Chapter II: Part 2

ALINE. And you don't intend to like the other one?

CROCKSTEAD. I will marry her, I can trust you to find me a loyal and intelligent woman.

ALINE. In Society?

CROCKSTEAD. For preference. She will be better versed in spending money than a governess, or country parson's daughter.

ALINE. But why this voracity for marriage?

CROCKSTEAD. Lady Aline, I am hunted, pestered, worried, persecuted. I have settled two breach of promise actions already, though Heaven knows I did no more than remark it was a fine day, or enquire after the lady's health. If you do not help me, some energetic woman will capture me--I feel it--and bully me for the rest of my days. I raise a despairing cry to you--Find me a wife!

ALINE. Do you desire the lady to have any--special qualifications?

CROCKSTEAD. No--the home-grown article will do. One thing, though--I should like her to be--merciful.

ALINE. I don't understand.

CROCKSTEAD. I have a vague desire to do something with my money: my wife might help me. I should like her to have pity.

ALINE. Pity?

CROCKSTEAD. In the midst of her wealth I should wish her to be sorry for those who are poor.

ALINE. Yes. And, as regards the rest--

CROCKSTEAD. The rest I leave to you, with absolute confidence. You will help me?

ALINE. I will try. My choice is to be final?

CROCKSTEAD. Absolutely.

ALINE. I have an intimate friend--I wonder whether she would do?

CROCKSTEAD. Tell me about her.

ALINE. She and I made our debut the same season. Like myself she has hitherto been her mother's despair.

CROCKSTEAD. Because she has not yet--

ALINE. Married--yes. Oh, if men knew how hard the lot is of the portionless girl, who has to sit, and smile, and wait, with a very desolate heart--they would think less unkindly of her, perhaps--[_She smiles._] But I am digressing, too.

CROCKSTEAD. Tell me more of your friend.

ALINE. She is outwardly hard, and a trifle bitter, but I fancy sunshine would thaw her. There has not been much happiness in her life.

CROCKSTEAD. Would she marry a man she did not love?

ALINE. If she did you would not respect her?

CROCKSTEAD. I don't say that. She will be your choice; and therefore deserving of confidence. Is she handsome?

ALINE. Well--no.

CROCKSTEAD. [_With a quick glance at her._] That's a pity. But we can't have everything.

ALINE. No. There is one episode in her life that I feel she would like you to know--

CROCKSTEAD. If you are not betraying a confidence--

ALINE. [_Looking down._] No. She loved a man, years ago, very dearly. They were too poor to marry, but they vowed to wait. Within six months she learned that he was engaged.

CROCKSTEAD. Ah!

ALINE. To a fat and wealthy widow--

CROCKSTEAD. The old story.

ALINE. Who was touring through India, and had been made love to by every unmarried officer in the regiment. She chose him.

CROCKSTEAD. India? [_He moves towards her._]

ALINE. Yes.

CROCKSTEAD. I have an idea that I shall like your friend. [_He takes her hand in his._]

ALINE. I shall be careful to tell her all that you said to me--at the beginning--

CROCKSTEAD. It is quite possible that my remarks may not apply after all.

ALINE. But I believe myself from what I know of you both that--if she marries you--it will not be--altogether--for your money.

CROCKSTEAD. Listen--they're playing "God Save the King." Will you be my wife, Aline?

ALINE. Yes--Harry.

[_He takes her in his arms and kisses her._

CURTAIN

THE MAN ON THE KERB

A DUOLOGUE

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

JOSEPH MATTHEWS MARY (HIS WIFE)

TIME--_The present_

SCENE--_Their home in the West End_

_Produced at the Aldwych Theatre on March 24, 1908_

THE MAN ON THE KERB

SCENE: _An underground room, bare of any furniture except two or
three broken chairs, a tattered mattress on the stone floor and
an old trunk. On a packing-chest are a few pots and pans and a
kettle. A few sacks are spread over the floor, close to the empty
grate; the walls are discoloured, with plentiful signs of damp
oozing through. Close to the door, at back, is a window, looking
on to the area; two of the panes are broken and stuffed with
paper._

_On the mattress a child is sleeping, covered with a tattered old
mantle;_ MARY _is bending over her, crooning a song. The woman is
still quite young, and must have been very pretty; but her cheeks
are hollow and there are great circles round her eyes; her face
is very pale and bloodless. Her dress is painfully worn and
shabby, but displays pathetic attempts at neatness. The only
light in the room comes from the street lamp on the pavement
above._

JOE _comes down the area steps, and enters. His clothes are of
the familiar colourless, shapeless kind one sees at street
corners; he would be a pleasant-looking young fellow enough were
it not that his face is abnormally lined, and pinched, and
weather-beaten. He shambles in, with the intense weariness of a
man who has for hours been forcing benumbed limbs to move; he
shakes himself, on the threshold, dog-fashion, to get rid of the
rain._ MARY _first makes sure that the child is asleep, then
rises eagerly and goes to him. Her face falls as she notes his
air of dejection._

MARY. [_Wistfully._] Nothing, Joe?

JOE. Nothing. Not a farthing. Nothing.

[MARY _turns away and checks a moan._

JOE. Nothing at all. Same as yesterday--worse than yesterday--I _did_ bring home a few coppers--And you?

MARY. A lady gave Minnie some food--

JOE. [_Heartily._] Bless her for that!

MARY. Took her into the pastrycook's, Joe--

JOE. And the kiddie had a tuck-out? Thank God! And you?

MARY. Minnie managed to hide a great big bun for me.

JOE. The lady didn't give you anything?

MARY. Only a lecture, Joe, for bringing the child out on so bitter a day.

JOE. [_With a sour laugh, as he sits on a chair._] Ho, ho! Always so ready with their lectures, aren't they? "Shouldn't beg, my man! Never give to beggars in the street!"--Look at me, I said to one of them. Feel my arm. Tap my chest. I tell you I'm starving, and they're starving at home.--"Never give to beggars in the street."

MARY. [_Laying a hand on his arm._] Oh, Joe, you're wet!

JOE. It's been raining hard the last three hours--pouring. My stars, it's cold. Couldn't we raise a bit of fire, Mary?

MARY. With what, Joe?

