMER. Oh, my poor—er—head! (_He clasps it._)

ANNE (_alarmed_). What is it? (_She kneels by him._)

LATIMER. Oh, my—— (_Cheerfully_) Hallo, Anne, is it you? (_He sits up._)

ANNE (_still anxious_). Yes, what is it?

LATIMER (_bravely_). Oh, nothing, nothing. A touch of neuralgia.

ANNE. Oh!... You frightened me.

LATIMER. Did I, Anne? I’m sorry.

ANNE. You were groaning so. I thought—I didn’t know what had happened.... (_Sympathetically_) Is it very bad?

LATIMER. Not so bad as it sounded.

ANNE (_taking off her gloves_). I know how bad it can be. Father has it sometimes. Then I have to send it away. (_She has her gloves off now_) May I try?

LATIMER (_remorsefully_). Anne!

(_She leans over from the back of him and begins to stroke his forehead with the tips of her fingers. He looks up at her._)

ANNE. Close your eyes.

LATIMER. Ah, but I don’t want to now.

(_She laughs without embarrassment._)

ANNE. It will go soon.

LATIMER. Not too soon....

ANNE (_laughing suddenly_). Aren’t faces funny when they’re upside down?

LATIMER. You have the absurdest little upside-down face that ever I saw, Anne.

ANNE (_happily_). Have I?

LATIMER. Why do you wear a hat on your chin? (_She laughs._) Why do you wear a hat?

ANNE. I was going away.

LATIMER. Without saying good-bye?

ANNE (_ashamed_). I—I think so.

LATIMER. Oh, Anne!

ANNE (_hastily_). I should have written.

LATIMER. A post-card!

ANNE. A letter.

LATIMER. With many thanks for your kind hospitality, yours sincerely.

ANNE. Yours _very_ sincerely.

LATIMER. P.S.—I shall never see you again.

ANNE. P.S.—I shall never forget.

LATIMER. Ah, but you _must_ forget....

ANNE (_after a pause_). Is it better?

LATIMER (_lazily_). It is just the same. It will always be the same. It is unthinkable that anything different should ever happen. In a hundred years’ time we shall still be like this. You will be a little tired, perhaps; your fingers will ache; but I shall be lying here, quite, quite happy.

ANNE. You shall have another minute—no more.

LATIMER. Then I shall go straight to the chemist and ask for three pennyworth of Anne’s fingers. (_They are silent for a little. Then she stops and listens._) What is it?

ANNE. I heard something. Whispers.

LATIMER. Don’t look round.

(_LEONARD and NICHOLAS, in hats and coats, creep cautiously in. Very noiselessly, fingers to lips, they open the front door and creep out._)

ANNE. What was it? Was it——

LATIMER. An episode in your life. Over, buried, forgotten....

ANNE (_pleadingly_). It never really happened, did it?

LATIMER. Of course not! We must have read about it somewhere—or was it in a play?

ANNE (_eagerly_). That was it! We were in a box together.

LATIMER. Munching chocolates. (_With a sigh_) What a child she was—that girl in the play—with her little, funny, grown-up airs!

(_DOMINIC comes in, and stops suddenly on seeing them._)

DOMINIC. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.

LATIMER. Go on, Anne. (_Happily_) I am having neuralgia, Dominic.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. A stubborn complaint, as I have heard, sir.

LATIMER. Miss Anne is making me well.... What did you want?

DOMINIC. Her ladyship says will you please excuse her if she is not down to-night.

LATIMER (_to ANNE_). Shall we excuse her if she is not down to-night?

DOMINIC. The fact is, sir, that Joseph is taken ill suddenly, and——

LATIMER (_to himself_). I never thought of Joseph!

ANNE. Oh, poor Joseph! What is it?

DOMINIC. A trifling affection of the throat, but necessitating careful attention, her ladyship says.

LATIMER. Please tell her ladyship how very much I thank her for looking after Joseph ... and tell Joseph how very sorry I am for him.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. [_He goes out._

LATIMER. You can’t go now, Anne. You will have to stay and chaperone Eustasia and me. (_She laughs and shakes her head._) Must you go?

ANNE. Yes.

LATIMER. Back to your father?

ANNE. Yes. (_He looks at her. She is so very pretty; so brave._)

LATIMER (_it must be somebody else speaking—he hardly recognises the voice_). Let us say good-bye now. There is a magic in your fingers which goes to my head, and makes me think ridiculous things. Let us say good-bye now.

ANNE (_taking his hand_). Good-bye! (_Impulsively_) I wish _you_ had been my father.

(_Then she goes out. And she has won, after all. For MR. LATIMER stands there dumb, wondering what has happened. He walks across to a mirror to have a look at himself. While he is there, DOMINIC comes in to superintend the laying of the table._)

LATIMER (_at the mirror_). Dominic, how old would you say I was?

DOMINIC. More than that, sir.

LATIMER (_with a sigh_). Yes, I’m afraid I am. And yet I look very young. Sometimes I think I look too young.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.

LATIMER. Miss Anne has just asked me to be her father.

DOMINIC. Very considerate of her, I’m sure, sir.

LATIMER. Yes.... To prevent similar mistakes in the future, I think I shall wear a long white beard.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir. Shall I order one from the Stores?

LATIMER. Please.

DOMINIC. Thank you, sir.... Is Miss Anne leaving us, sir?

LATIMER. Yes.... Don’t overdo the length, Dominic, and I like the crinkly sort.

DOMINIC. Yes, sir.... One of our most successful weeks on the whole, if I may say so, sir.

LATIMER (_thoughtfully_). Yes.... Well, well, we must all do what we can, Dominic.

DOMINIC. That’s the only way, isn’t it, sir?

(_They stand looking at each other. Just for a moment DOMINIC is off duty. That grave face relaxes; the eyes crease into a smile. MR. LATIMER smiles back.... Very gently they begin to laugh together; old friends; master and servant no longer. “Dear, dear! These children!” says DOMINIC’S laugh. “How very amusing they are, to be sure!” LATIMER’S laugh is a little rueful; a moment ago he, too, was almost a child. Yet he laughs. “Good old DOMINIC!”_

_Suddenly the front-door bell rings. Instinctively they stiffen to attention. They are on duty again. They turn and march off, almost, as it were, saluting each other; MR. LATIMER to his quarters, DOMINIC to his bolts and bars. He draws the curtains and opens the big front door._)

A MANLY VOICE. Oh, is this—er—an hotel?

DOMINIC. A sort of hotel, your Grace.

HIS GRACE (_coming in, a lady on his arm_). My chauffeur said—we’ve had an accident—been delayed on the way—he said that——

(_Evidently another romantic couple. Let us leave them to MR. LATIMER._)

THE TRUTH ABOUT BLAYDS

CHARACTERS

Oliver Blayds. Isobel (_his younger daughter_). Marion Blayds-Conway (_his elder daughter_). William Blayds-Conway (_his son-in-law_). Oliver Blayds-Conway } Septima Blayds-Conway } (_his grandchildren_). A. L. Royce. Parsons.

* * * * *

_A room in OLIVER BLAYDS’ house in Portman Square._

* * * * *

This play was first produced at the Globe Theatre on December 20, 1921, with the following cast:

_Oliver Blayds_ Norman McKinnel. _Isobel_ Irene Vanbrugh. _Marion Blayds-Conway_ Irene Rooke. _William Blayds-Conway_ Dion Boucicault. _Oliver_ Jack Hobbs. _Septima_ Faith Celli. _A. L. Royce_ Ion Swinley. _Parsons_ Ethel Wellesley.