Chapter II: Part 2

[_Sitting on the settee, fatigued._] Eh? Don’t forget, Claude—Gilliburton. Think of Gilly, corruption of Gilbert. Gilbert, a well-known sculptor—or writer; I forget which. Burton, man I jobbed two horses from—bays—Burton. There you have Gilly and Burton—Gilliburton. My own system of mnemonics. _Memoria technica._

CLAUDE.

It’s not a coin; it’s a ring.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Irritably._] What are you talking about, my boy? You always appear to be masticating some commonplace or other.

[HORTON _appears_.

HORTON.

Beg pardon, Sir Fletcher. Mrs. Cloys wants to wish you good-day, Sir Fletcher. I wasn’t aware where you was, Sir Fletcher.

CLAUDE.

[_Giving the letter to_ HORTON.] Miss Justina.

[HORTON _withdraws_.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Rising._] I’d quite forgotten your aunt. Do, please, look unconcerned, Claude. Let her see that men can display courage and decision at such moments.

[_Humming an air, he unbuttons his coat and throws it back,
sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. Some
newspapers fall from the breast of his coat; he is
hastily picking them up when_ MRS. CLOYS _enters_.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Meekly._] You are going, Harriet?

MRS. CLOYS.

Fletcher, you’ve been out to buy evening papers!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Putting them into his tail pockets._] The malicious utterances of the judge are not in these editions.

MRS. CLOYS.

I thought you never——!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

It is somebody’s duty to overlook the reports of this case. I see that one vile placard announces, “Lively cross-examination of Mrs. Fraser.”

MRS. CLOYS.

Lively!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Producing a newspaper._] Here’s a rag which dares to give illustrations—“Sketches in Court.”

MRS. CLOYS.

Have you contrived to get among them?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Opening the paper._] I happen to _be_ among them. But the fool of an artist has completely missed my salient points——

JUSTINA _runs in with_ THEOPHILA’S _letter, opened, and the
wedding-ring_.

JUSTINA.

Aunt! oh, I say! What do you think? Theo’s gone!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

She’s gone out for a walk. [_To_ MRS. CLOYS.] Here it is. That’s from an old photograph; I don’t wear that sort of collar _now_.

JUSTINA.

[_Advancing between_ MRS. CLOYS _and_ SIR FLETCHER.] What are you talking about? Look here! [_Reading._] “’Tina, hand enclosed to my husband when he comes back for me to-night after dinner.” [_Showing the ring._] It’s her wedding-ring. [_Reading._] “He believes that what that creature charged me with is true, and wants to take me away and hide me. All is up with me. Oh, those pipers at Locheen are playing into my brain again. Good-bye all.—THEO. P.S.—Jack Allingham would not treat a woman so like dirt.”

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Agitatedly._] I can’t hear you. [_Taking the letter from_ JUSTINA.] Let me see it.

JUSTINA.

What shall we do? We must do something. Uncle!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Confused._] We must certainly do something, at once. Er—it _is_ her wedding-ring, I suppose?

JUSTINA.

[_Impatiently._] Oh——! Aunt!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Encountering_ CLAUDE.] Don’t stand there, Claude, looking precisely like an owl!

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Returning the letter to_ JUSTINA.] Jump into a cab; you must take that to Mr. Fraser.

JUSTINA.

[_Hurrying to the door._] All right. [_Pausing._] What shall I do if I don’t find him at home?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

If, if, if! Why throw obstacles?

JUSTINA.

I’m not throwing them. I merely say, what if he’s out, or hasn’t gone back to Lennox Gardens at all?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

This is a moment for action!

CLAUDE.

[_Sitting at the writing-table._] Ha, ha! what a hideous mockery the whole world is! Life——!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Let us have none of your sickening optimism, sir! and in the presence of your aunt and sister.

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Holding out her hand for the letter._] Show it to me again. [JUSTINA _brings the letter to_ MRS. CLOYS, _who begins reading_.] “Hand enclosed to my husband when he comes back for me to-night after dinner.”

JUSTINA.

Ten or eleven o’clock. Where, on earth, will she be by ten or eleven o’clock?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Going to the door._] I’ll tell her mother——!