JOE. [_After a look round, suddenly getting up, seizing a ricketty chair by the wall, breaking off the legs._] With this! Wonderful fine furniture they give you on the Hire System--so solid and substantial--as advertised. [_He breaks the flimsy thing up, as he speaks._] And to think we paid for this muck, in the days we were human beings--paid about three times its value! And to think of the poor devils, poor devils like us, who sweated their life-blood out to make it--and of the blood-sucking devils who sold it and got fat on it--and now back it goes to the devil it came from, and we can at least get warm for a minute. [_He crams the wood into the grate._] Got any paper, Mary?

MARY. [_Taking an old newspaper from the trunk._] Here, Joe.

JOE. That will help to build up a fire. [_He glances at it, then lays it carefully underneath the wood._ MARY _gets lamp from table._] The Daily Something or other--that tells the world what a happy people we are--how proud of belonging to an Empire on which the sun never sets. And I'd sell Gibraltar to-night for a sausage with mashed potatoes; and let Russia take India if some one would give me a clerkship at a pound a week.--There, in you go! A match, Mary?

MARY. [_Standing above_ JOE, _handing him one._] Ok Joe, be careful--we've only two left!

JOE. I'll be careful. Wait, though--I'll see whether there's a bit of tobacco still in my pipe. [_He fishes the pipe out of his pocket._] A policeman who warned me away from the kerb gave me some tobacco. "Mustn't beg," he said. "Got a pipe? Well, here's some tobacco." I believe he'd have given me money. But it was the first kind word I had heard all day, and it choked me.--There's just a bit left at the bottom. [_He bustles._] Now, first the fire. [_He puts the match to the paper--it kindles._] And then my pipe. [_The fire burns up; he throws himself in front of it._] Boo-o-oh, I'm sizzling.... I got so wet that I felt the water running into my lungs--my feet didn't seem to belong to me--and as for my head and nose! [_Yawns._] Well, smoke's good--by the powers, I'm getting warm--come closer to it, Mary. It's a little after midnight now--and I left home, this fine, luxurious British home, just as soon as it was light. And I've tramped the streets all day. Net result, a policeman gave me a pipeful of tobacco, I lunched off a bit of bread that I saw floating down the gutter--and I dined off the kitchen smell of the Café Royal. That's my day.

MARY. [_Stroking his hand._] Poor boy, poor boy!

JOE. I stood for an hour in Leicester Square when the theatres emptied, thinking I might earn a copper, calling a cab, or something. There they were, all streaming out, happy and clean and warm--broughams and motor-cars--supper at the Savoy and the Carlton--and a hundred or two of us others in the gutter, hungry--looking at them. They went off to their supper--it was pouring, and I got soaked--and there I stood, dodging the policemen, dodging the horses' heads and the motors--and it was always--get away, you loafer, get away--get away--get away--

MARY. We've done nothing to deserve it, Joe--

JOE. [_With sudden fury._] Deserve it! What have I ever done wrong! Wasn't _my_ fault the firm went bankrupt and I couldn't get another job. I've a first-rate character--I'm respectable--what's the use? I want to work--they won't let me!

MARY. That illness of mine ate up all our savings. O Joe, I wish I had died!

JOE. And left me alone? That's not kind of you, Mary. How about Mrs. Willis? Is she worrying about the rent?

MARY. Well, she'd like to have it, of course--they're so dreadfully poor themselves--but she says she won't turn us out. And I'm going to-morrow to her daughter's upstairs--she makes matchboxes, you know--and I don't see why I shouldn't try--I could earn nearly a shilling a day.

JOE. A shilling a day! Princely! [_His pipe goes out. He takes a last puff at it, squints into it to make sure all the tobacco is gone, then lays it down with a sigh._] I reckon _I'll_ try making 'em too. I went to the Vestry again, this morning, to see whether they'd take me as sweeper--but they've thirty names down, ahead of me. I've tried chopping wood, but I can't--I begin to cough the third stroke--there's something wrong with me inside, somewhere. I've tried every Institution on God's earth--and there are others before me, and there is no vacancy, and I mustn't beg, and I mustn't worry the gentlemen. A shilling a day--can one earn as much as that! Why, Mary, that will be fourteen shillings a week--an income! We'll do it!

MARY. It's not quite a shilling, Joe--you have to find your own paste and odds and ends. And of course it takes a few weeks to learn, before you begin to make any money.

JOE. [_Crestfallen._] Does it though? And what are we going to do, those few weeks? I thought there was a catch in it, somewhere. [_He gets up and stretches himself._] Well, here's a free-born Englishman, able to conduct correspondence in three languages, bookkeeping by double entry, twelve years' experience--and all he's allowed to do is to starve. [_He stretches himself again._]

But in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations--

[_With sudden passion._] God! I wish I were a Zulu!

MARY. [_Edging to him._] Joe--

JOE. [_Turning._] Well?

MARY. Joe, Joe, we've tried very hard, haven't we?

JOE. Tried! Is there a job in this world we'd refuse? Is there anything we'd turn up our nose at? Is there any chance we've neglected?

MARY. [_Stealing nervously to him and laying a hand on his arm._] Joe--

JOE. [_Raising his head and looking at her._] Yes--what is it? [_She stands timidly with downcast eyes._] Well? Out with it, Mary!

MARY. [_Suddenly._] It's this, Joe.

[_She goes feverishly to the mattress, and from underneath it she
pulls out a big, fat purse which she hands him._

JOE. [_Staring._] A purse!

MARY. [_Nodding._] Yes.

JOE. You--

MARY. Found it.

JOE. [_Looking at her._] Found?

MARY. [_Awkwardly._] In a way I did--yes.

JOE. How?

MARY. It came on to rain, Joe--and I went into a Tube Station--and was standing by a bookstall, showing Minnie the illustrated papers--and an old lady bought one--and she took out her purse--this purse--and paid for it--and laid the purse on the board while she fumbled to pick up her skirts--and then some one spoke to her--a friend, I suppose--and--there were lots of people standing about--I don't know how it was--I was out in the street, with Minnie--

JOE. You had the purse?

MARY. Yes--

JOE. No one followed you?

MARY. No one. I couldn't run, as I had to carry Minnie.

JOE. What made you do it?

MARY. I don't know--something in me did it--She put the purse down just by the side of my hand--my fingers clutched it before I knew--and I was out in the street.