JUSTINA.

[_Intercepting him._] For goodness’ sake, not yet. Mother’s no use.

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Reading._] “P.S.—Jack Allingham would not treat a woman so like dirt.” Jack Allingham——[_Suddenly_] Justina! [JUSTINA _again comes to her_.] There’s only one very great danger.

JUSTINA.

Why, you don’t think Theo would—take poison—or——!

MRS. CLOYS.

No, I mean a worse danger than that. [_Pointing to a sentence in the letter._] That one.

JUSTINA.

[_Reading._] “Jack Allingham would not treat a woman——” [_Staring at_ MRS. CLOYS.] Oh——!

MRS. CLOYS.

This Mr. Allingham? Exceedingly kind and gentle to women—is that the class of man he belongs to?

JUSTINA.

Y—yes.

MRS. CLOYS.

Suppose—suppose this wretched girl lets her mind dwell too much just now on Mr. Allingham’s—kindness!

JUSTINA.

Aunt!

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Again returning the letter to_ JUSTINA—_with decision_.] Where does he live? Where is he likely to be found?

JUSTINA.

It’s in the Red Book. [_Pointing to the writing-table._] Claude——!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Bring me the Red Book! [CLAUDE _finds the Red Book; he and_ SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD _search for the address_.] Allingham—A—A—A—[_finding the letter_] A!

CLAUDE.

You’re looking at “Ashley Gardens”——

[MRS. CLOYS _and_ JUSTINA _join_ SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD _and_
CLAUDE _impatiently_.

JUSTINA.

I know it’s there. He went into lodgings when he parted from her. And he has a little cottage in Surrey——

CLAUDE.

[_Finding the name._] “Allingham——!”

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Taking the book from him._] “Allingham, John Crawshaw, Esq., 11 Bentham Street, W., and Turf and Garrick Clubs.—The Lichens, Epsom, Surrey.”

[MRS. CLOYS _takes the book from_ SIR FLETCHER. _She tears
out the page and throws the book upon the settee._

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Folding the extracted page, and slipping it into her glove._] Fletcher, Claude, you had better come with me. I may want you both. Claude, whistle a four-wheeled cab. You hear me!

[CLAUDE _goes out_.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

But, Harriet, do you seriously, soberly, entertain the notion?

MRS. CLOYS.

Get your hat! [SIR FLETCHER _goes out_. MRS. CLOYS _turns to_ JUSTINA.] Telegraph to the Bishop of St. Olpherts, The Palace, St. Olpherts: “Detained here to-night. Return, D.V., forenoon to-morrow. Get to bed early. Affectionate messages.—H.”

[_The sound of a cab-whistle, twice or thrice repeated, is
heard._

JUSTINA.

“Detained here to-night. Return forenoon to-morrow——”

MRS. CLOYS.

“D.V.”

JUSTINA.

“D.V. Go to bed early——”

MRS. CLOYS.

Say, “Be in bed by eleven.”

JUSTINA.

Yes. “Love——”

MRS. CLOYS.

No, no—“Affectionate messages.”

JUSTINA.

“Affectionate messages.—H.”

MRS. CLOYS.

Thank you.

JUSTINA.

Aunt! When I see Alec Fraser, am I to say anything—about what you are doing?

MRS. CLOYS.

For mercy’s sake, don’t put any idea into his head that isn’t there already! Not a word to a soul——

[CLAUDE _appears in the doorway, hat in hand_.

CLAUDE.

Cab, aunt.

MRS. CLOYS.

I’m coming. [CLAUDE _withdraws_.] Not a word, except that we’ve gone out, blindly, to try and find her.

JUSTINA.

Wait! you must tell me; do you suspect that Theophila is—guilty?

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Looking at her steadily._] Woman, what do _you_ suspect?

JUSTINA.

[_Falteringly._] Then I can’t understand you.

MRS. CLOYS.

Why not, pray?

JUSTINA.

I’ve always taken you for one of those who pick up their skirts and stalk away as far as possible from this kind of thing.

MRS. CLOYS.

Ah, you don’t—[_moved_]—oh, my dear!

JUSTINA.

What?