JOE. How much is there in it?

MARY. I haven't looked, Joe.

JOE. [_Wondering._] You haven't looked?

MARY. No; I didn't dare.

JOE. [_Sorrowfully._] I didn't think we'd come to this, Mary.

MARY. [_Desperately._] We've got to do something. Before we can earn any money at making matchboxes we'll have to spend some weeks learning. And you've not had a decent meal for a month--nor have I. If there's money inside this purse you can get some clothes--and for me too--I need them! It's not as though the old lady would miss it--she's rich enough--her cloak was real sable--and no one can find us out--they can't tell one piece of money from the other. It's heavy, Joe--I think there's a lot inside.

JOE. [_Weighing it mechanically._] Yes--it's heavy--

MARY. [_Eagerly._] Open it, Joe.

JOE. [_Turning to her again._] Why didn't you?

MARY. I just thought I'd wait--I'd an idea something might have happened; that some one might have stopped you in the street, some one with a heart--and that he'd have come in with you to-night--and seen us--seen Minnie--and said--"Well, here's money--I'll put you on your legs again"--And then we'd have given the purse back, Joe.

JOE. [_As he still mechanically balances it in his hand._] Yes.

MARY. Can't go on like this, can we? You'll cough all night again, as you did yesterday--and the stuff they gave you at the Dispensary's no good. If you had clothes, you might get some sort of a job perhaps--you know you had to give up trying because you were so shabby.

JOE. They laugh at me.

MARY. [_With a glance at herself._] And I'm really ashamed to walk through the streets--

JOE. I know--though I'm getting used to it. Besides, there's the kiddie. Let's have a look at her.

MARY. Be careful you don't wake her, Joe!

JOE. There's a fire.

MARY. She'll be hungry.

JOE. You said that she had some food?

MARY. That was at three o'clock. And little things aren't like us--they want their regular meals. Night after night she has been hungry, and I've had nothing to give her. That's why I took the purse.

JOE. [_Still holding it mechanically and staring at it._] Yes. And, after all, why not?

MARY. We can get the poor little thing some warm clothes, some good food--

JOE. [_Under his breath._] A thief's daughter.

[_Covers his face with his hands._

MARY. Joe!

JOE. Not nice, is it? Can't be helped, of course. And who cares? For three months this game has gone on--we getting shabbier, wretcheder, hungrier--no one bothers--all _they_ say is "keep off the pavement." Let's see what's in the purse.

MARY. [_Eagerly._] Yes, yes!

JOE. [_Lifting his head as he is on the point of opening the purse._] That's the policeman passing.

MARY. [_Impatiently._] Never mind that--

JOE. [_Turning to the purse again._] First time in my life I've been afraid when I heard the policeman.

[_He has his finger on the catch of the purse when he pauses for
a moment--then acting on a sudden impulse, makes a dart for the
door, opens it, and is out, and up the area steps._

MARY. [_With a despairing cry._] Joe!

[_She flings herself on the mattress, and sobs silently, so as
not to awaken, the child._ JOE _returns, hanging his head,
dragging one foot before the other._

MARY. [_Still sobbing, but trying to control herself._] Why did you do that?

JOE. [_Humbly._] I don't know--

MARY. You gave it to the policeman?

JOE. Yes.

MARY. What did you tell him?

JOE. That you had found it.

MARY. Where?

JOE. In a Tube Station. Picked it up because we were starving. That we hadn't opened it. And that we lived here, in this cellar.

MARY. [_With a little shake._] I expect he'll keep it himself!

JOE. [_Miserably._] Perhaps.

[_There is silence for a moment; she has ceased to cry; suddenly
she raises herself violently on her elbow._

MARY. You fool! You fool!

JOE. [_Pleading._] Mary!

MARY. With your stupid ideas of honesty! What have they done for you, or me?

JOE. [_Dropping his head again._] It's the kiddie, you know--her being a thief's daughter--

MARY. Is that worse than being the daughter of a pair of miserable beggars?

JOE. [_Under his breath._] I suppose it is, somehow--

MARY. You'd rather she went hungry?

JOE. [_Despairingly._] I don't know how it was--hearing his tramp up there--

MARY. You were afraid?

JOE. I don't want you taken to prison.

MARY. [_With a wail._] I'll be taken to the graveyard soon, in a pauper's coffin!

JOE. [_Starts suddenly._] Suppose we did that?

MARY. [_Staring._] The workhouse?

JOE. Why not, after all? That's what it will come to, sooner or later.

MARY. They'd separate us.

JOE. At least you and the kiddie'd have food.

MARY. They'd separate us. And I love you, Joe. My poor, poor Joe! I love you.

[_She nestles up to him and takes his hand._

JOE. [_Holding her hand in his, and bending over her._] You forgive me for returning the purse?

MARY. [_Dropping her head on his shoulder._] Forgive you! You were right. It was the cold and the hunger maddened me. You were right!

JOE. [_Springing to his feet, with sudden passion._ MARY _staggers back._] I _wasn't_ right--I was a coward, a criminal--a vile and wicked fool.

MARY. [_Startled._] Joe!

JOE. I had money there--money in my hand--money that you need so badly, you, the woman I love with all my ragged soul--money that would have put food into the body of my little girl--money that was mine, that belonged to me--and I've given it back, because of my rotten honesty! What right have I to be honest? They've made a dog of me--what business had I to remember I was a man?

MARY. [_Following him and laying a hand on his arm._] Hush, Joe--you'll wake Minnie.

JOE. [_Turning and staring haggardly at her._] I could have got clothes--a job, perhaps--we might have left this cellar. We could have gone out to-morrow and bought things--gone into shops--we might have had food, coal--

MARY. Don't, Joe--what's the use? And who knows--it may prove a blessing to us. You told the policeman where we lived?

JOE. A blessing! I'll get up to-morrow, after having coughed out my lungs all night--and I'll go into the streets and walk there from left to right and from right to left, standing at this corner and at that, peering into men's faces, watching people go to their shops and their offices, people who are warm and comfortable--and so it will go on, till the end comes.

MARY. [_Standing very close to him, almost in a whisper._] Why not now, Joe?

JOE. [_With a startled glance at her._] The end?