MRS. CLOYS.

You don’t know what was really at the bottom of all my quarrels with your mother. I’ve no children. I’d have given the world if Theo had been mine.

JUSTINA.

[_A little bitterly._] Theo! Theo!

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Taking her by the shoulder, almost shaking her._] You, too! [_Kissing her._] Bless you, you’d have been better than nothing!

[_She goes out._ JUSTINA _stands, her lips parted, staring into
space_.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

THE SECOND ACT

_The Scene represents a room in_ MR. ALLINGHAM’S _cottage at Epsom. On
the left-hand side is a fireplace, with a fire burning; above this
is a door giving on to the hall; while below it is a similar door,
over which hangs a_ portière, _drawn aside, admitting to the
dining-room. Facing us is a large open French window; and beyond is
a view of a pretty garden with trees, laurels, etc. On the right,
also facing us, but nearer, are a few balustered steps leading to an
arched opening which is about three feet from the ground. The
opening, across which runs a rod supporting a_ portière, _admits to
a small room, which, although containing no books that are visible,
is called the library. All the furniture and accessories are
characteristic of a well-to-do bachelor’s residence. It is
twilight._

DENZIL SHAFTO _and_ PETER ELPHICK, _two well-groomed, smart-looking men
of about five-and-thirty, dressed for dinner, are shown in by_
QUAIFE, _a manservant_. QUAIFE _is carrying a banjo in a case_.

SHAFTO.

What time did Mr. Allingham get down?

QUAIFE.

[_Placing the banjo on the table._] Half an hour ago, sir; I’m now dressing him. [_To_ ELPHICK.] Glad you brought the banjo, Mr. Elphick.

ELPHICK.

[_A heavy-looking man with staring eyes, taking the banjo from its case with great care._] Nearly made me lose the train, Quaife, puzzlin’ whether to bring it or not.

QUAIFE.

[_Laying the case aside._] Do Mr. Allingham a load of good, sir—a little melody after dinner.

SHAFTO.

Mr. Allingham rather fatigued?

QUAIFE.

Never saw him so played out, sir. [_Closing the windows._] Oh, Mr. Allingham’s compliments, Mr. Shafto, and he says he forgot to inquire whether you and Mr. Elphick would sleep at The Lichens to-night.

SHAFTO.

Not to-night, thanks. I’ve arranged to take Mr. Elphick on to my father’s place at Leatherhead.

ELPHICK.

We shan’t keep you up here till the last train, Quaife, or anything like. Dessay Mr. Allingham’ll be glad to turn in early.

QUAIFE.

Not much good _him_ turning in, Mr. Elphick.

SHAFTO.

Queer nights lately, of sorts?

QUAIFE.

Shockin’, Mr. Shafto.

[QUAIFE _goes out_.

SHAFTO.

[_Looking round._] Here we are again, Peter.

ELPHICK.

’Pears so.

SHAFTO.

[_Wandering about._] This is my first visit to this box since Jack came back here after his split with his wife.

ELPHICK.

And mine; thought he’d sold it.

SHAFTO.

He merely let it, when he married—let it to a stockbroker. Peter, Jack must have had some sort of a premonition——

ELPHICK.

Some sort of what?

SHAFTO.

Premonition——

ELPHICK.

Stoopid ass of a word.

SHAFTO.

Some sort of a premonition of his speedy return to single life. [_Looking out of the window._] Same spotless white gate, I rejoice to see; same elms; same laurels—[_Ascending the steps._] The library——! [_Entering the room._] My heart sinks within me. [_From within._] No, by Jove! Peter! Peter!

[ELPHICK _goes and looks into the room through the
balustrade_.

ELPHICK.

What’s wrong?

SHAFTO.

[_From within._] Nothing. I breathe again. All the essential features of Jack’s library are undisturbed. [_Coming down the steps._] A luxurious sofa, Ruff’s Turf Guide, and the Stud Book.

ELPHICK.

[_Drearily._] Blessed if there’s anything to make fun of in that.

SHAFTO.

[_At a table, examining bottles._] Delightful! Same soda water, same——

ELPHICK.

[_Sitting, nursing his banjo_.] No, hang it!

SHAFTO.

[_Pouring out a glass of Vermouth._] Vermouth. Peter, I was totting up things this morning, gently and quietly, in my bath.

ELPHICK.

[_Blowing a speck of dust from his banjo._] Not really?

SHAFTO.

[_Seriously._] Yes. You weren’t at Jack’s weddin’?

ELPHICK.

No, I was up at Mahabaleshwar that spring with Sandington. You stood best man, didn’t you?

SHAFTO.

I did. And look here—Jack Allingham is the seventh I’ve been best man to in nine years.

ELPHICK.

[_Abstractedly._] Good figgers.

SHAFTO.

[_Frowning._] And they’ve all managed to get into the Divorce Court since, one way or another. [_After a pause._] How’s that?

ELPHICK.

Good figgers.

JOHN ALLINGHAM _enters, a simple, boyish man, of about thirty, looking
pale and worn. He is dressed for dinner._

JOHN.

[_Shaking hands with_ SHAFTO.] Halloa, Denzil! [_To_ ELPHICK, _shaking hands with him_.] Well, Peter! It’s awfully good of you fellows proposing to see me through this evening.

ELPHICK.

Not in the least.

SHAFTO.

Speak for yourself, Peter.

JOHN.

I couldn’t have endured my own company to-night, I can tell you. Sorry you can’t sleep here, though.

SHAFTO.

My governor hasn’t seen Peter since he’s been home this leave. It’s an old promise——

JOHN.

I understand. [_Taking the banjo from_ ELPHICK.] And you’ve actually brought the banjo.

ELPHICK.

Well, when a man’s a bit low, sometimes a little music——

JOHN.

Thanks. [_To both of them._] Warm, yesterday and to-day, in that Law Court, wasn’t it?

ELPHICK.

Agra in June.

JOHN.

Warm in every sense of the word, eh?

SHAFTO.

Hell.

JOHN.

[_With his hand to his brow._] Gurrrh!

SHAFTO.

[_Sharply._] Now, then?

ELPHICK.

It’s done with now.

JOHN.

[_Recovering himself._] True; that cursed nightmare of an approaching trial isn’t waiting for me upstairs, in that bedroom of mine, any longer. And to-morrow morning I shall wake with a start to find—what’ll the feeling be like!—that I’ve no lawyers to interview. Besides, I haven’t much to complain of. You two fellows have kept close at my elbow throughout the whole business—hardly ever left me. Well, that’s friendship—[_shaking hands abruptly, first with_ ELPHICK, _then with_ SHAFTO]—God bless yer!

[_He walks away and sits on the settee, looking into the
fire._ ELPHICK _and_ SHAFTO _stand together, eyeing him
uneasily_.

SHAFTO.

[_In a whisper, to_ ELPHICK.] Peter, our bags are here. What d’ye say to not leaving him to-night, after all?

ELPHICK.

[_In a whisper._] Yes, I don’t suppose your guv’nor wants to see me so desperate bad as all that comes to.

SHAFTO.

No, I don’t suppose he does—I mean, we can go over in the morning.

JOHN.

[_Looking up._] Eh?

SHAFTO.

Nothing.

JOHN.

[_Passing his fingers over the strings of the banjo._] You don’t remember, Denzil—nor you, Peter, I suppose; _she_ used to thrum on this thing—well, hardly this thing—the guitar—much the same. Oh, yes, she used to play it very nicely.

SHAFTO.

[_Puzzled._] Who? Mrs. Fraser?

JOHN.

Mrs. Fraser! No! [_Handling the banjo roughly._] My wife.

ELPHICK.

[_Hurrying across to John, taking the banjo from him._] Excuse me, old feller.

JOHN.

[_Starting up._] I was close to her to-day; we stared each other right in the eyes. We didn’t mean to—we simply did it. We met in the corridor during lunch-time; I was getting out of the way of old Portwood; I turned sharply—and there we were, my wife and I, face to face. It might have been for ten seconds—it was like an hour.

ELPHICK.

Did she look angry?

JOHN.

No. Downright ill and distressed. [_To both of them._] You’ve seen her in Court?

SHAFTO.