MARY. There's no room for us in this world--

JOE. If I'd taken that money--

MARY. It's too late for that now. And I'm glad you didn't--yes, I am--I'm glad. We'll go before God clean-handed. And we'll say to Him we didn't steal, or do anything He didn't want us too. And we'll tell Him we've died because people wouldn't allow us to live.

JOE. [_With a shudder._] No. Not that--we'll wait, Mary. Don't speak of that.

MARY. [_Wistfully._] You've thought of it too?

JOE. Thought of it! Don't, Mary, don't! It's bad enough, in the night, when I lie there and think of to-morrow! Something will happen--it must.

MARY. What? We haven't a friend in the world.

JOE. I may meet some one I used to know.

MARY. You've met them before--they always refuse--

JOE. [_Passionately._] I've done nothing wrong--I haven't drunk or gambled--I can't help being only a clerk, and unable to do heavy work! I can't help my lungs being weak! I've a wife and a child, like other people--and all we ask is to be allowed to live!

MARY. [_Pleading._] Let's give it up, Joe. Go away together, you'd sleep without coughing. Sleep, that's all. And God will be kinder than men.

JOE. [_Groaning._] Don't, Mary--don't!

MARY. Joe, I can't stand it any longer--I can't. Not only myself--but Minnie--Joe, it's too much for me! I can't stand Minnie crying, and asking me for her breakfast, as she will in the morning. Joe, dear Joe, let there be no morning!

JOE. [_Completely overcome._] Oh, Mary, Mary!

MARY. It's not _your_ fault, dear--you've done what you could. Not _your_ fault they won't let you work--you've tried hard enough. And no woman ever had a better husband than you've been to me. I love you, dear Joe. And let's do it--let's make an end. And take Minnie with us.

JOE. [_Springing up._] Mary, I'll steal something to-morrow.

MARY. And they'd send you to prison. Besides, then God would be angry. Now we can go to Him and need not be ashamed. Let us, dear Joe--oh, do let us! I'm so tired!

JOE. No.

MARY. [_Sorrowfully._] You won't?

JOE. [_Doggedly._] No. We'll go to the workhouse.

MARY. You've seen them in there, haven't you?

JOE. Yes.

MARY. You've seen them standing at the window, staring at the world? And they'd take you away from me.

JOE. That's better than--

MARY. [_Firmly._] I won't do it, Joe. I've been a good wife to you--I've been a good mother: and I love you, though I'm ragged and have pawned all my clothes; and I'll strangle myself rather than go to the workhouse and be shut away from you.

JOE. [_With a loud cry._] No! I'll _make_ them give me something; and if I _have_ to kill, it shan't be my wife and child! To-morrow I'll come home with food and money--to-morrow--

[_There is a sudden wail from the child;_ JOE _stops and stares
at her;_ MARY _goes quickly to the mattress and soothes the
little girl._

MARY. Hush, dear, hush--no it's not morning yet, not time for breakfast. Go to sleep again, dear. Yes, daddy's come back, and things are going to be all right now--No, dear, you can't be hungry, really--remember those beautiful cakes. Go to sleep, Minnie, dear. You're cold? [_She takes off her ragged shawl and wraps it round the child._] There, dear, you won't be cold now. Go to sleep, Minnie--

[_The child's wail dies away, as_ MARY _soothes her back to
sleep._

JOE. [_Staggering forward with a sudden cry._] God, O God, give us bread!

THE CURTAIN SLOWLY FALLS

THE OPEN DOOR

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

SIR GEOFFREY TRANSOM LADY TORMINSTER

THE OPEN DOOR

SCENE: _The drawing-room of_ LORD TORMINSTER'S _cottage by the
sea. It is 2 a.m. of a fine July night; the French windows are
open on to the lawn. The room is dark; in an armchair,_ SIR
GEOFFREY TRANSOM, _a man of forty, with a frank, pleasant face,
is seated, deep in thought. Suddenly the door opens, and_ LADY
TORMINSTER _appears and switches on the light. She starts at
seeing_ SIR GEOFFREY.

LADY TORMINSTER. Oh!

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Rising._] Hullo! Don't be afraid--it's only I!

LADY TORMINSTER. What a start you gave me Why haven't you gone to bed?

SIR GEOFFREY. I'm tired of going to bed. One always has to get up again, and it becomes monotonous. Why haven't you gone to sleep?

LADY TORMINSTER. I don't know--it's too hot, or something. I've come for a book.

SIR GEOFFREY. Let me choose one for you.

[_He goes to the table._

LADY TORMINSTER. Why were you sitting in the dark?

SIR GEOFFREY. Because the light annoyed me. What sort of book will you have? A red one or a green one?

LADY TORMINSTER. Is there a virtue in the colour of the binding?

SIR GEOFFREY. Why not? They're all the same inside. There are three hundred ways, they say, of cooking a potato--there are as many of dressing up a lie, and calling it a novel. But it's always the same old lie. Here take this. [_He hands her a book._] Popular Astronomy. That will send you to sleep.

LADY TORMINSTER. The stars frighten me. But I'll try it. Good-night.

SIR GEOFFREY. Good-night.

LADY TORMINSTER. And you really had better go to bed.

SIR GEOFFREY. I move as an amendment that you sit down and talk.

LADY TORMINSTER. At this time of night!

SIR GEOFFREY. Why not? It's day in the Antipodes.

LADY TORMINSTER. And in this attire!

[_She glances at her peignoir._

SIR GEOFFREY. Pooh! You are more dressed than you were at dinner. That's awfully rude, isn't it? But then, you see, you're not my hostess now--you're a spirit, walking in the night. One can't be polite to spirits. Sit down, oh shade, and let us converse.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Hesitating._] I don't know--

SIR GEOFFREY. The household have all retired; and we will make this concession to Mrs. Grundy--we will leave the door open. There! [_He flings it open._] The Open Door! Centuries ago, when I was alive, I remember paragraphs with that heading.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Laughing._] So you're not alive now?

SIR GEOFFREY. Sir Geoffrey Transom ceased to be when he said good-night to Lady Torminster. Sir Geoffrey is upstairs asleep. So is her ladyship. We are their souls. Let us talk.

LADY TORMINSTER. You are in your whimsical mood.