Yes.

ELPHICK.

Yes.

JOHN.

Yesterday?

SHAFTO.

We said “How d’ye do” to her yesterday.

ELPHICK.

We told you.

JOHN.

Oh, yes, To-day?

SHAFTO.

Not to speak to.

ELPHICK.

She nodded to us this morning from the—what do they call it?—not the sink——

SHAFTO.

Well.

ELPHICK.

Well of the Court.

JOHN.

Denzil.

SHAFTO.

’Ullo?

JOHN.

She was very pretty when I married her, wasn’t she?

SHAFTO.

Undoubtedly.

[JOHN _sits, leaning his head upon his hands_. SHAFTO _walks
away, quietly, to the window_. ELPHICK _sits on the
settee, and, turning his face to the fire, strikes up a
tune on his banjo_.

JOHN.

That’s right! tune up, Peter! If I had a savage breast this evening you might soothe it with your Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink, as Kipling says. But I haven’t—isn’t that odd? Boys, do you know, all the bitterness I’ve been feeling towards her seems to have died out of me; and she’s been dragging me pretty thoroughly through the mud lately. Isn’t that odd?

SHAFTO.

[_Leaving the window, and coming to the back of settee._] Well, she’s lost the day, you see.

ELPHICK.

[_Ceasing playing._] She’s beaten; got nothin’ for her pains.

JOHN.

I suppose that’s it. Ah, but her face! I hadn’t seen it for months. And the silence between us was so strange.

SHAFTO.

Yes, there wasn’t much of _that_, old chap, between you two when you were together.

JOHN.

No; _didn’t_ we quarrel! And yet, this morning, during our little deadly-silent encounter, she seemed to say more to me than she’d ever said in her life before. By Jove, she _has_ suffered—[_starting up_]—oh, damn it!

[_He paces to and fro_; ELPHICK _hurriedly resumes his
playing_.

SHAFTO.

[_Seating himself on the back of the settee, speaking with a drawl._] Ah, I shouldn’t worry myself too much, if I were you, about that. Other people have suffered.

JOHN.

[_Pausing in his walk._] Mrs. Fraser——?

SHAFTO.

[_Indifferently._] Oh, she amongst ’em.

JOHN.

[_In a low voice._] Poor little Theo Fraser! I’m forgetting her.

SHAFTO.

Forget all round, my dear Jack—that’s the ticket; for the future, cultivate a single-minded devotion to yourself——

JOHN.

And the horses! You’re right, Denzil. By the bye, I had a line from O’Halligan yesterday—where is it? [_Going to a writing-table and rummaging among the litter there._] He fancies Kildaowen very strongly. The mare’s feeding well; that’s always been their difficulty, you know——

SHAFTO.

[_Quietly, looking towards the window._] Jack.

JOHN.

Eh?

SHAFTO.

Who’s that woman out there?

[ELPHICK _ceases playing_.

JOHN.

Where?

SHAFTO.

In your garden.

[JOHN _looks towards the window_; ELPHICK _rises and makes
one of the group_.

JOHN.

[_After a pause._] I don’t see anybody.

SHAFTO.

She’s behind the laurels now.

JOHN.

[_About to go to the window._] One of the maids——

SHAFTO.

[_Laying his hand on_ JOHN’S _arm_.] Wait a bit. [_Goes cautiously to the window, peeps out, and comes away._] I say, old chap.

JOHN.

What’s the matter?

SHAFTO.

I thought so. It’s your wife. [_There is a moment’s pause, then an excited movement from_ JOHN.] Stop! [_A pause._] What are you going to do?

JOHN.

[_Dazed._] Do!... do!...

SHAFTO.

Not anything stoopid, Jack?

JOHN.

[_Excitedly._] Clear out for a minute, you two fellows.

[SHAFTO _goes up the steps and into the library, drawing
the_ portière _across the door as he disappears_.

JOHN.

Get out, Peter!

ELPHICK.

[_Going up the steps and pausing at the door._] Jack.

JOHN.

What is it?

ELPHICK.

[_With an empty expression of face and voice._] Don’t do anything weak.

JOHN.

Get out! [ELPHICK _disappears_. JOHN _hurriedly glances round the room and arranges a displaced chair. Then he discovers that_ ELPHICK _has left the banjo upon the settee, and he seizes it impatiently_.] Oh—— [_Going to the door of the library and drawing aside the_ portière.] Here! Peter! catch! [_He throws the banjo into the room, and readjusts the_ portière. _The instrument is heard to fall with a crash to the floor. He looks into the library, hastily._] I beg your pardon, old fellow. [_He descends the steps and goes to the window and opens it, speaking in a low voice._] Is any one there? [_A pause._] Someone’s there.

OLIVE.

[_From a little distance._] Yes.

JOHN.

Who is it?

OLIVE.

Olive.

JOHN.

[_Sternly._] Well?

OLIVE.

Are you by yourself?

JOHN.

Yes. [_After a pause._] Come in.

_He draws back to allow her to pass him. After a short delay she enters,
and, without looking at him, comes right into the room. He closes
the window, but remains at that end of the room._ OLIVE ALLINGHAM
_is a fashionably and richly dressed woman of a little over thirty
years of age—pale, worn red-eyed, but still handsome. In manner she
is alternately beseeching and gentle, angry and imperious. The
twilight now gradually deepens into dusk._

OLIVE.

You have some men here?

JOHN.

Shafto and Peter Elphick. I asked them to clear out for a moment.

OLIVE.

What will they think?

JOHN.

[_With a shrug of the shoulder._] They can scarcely know what to think.

OLIVE.

[_Walking to the mantelpiece._] What do you think yourself, of my humbling myself in this fashion? [_Turning to him._] What do you——? [_As she has crossed to the left of the room, he, still at a distance, has moved over to the right. Speaking with a catch in her breath._] Oh, don’t do that! I’m not poisonous, John. [_He approaches stiffly and silently. She advances towards him plaintively._] John, I am quite worn out—[_putting her hand to her bosom_]—burnt out here. This desperate lawsuit has been my last bolt. I’m finished—spent. I know my regrets won’t avail us much at this time of day; the future has a most melancholy look-out for both of us; but I want to tell you I am truly conscious, at last, of the evil my jealousy has wrought. [_Sitting weakly._] Yes, John, I—I am quite reasonable at last.

[QUAIFE _enters_.

QUAIFE.

Dinner is s——

[_He breaks off, staring at_ OLIVE.

OLIVE.

Good evening, Quaife.

QUAIFE.

[_Aghast._] Good evening, ma’am.

JOHN.

[_To_ QUAIFE.] Tell Mrs. Quaife to delay dinner for—for——

OLIVE.

[_Rising and turning away—in an altered tone._] Oh, five minutes—ten at the outside.

JOHN.

For a quarter of an hour. [_Sharply._] The lamps.

[QUAIFE _withdraws, as if in a dream_.

OLIVE.

[_Bitterly._] I much regret keeping you and your friends from your dinner. It’s an exceptionably elaborate entertainment to-night, I suppose?

JOHN.

No, no; it’s of no consequence——

OLIVE.

Dinner! dinner! if every woman in the world was weeping her heart out, men would be found dining—feeding—feasting! What was I saying when Quaife blundered in? Where was I?

JOHN.

[_Looking at her steadily._] Quite reasonable at last.

OLIVE.

[_After a brief pause, speaking gently again._] Oh, John——! [_Advancing a few steps._] It was inconsiderate of me to break out in that way. But I don’t mean half the brutal things I say; I never did.

JOHN.

You couldn’t have done so.

OLIVE.

Any jealous woman will tell you what a slave she is to her paroxysms. Oh, they are dreadful, while they last! [_Agitatedly._] The flame behind one’s eyes, the buzzing in the ears, the dry tongue, the thumping of the heart——! [_Calming herself, breathlessly._] Thank God, I’m cured!

JOHN.

You’ve said something like this to me on other occasions.

OLIVE.

Never, under such extraordinary circumstances. [_Going to him._] The fact that I can drag myself to you, in this spirit, after my defeat, for the sake of a few words with you, must show you what an altered woman I am. [_Sitting._] John, I felt I couldn’t go back to that lonely flat of mine to-night without first proving to you how thorough my remorse is. [_Looking round._] That dismal flat! [_In an altered tone._] You appear to be extremely comfortable here.