SIR GEOFFREY. And you in your wrapper--peignoir--tea gown--it don't matter what you call it. You look--jolly. Ridiculous word--I don't mean that at all. You look--you. More you than I've seen you for years. Sh--don't interrupt. Shades never do that. By the way, do you know that the old lumber-room, my owner--my corporeal sheath--means to go away in the morning, before you are up?

LADY TORMINSTER. Sir Geoffrey! What nonsense! You've promised to stay a month!

SIR GEOFFREY. I assure you I have been charged to invent fitting and appropriate lies to account for the ridiculous creature's abrupt departure. The man Transom is a poor liar.

LADY TORMINSTER. You are making me giddy. Would you mind putting on your body? I've not been introduced to your soul.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Springing up with a flourish._] How very remiss of me! Permit me. Gertrude this is Geoffrey. You have often heard me speak of him.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Rising._] I think I'll go to bed.

SIR GEOFFREY. Now that is preposterous. Jack, my dear old friend--the best and only friend I have in the world--is slumbering peacefully upstairs, and Jack's wife is reluctant to talk to Jack's old pal because the sun happens to be hidden on the other side of the globe. Lady Torminster, sit down. If you're good you shall have a cigarette.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Sitting._] Well, just one. And when I've finished it, I'll go.

SIR GEOFFREY. Agreed.

[_He hands her the box; she takes a cigarette; he strikes a match
and holds it for her; he then takes a cigarette himself, and
lights it._

SIR GEOFFREY. And, while smoking it, remember Penelope's web. For I've heaps of things to tell you.

LADY TORMINSTER. They'll keep till to-morrow.

SIR GEOFFREY. That's a fearful delusion. Nothing keeps. There is one law in the universe: NOW.

LADY TORMINSTER. I want to know what you mean by this nonsense about your going.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Puffing out smoke._] Yes--I'm off in the morning. It has occurred to me that I haven't been to China. Now that is a serious omission. How can I face my forefathers, and confess to them that I haven't seen the land where the Yellow Labour comes from?

LADY TORMINSTER. China has waited a long time--a month more or less will make no difference. They are a patient race.

SIR GEOFFREY. There is gipsy blood in my veins--I must wander--I'm restless.... Not like Jack--he's untroubled--he can sleep. Jack's a fine sleeper, isn't he?

LADY TORMINSTER. Yes.

SIR GEOFFREY. Calm, serene, untroubled, with the conscience of a babe--one, two, three, he sleeps. He and I have had some rare times together. I've been roped to him on the Andes--he shot a tiger that was about to scrunch me--I rubbed his nose when it was frost-bitten. He saved my life--I saved his nose. I always maintain that the balance of gratitude is on his side--for where would he have been without his nose?

LADY TORMINSTER. You _are_ absurd.

SIR GEOFFREY. Would you have married him without a nose?

LADY TORMINSTER. I might have.

SIR GEOFFREY. Now you know you wouldn't. You'd have been afraid of what people would say. And what would he have done when he became short-sighted, and had to wear glasses?

LADY TORMINSTER. My cigarette has gone out.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Jumping up and handing her the box._] Take another. Never re-light a cigarette--it's like dragging up the past. Here.

LADY TORMINSTER. I said only one.

SIR GEOFFREY. This is not the hour for inflexibility. The Medes and Persians have all gone to bed.

[_She takes the cigarette; he lights it for her._

LADY TORMINSTER. Tell me why you mean to leave us. And remember--I shan't let _this_ one go out.

SIR GEOFFREY. My explanation will be handed to you with your cup of tea in the morning.

LADY TORMINSTER. And you will be gone?

SIR GEOFFREY. I shall be gone. There is a train at 7.45--which will be packed with husbands. I shall breakfast in town.

LADY TORMINSTER. Why?

SIR GEOFFREY. Well, one must breakfast somewhere. It's a convention.

LADY TORMINSTER. Sir Geoffrey, I want you to tell me what this means.

SIR GEOFFREY. Give your decision, said the judge to the arbitrator, but never your reasons. I go, because I go. Besides, has one reasons? Why do people die, or get married, or buy umbrellas? Because of typhoid, love, or the rain? Not at all. Isn't that so?

LADY TORMINSTER. I wish you'd be serious.

SIR GEOFFREY. I'm fearfully serious. When Jack shot that tiger he had to go so near the brute that he held his life in his hands. Do you know what was my chief impression as I lay there, with the ugly cat's paw upon my chest, beginning to rip me?

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Shuddering._] Horrible! What?

SIR GEOFFREY. I resented his having eaten something that smelt like onions.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Smiling._] A tiger!

SIR GEOFFREY. Onions may have been his undoing. That's the beggar's skin on the floor. But you should have seen me rub Jack's nose!

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Warningly._] Sir Geoffrey, there's very little cigarette left--

SIR GEOFFREY. There are lots more in the box--and dawn is a long way off. Hang it, Lady Torminster, don't be in a hurry! Do you hear the sea out there? It's breathing as regularly as old Jack. And don't you think this is fine? Here we are, we two, meeting just as we shall meet on the other side of the Never-Never Land. It's a chance for a man to speak to a woman, and tell her things.

LADY TORMINSTER. What things!

SIR GEOFFREY. That's just it--what things? What have I to say, after all? I am going to-morrow because I am a fantastic, capricious ass. Also because I'm lonely.

LADY TORMINSTER. How will China help you?

SIR GEOFFREY. They colour it green on the map--and there _is_ such a lot of it!

LADY TORMINSTER. You should get married.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_With a sudden burst of passion._] _You_ say that--you!

[_He starts back, ashamed, and hangs his head._ LADY TORMINSTER
_throws a quick glance at him, then looks ahead of her, puffing
quietly at her cigarette._

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Quietly._] So that is why you are going?

SIR GEOFFREY. [_With a great sigh of relief._] Now, that really is fine of you! Every other woman in the world would have seized that chance for a melodramatic exit. "Good-night, Sir Geoffrey; I must go to my husband." "Good-night, Lady Torminster." A clasp of the hand--a hot tear--mine--on your wrist. But you sit there. Splendid!

LADY TORMINSTER. I ask you again--is that truly why you are going?

SIR GEOFFREY. Well, yes, that's the fact. I apologise humbly--it's so conventional. Isn't it?

LADY TORMINSTER. I suppose it's difficult for human beings to invent new situations.