JOHN.

Oh, it’s a little place—very cramped——

OLIVE.

This is where you gave me and papa tea once, when we were engaged to be married.

JOHN.

I remember.

OLIVE.

And now——[_Excitedly._] Ha, I suppose I’m a fool not to indulge myself just as luxuriously, just as——! [_She meets his eye and breaks off shamefacedly. Faltering, with her hand to her brow._] Where was I—again?

JOHN.

You were engaged in demonstrating how thorough your remorse is.

OLIVE.

Oh, yes. [_Weakly._] After the case ended this afternoon I walked about the streets quite light-headed, till I summoned up resolution to try to find you. [_With an effort._] John, that—that lady——

JOHN.

What lady?

OLIVE.

[_Agitatedly._] Mrs. Fraser of Locheen.

JOHN.

Yes?

OLIVE.

[_Repressing her agitation._] Of course, the judge fully justified my action by the very severe way he spoke of her.

JOHN.

His remarks were infamous! I could have taken him by the throat and thrown him into the body of the Court. No right-thinking person would have blamed me for doing so.

OLIVE.

However, he gave her the benefit of the doubt——

JOHN.

[_Scornfully._] The benefit of the doubt!

OLIVE.

And paid me the compliment of believing that I would, as one woman to another, prefer such a course being adopted.

JOHN.

[_Pacing to and fro._] Poor, wretched little Mrs. Fraser!

OLIVE.

Wait! Even _I_ see the injustice of it.

JOHN.

[_Eagerly._] You do?

OLIVE.

Haven’t I told you I am reasonable at last? For whether she be innocent or guilty is no longer the question.

JOHN.

I’m glad that is no longer the question!

OLIVE.

The point is, this woman is entitled to the benefit of the doubt. [_Rising and walking to and fro._] But how can she ever receive the benefit of the doubt if those words, which imply the doubt, are always to hang over her?

JOHN.

That’s it!

OLIVE.

And they will hang over her—for ever.

JOHN.

For ever.

OLIVE.

For ever. [_Turning to him._] Unless I cancel them—remove them.

JOHN.

You!

OLIVE.

I could, John—by my attitude towards her in public—in society.

JOHN.

[_Staring at her._] Why, certainly you could.

OLIVE.

[_Leaning over a chair, and speaking almost into his ear._] Would you like me to?

JOHN.

Like you to!

OLIVE.

I want to atone to you, if I can, in some measure, for the suffering I’ve caused you. Would you like me to right Mrs. Fraser?

JOHN.

Oh, Olive!——

OLIVE.

John!

JOHN.

[_With emotion._] If you were always so generous—so good!

OLIVE.

[_Drawing back, suddenly._] Ah!

JOHN.

[_After a brief pause._] I’ve offended you by saying that.

OLIVE.

[_In a hard voice._] You are evidently very keen concerning her.

JOHN.

[_Blankly._] Keen!

OLIVE.

She’s a vulgar, common little thing, I’m afraid.

JOHN.

That’s not true.

OLIVE.

Her people are common—excessively bad tone.

JOHN.

Her people are now her husband’s people. She is married to a gentleman.

OLIVE.

Mr. Fraser has been away from her as much as possible—[_her eyes flashing_]—_you_ know that better than anybody.

JOHN.

[_Indignantly._] Why do you come here—after all our struggles and failures, after the injury you’ve endeavoured to do me! Why do you torture me, and insult me, by trying to repeat the old heart-breaking scenes?

[_He throws himself into a chair, distractedly. There is a
pause; then she slowly goes to a chair, drags it towards
him, and sits beside him._

OLIVE.

[_Panting._] Torture _you_? Oh! oh, I suffer too! [_Rocking herself to and fro._] Well, there can be no punishment for jealous women in another world; we are damned in this.

JOHN.

[_In a muffled voice, with his head on his hands._] And the fire has burnt out in you, you tell me!

OLIVE.

I suppose the cinders still retain a little heat, dear.

JOHN.