SIR GEOFFREY. You've known it, of course, all the time; you've known it ever since Jack brought me to you, the day after you were engaged. And that's nine years ago. It's the usual kind of fatality.

LADY TORMINSTER. These things happen.

SIR GEOFFREY. Yes. Well, I thought I was cured. I've been here five days, and I find I am not. So I go. That's best, isn't it?

LADY TORMINSTER. Yes.

SIR GEOFFREY. It's so infernally stupid. You're a beautiful woman, of course; but there are heaps of beautiful women. You've qualities--well, so have other women, too. I'm only forty-one--and, as you say, why don't I marry? Simply because of you. Because you've an uncomfortable knack of intruding between me and the other lady.

LADY TORMINSTER. That is a great misfortune.

SIR GEOFFREY. It's most annoying. So I shall try China. I shall come back in two years--I shall be forty-three then--I shall come back, sound as a bell; and I shall marry some healthy, pink-cheeked young woman, take a house next to yours, and in the fulness of time your eldest son shall fall in love with my daughter.

LADY TORMINSTER. Why not?

SIR GEOFFREY. I shouldn't have told you, of course; but I'm glad that I have. It clears the air. Now what excuse shall I make?

LADY TORMINSTER. A wire from town?

SIR GEOFFREY. Jack knows all about my affairs; in fact, that's why I take the early train, to avoid his questions.

LADY TORMINSTER. You find it impossible to stay out your time here?

SIR GEOFFREY. Quite. There are moments when I am unpleasantly volcanic.

LADY TORMINSTER. Then I tell you the best thing to do. Don't take your trunks; just go up with a bag. Leave a note that you'll come back on Tuesday. Then write from town and say you're prevented.

SIR GEOFFREY. That's a good idea--yes, that's much better.

LADY TORMINSTER. And, if you find that you really cannot come back--

SIR GEOFFREY. Exactly; you'll forward my goods and chattels. And old Jack will ascribe it all to my wayward mood; he'll think I have found it too dull down here. I'm immensely obliged.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_With a smile._] Remark that I've not offered to be a sister to you.

SIR GEOFFREY. You've been superb. Oh, the good talk we've had! Do you know, I could almost wish old Jack to have heard what I said. I'm so fond of him, that grand old fellow, that I've been on the point of telling him, myself, more than once. For you know he _will_ have me take you about, and it's painful. Besides, I've felt it almost disloyal to--keep this thing from him. You understand, don't you?

LADY TORMINSTER. Yes.

SIR GEOFFREY. He and I almost are one, you see. It's not British to show any feeling, but really I--love him. And the devil comes along, and, of all women in the world, singles out Jack's wife, and fills my heart with her. That's the devil's sense of humour.

LADY TORMINSTER. Perhaps he has read Bernard Shaw. But you must never let Jack know--never.

SIR GEOFFREY. I suppose not. He's so direct, so single-minded, that the shock would be terrible. But I'm not to blame. How could I help it? Oh, all that cackle about being master of one's fate!

LADY TORMINSTER. Two years in China--

SIR GEOFFREY. We'll hope so. Of course, it didn't matter about my telling you, because you knew already.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Nodding_] Yes, I knew. Although--

SIR GEOFFREY. Oh, you've done what you could! I've felt, in a hundred subtle ways, how you almost implored me--not to. Well, there it is. I'll write that note at once.

[_He sits at the table and begins to write._

LADY TORMINSTER. I'm sorry you are so lonely.

SIR GEOFFREY. That's my fault, too--the fault of the ridiculous class to which we belong. I don't do anything.

LADY TORMINSTER. Why not?

SIR GEOFFREY. What would you have me do? Go into the House? Thank you, I've been there. You spend your time on the Terrace or in the smoke-room till a muffin-bell rings; then you gravely walk into the lobby, where an energetic gentleman counts you as Polyphemus counted his sheep. Philanthropy! Well, I've tried that, but it's not in my line. I'm quite a respectable landlord, but a fellow can't live all by himself in a great Elizabethan barrack. Town--the Season? Christian mothers invite you to inspect their daughters' shoulders, with a view to purchase. I'm tired of golf and polo; I'm tired of bridge. So I'll try the good sea and the open plains; sleep in a tent and watch the stars twinkle--the stars that make you afraid.

LADY TORMINSTER. Yes, I'm afraid of the stars.

SIR GEOFFREY. Why?

LADY TORMINSTER. You remember the Persian poet? "I too have said to the stars and the wind, I will. But the wind and the stars have mocked me--they have laughed in my face...."

SIR GEOFFREY. [_A little uncomfortable._] Persian poets, like all poets, have a funny way of pretending that the stars take an interest in us. To me, it's their chief charm that they're so unconcerned. They are lonely, too.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Suddenly, violently._] Don't say that again--don't--I can't bear it!

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Aghast._] Gertrude!!!

LADY TORMINSTER. [_In a whisper._] Yes.

[_He stares haggardly at her; she does not move, but looks out,
through the open window, into the night._

SIR GEOFFREY. [_With a deep breath._] Well, I suppose we had better turn in--

LADY TORMINSTER. When do you go to China?

SIR GEOFFREY. I shall take the first boat.

LADY TORMINSTER. And you will come back--?

SIR GEOFFREY. In a year--or two--or three--

LADY TORMINSTER. We shall hear from you?

SIR GEOFFREY. [_With an effort of lightness._] Certainly. And I will send you chests of tea--best family Souchong--and jars of ginger. Also little boxes that fit into each other. I am afraid that is all I know at present of Chinese manufactures.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Musing._] You will be away so long?

SIR GEOFFREY. You told me to do something. I shall learn Chinese. I believe there are five hundred letters in the alphabet.

LADY TORMINSTER. As many as that!

SIR GEOFFREY. It is possible that I exaggerate. Well, Lady Torminster, I think I'll say good-night.

[_He offers his hand, which she ignores. She smiles, and motions
him back to his seat._

LADY TORMINSTER. The sun is still shining in the antipodes, my dear Geoffrey, and you are still Jack's old friend, talking to Jack's wife. Sit down, and don't be foolish. You'll be away for years; it's possible we may never meet again. It's possible, too, that next time we do meet you may be married.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_With iron control._] Who knows?

LADY TORMINSTER. Exactly--who knows? So there's no reason why we shouldn't look each other squarely in the face for once, and speak out what's in us.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Sorrowfully._] Oh, Lady Torminster, what is there to say?

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Bending forward a little and smiling._] How you resent my having told _you!_

SIR GEOFFREY. [_With a guilty start._] Resent! I!

LADY TORMINSTER. You do, and you know it. In your heart you are saying, "All was going so well--she has spoiled it! If she _does_ love me she shouldn't have said it--Jack's wife!"

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Sturdily._] Well--Jack's wife. Yes!

LADY TORMINSTER. Geoffrey, Jack bores me.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Aghast._] Lady Torminster!

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Clapping her hands in glee._] There! I've said it! Oh, it's such a relief! I never have before, and I don't suppose I ever shall again--for whom can I say it to but you? Listen--I tell you--quite _entre nous_--he bores me shockingly!

SIR GEOFFREY. [_In positive distress._] Lady Torminster! I beg of you!

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Cheerfully._] The best fellow in all the world, and he bores me. A heart of gold, a model husband, a perfect father--and a bore, bore, bore! There! I assure you I feel better.

SIR GEOFFREY. I suppose there are moments when every woman says that of every man.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Fanning herself._] My dear Geoffrey, please send for your soul; it has wandered off somewhere, and I don't like talking to copybooks.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Doggedly._] You are talking to Jack's friend.

LADY TORMINSTER. Jack's friend--and mine--don't forget that! And could I say these things about Jack to any one else, and can't you conceive what a joy it is to say them? Besides, aren't we just now on the rim of the world--aren't we a little more than ourselves--aren't we almost on the other side of things? If we ever meet again, we shall look curiously at each other, and wonder, was it all true? As it is, I am scarcely sure that you are real. Everything is so still, so strange. Jack! He is up there, of course, the dear boy, his big red face pressed on the pillow. Oh, Geoffrey, when Jack brought you to me, and I was engaged--if you only hadn't been so loyal!

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Grimly._] Do you know what you are saying?

LADY TORMINSTER. I am saying the things a woman says once in a lifetime, and feels all her life. Oh, it was all so simple! You loved me--you ... were blind because of Jack ... And I married Jack ... I mustn't complain ... I am one of the hundreds of women who marry--Jacks.

SIR GEOFFREY. A better, finer man never lived.

LADY TORMINSTER. I dare say--in fact, I am sure. But you should see us when we are alone, sitting there night after night, with never a word to say to each other! You tell me you're tired of polo, and golf, and bridge. Well, how about me? And need you be scowling so fiercely, and begrudge me my one little wail, you who are going away?

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Angrily._] Yes, I am going away, and I shall marry a Chinese. I shall marry the first Chinese woman I meet.

LADY TORMINSTER. This is very sudden. Why?

SIR GEOFFREY. Because, at least, not knowing the language, she won't be able to say unkind things about me to my friends.

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Her chin on her hand, looking squarely at him._] Geoffrey, _is_ Jack a bore?

SIR GEOFFREY. He never bores me.

LADY TORMINSTER. That's because he shot your tiger, and you rubbed his nose. Besides, you talk about horses, and so on. And yet I heard him, for a solid hour, telling you about a rubber he lost at bridge through his partner making diamonds trumps when he should have made spades.

SIR GEOFFREY. He's not clever, of course--and you are. But still! Is cleverness everything?

LADY TORMINSTER. Haven't I told you he's the very best fellow in all the world? And do you think I'm posing, pretending that I'm misunderstood, and the rest? You know me better. I am indulging, for once, in the luxury of absolute candour.

SIR GEOFFREY. You loved him--

LADY TORMINSTER. Of course I loved him--and I love him now.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Triumphantly._] You see!

LADY TORMINSTER. If we women had had a hand in the making of the language, how many words there would be to express our feelings towards the men we are fond of! Of course I love Jack. I'm cruel to him sometimes; and there comes a look into his eyes--he has dog's eyes, you know--a faithful Newfoundland--

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Very earnestly._] I don't think women quite realise what friendship means to a man.

LADY TORMINSTER. I am certain that men don't realise what marriage means to a woman! Dear funeral, am I not a good wife--shall I not remain a good wife, till the end of the chapter? Because there isn't only Jack--there are Jack's children.

SIR GEOFFREY. Yes.

LADY TORMINSTER. And isn't it wonderful, when you think of it--here are we two, Jack's friend and his wife, alone on a desert island--and we have confessed our love for each other, and we are able to discuss it as calmly as though it were rheumatism!

SIR GEOFFREY. [_With a groan._] If only I hadn't induced you to stay!

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Smiling._] My dear friend, you didn't!

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Amazed._] I didn't?

LADY TORMINSTER. Why no--of course not. I knew you were going to-morrow.

SIR GEOFFREY. How?

LADY TORMINSTER. Oh, never mind how! I knew. And I suspected you would be sitting up here to-night. So I came down, hoping to find you. I wanted this talk with you. And I extracted your confession--as though it had been a tooth.

SIR GEOFFREY. And why?

LADY TORMINSTER. Why? Because it will be something to think of, in the dull days ahead. Because I knew that you loved me, and wanted to be told. Because your life lies before you, and mine is ended. Because I love you, and insisted that you should know. You leave me now, and I have no illusions. Paolo and Francesca are merely a poet's dream. You will marry--of course you will marry--but this moment, at least, has been mine.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Stretching out yearning hands._] This moment, and every moment, in past and future!

LADY TORMINSTER. Ah, the future! Strange little syllables that hide so much! I can see you, introducing your wife to me, a little shyly--I can see myself, shaking hands with her--and with you.... My boy is seven already--time travels fast.... But it's good to know that you really have loved me, all these years....

SIR GEOFFREY. By day and by night--you, and only you!

LADY TORMINSTER. And I have loved you--ah, yes, I have loved you!... And, having said this to each other, we will not meet again--till you bring me your wife.

SIR GEOFFREY. Ah--then!

LADY TORMINSTER. I have loved you, and I love you, for the fine, upright, loyal creature that you are. I love you for loving Jack; and it is Jack's great quality in my eyes that he has been able to inspire such love. And, my dear friend, let us not be ashamed, we two, but only very proud, and very happy. We shall go our ways, and do our duty; but we shall never forget this talk we have had to-night.

SIR GEOFFREY. [_Gently._] I am beginning to understand....

LADY TORMINSTER. You will be less lonely in future ... and I no longer afraid of the stars.... Brave heart--oh, brave little heart that I for a moment have held in my hands!

SIR GEOFFREY. [_With a passionate movement towards her._] Gertrude!

LADY TORMINSTER. [_Lifting a finger._] No--stay where you are.... Those are the first rays of dawn--I must go.... Good-bye. We have no need to shake hands, you and I.... Ah, Geoffrey--good-bye!

[_She goes swiftly, and closes the door. He bends his head, and
remains standing, motionless, by the table._

CURTAIN

THE BRACELET

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

HARVEY WESTERN HIS HONOUR JUDGE BANKET MARTIN WILLIAM MRS. WESTERN MRS. BANKET MISS FARREN SMITHERS

TIME--_The present_

_Produced at the Liverpool Repertory Theatre on Feb. 26, 1912_

THE BRACELET

_The dining-room in an upper middle-class house near the Park. It
is furnished in the conventional modern style, soberly and
without imagination. The room is on the ground floor, facing the
street, the door is to the right, and leads into the hall. To the
left of this door is a sideboard, glittering with silver. Three
tall windows, at the back heavily curtained; between them hang
two or three family portraits. The table, on which there is the
usual debris of a meal that is over--coffee-cups,
liqueur-glasses, etc.--has been laid for four persons, and their
four chairs are still around it. The fireplace, with its rather
crude and ambitious mantelpiece, is in the centre of the left
wall; and uncomfortable-looking heavy armchairs are on each side
of it. On the mantelpiece are a marble clock and a few bits of
china. In the angle formed at the left side is a small Queen Anne
writing-table, open. To the right of the room is a large sofa.
The floor is heavily carpeted, and there are many rugs scattered
about._

_When the curtain rises, the room is in darkness._ WILLIAM, _the
footman, enters hurriedly and switches on the electric light. He
rushes to the table, looks eagerly around, shifting cups and
glasses, napkins, etc., then goes on his hands and knees and
searches on the carpet. After a moment,_ SMITHERS, _the
lady's-maid, follows him._

SMITHERS. [_Eagerly._] Can't you find it?

WILLIAM. [_Sulkily._] No. Not yet. Give me time.

SMITHERS. [_Feeling along the table-cloth._] Under one of those rugs, perhaps.

WILLIAM. Well, I'm looking. [_Motor-horn sounds sharply, off._] All right, all right!

SMITHERS. [_With a jerk of the head._] Missis is telling him to do it.

WILLIAM. [_On all fours, crawling about._] Very like her voice, too, when she's angry. Drat the thing! Where can it be?

[_He peers into the coal-scuttle._

SMITHERS. No good looking in there, stupid.

WILLIAM. They always say it's the unlikeliest places--

[MARTIN, _the butler, comes in._

MARTIN. Come, come, haven't you found it?

WILLIAM. No, Mr. Martin. It ain't here.

MARTIN. [_Bustling about._] Must be, must be. She says--

WILLIAM. I can't help what she says. It ain't.

MARTIN. [_Looking under the sofa._] Just you hustle, young man, and don't give me any back-answers.

[_Having completed his examination of the sofa, he moves to the
sideboard, and fusses round that._

SMITHERS. [_Methodically shaking out each napkin._] I tell you she's cross.

MARTIN. [_Hard at work, searching._] Doesn't mind disturbing _us,_ in the midst of our supper!

WILLIAM. [_Who, all the time, has been on all fours searching._] We're dirt, that's what we are--dirt.

MARTIN. [_Reprovingly._] William, I've told you before--

WILLIAM. Very sorry, Mr. Martin, but this is the first time I've accepted an engagement at a stockbroker's. [_He has been crawling round the curtains at the back, shaking them; pulling hard at one of them he dislodges the lower part._] Lor! _Now_ I've done it!

SMITHERS. Clumsy!

MARTIN. [_Severely._] That comes of too much talk Never mind the curtain--go on looking.

[WILLIAM _drops on to his hands and knees again;_ HARVEY WESTERN
_comes into the room, perturbed and restless. He is a
well-preserved man of fifty._

HARVEY. I say--not found it?

MARTIN. Not yet, sir.

HARVEY. Nuisance. _Must_ be here, you know.

MARTIN. Is it a very valuable one, sir?

HARVEY. [_Who has gone to the table, and is turning things over._] No, no, not particularly--but that's not the point. [_He looks under the table._

MARTIN. [_Still seeking._] When did madam find that she'd lost it, sir?

HARVEY. Oh, about five minutes after we'd started And we've turned over everything in the car. It's certainly not there. [_He fusses around the table._

MARTIN. Is madam quite sure she was wearing it, sir?

SMITHERS. [_Fretfully._] Yes, yes, of course she was wearing it. I put it on her myself.

MARTIN. Where did madam put her cloak on, sir?

SMITHERS. In here. I brought it in.

MARTIN. You didn't notice whether--

SMITHERS. No. Don't you think if we moved _all_ the rugs--

[_She moves across the room and joins_ WILLIAM, _who is still
grovelling on the floor, and goes on her knees by his side._

HARVEY. It must be here _somewhere._

[_They are all searching furiously_--WILLIAM _by the windows,
peering into the spaces between the wall and the carpets,_ MARTIN
_at the sideboard,_ SMITHERS _gathering the rugs together, all on
their hands and knees, while_ HARVEY, _bent double, is looking
under the table._ MRS. WESTERN _comes in stonily, followed by
the_ JUDGE _and_ MRS. BANKET. MRS. WESTERN _is a handsome woman
of forty-five, with a rather stern, cold face; the_ JUDGE, _a
somewhat corpulent, genial man of fifty-five; and his wife, an
amiable nullity, seven or eight years younger. They are all in
evening-dress, the ladies in opera-cloaks._

MRS. WESTERN. [_Pausing on the threshold._] Well!

HARVEY. [_Rising and dusting himself._] No trace of it.

MRS. WESTERN. [_Looking around._] A nice mess you've made of the room!

MARTIN. You told us to look, Madam.

JUDGE. [_Going to the fire and standing with his back to it._] I'm afraid we'll be shockingly late, Alice.

MRS. WESTERN. [_Firmly._] I don't go without my bracelet.