[_Brokenly._] Dear!... dear!...

OLIVE.

Yes. I know my actions are contradictory, but—[_her hand stealing towards his_]—in my heart, John—always—in my heart—— [_The banjo suddenly strikes up an air._ JOHN _and_ OLIVE _raise their heads and stare at each other; then_ OLIVE _slowly backs her chair to its original position. Speaking in a whisper._] What’s that?

JOHN.

Peter.

OLIVE.

Peter——!

JOHN.

He brought his banjo with him.

OLIVE.

[_Aghast._] Why——!... Oh!

JOHN.

[_Blankly._] Eh?

OLIVE.

If _we_ hear the banjo with such distinctness——

[_They rise. He hurriedly ascends the steps and disappears
through the_ portière. _The music of the banjo stops
abruptly, and the sound of voices comes from the
library._ QUAIFE _enters, carrying a lamp which he
deposits on the table; then, always watching_ OLIVE, _he
lights the standard-lamp and draws the window-curtains_.

SHAFTO.

My dear fellow——!

ELPHICK.

My dear Jack——!

JOHN.

Sssh!

SHAFTO.

You might have remembered——

JOHN.

Sssh! sssh! [_The voices in the library are hushed._

OLIVE.

[_Commanding herself, and crossing to the fireplace._] And how are you, Quaife?

QUAIFE.

Very well indeed, I thank you, ma’am.

OLIVE.

And your wife?

QUAIFE.

Exceedingly healthy, ma’am, for a stout person.

OLIVE.

I hope you look after Mr. Allingham thoroughly, all of you.

QUAIFE.

[_Dropping his voice, impressively._] We regard him as a trust, ma’am, if I may make use of the expression.

OLIVE.

[_Sharply._] A what?

QUAIFE.

A solemn trust, ma’am.

OLIVE.

[_Turning away._] Stuff and nonsense!

QUAIFE.

I beg pardon, ma’am, if I have gone too far.

[JOHN _returns_.

JOHN.

[_Coming down the steps, a little flustered._] Quaife.

QUAIFE.

Sir?

JOHN.

Er—Mr. Shafto and Mr. Elphick don’t dine.

QUAIFE.

Not dine, sir!

JOHN.

They have to go on to Leatherhead at once. Is the boy ready to carry their bags to the station?

QUAIFE.

The boy can be worried till he’s ready, sir.

JOHN.

All right.

[QUAIFE _withdraws_. JOHN _and_ OLIVE _now speak in
whispers_.

OLIVE.

I don’t wish this.

JOHN.

They offered to go; they’d rather go.

OLIVE.

Have they heard much?

JOHN.

Er—next to nothing; a syllable or two when we were sitting there. That’s why Peter struck up a tune. [_Laughing a little wildly._] Ha, ha, ha!

OLIVE.

[_In the same way._] Ha, ha, ha! [_Glancing towards the door._] Shall I slip into the dining-room while they pass out?

JOHN.

Please don’t. They’re old friends of both of us; they understand perfectly——

OLIVE.

[_Returning to the fireplace._] I’ll face it out, if you wish it.

JOHN.

[_Calling._] Denzil—Peter——

[SHAFTO _and_ ELPHICK _sedately emerge from the library, and
descend the steps_. SHAFTO _bows to_ OLIVE.

OLIVE.

[_Advancing, shaking hands with him across the table, graciously._] Oh, Mr. Shafto, I am so sorry to upset everybody in this way——

SHAFTO.

Not at all. I—ah—we—er—my father—at Leatherhead——

[ELPHICK, _encumbered with his banjo and the banjo-case,
joins_ SHAFTO. JOHN _goes to the door_.

OLIVE.

[_Shaking hands with_ ELPHICK _across the table_.] Why should you lose your dinner? I have really finished all my—my business with my—with—Mr. Allingham.

ELPHICK.

[_With an effort, earnestly._] No, you haven’t, Mrs. Allingham. Take it up, when we’ve gone, where you broke off. [_Wringing her hand._] Do everything you’ve offered to do; try and square things——

[JOHN _comes to him and draws him away towards the door_.

JOHN.

[_To_ OLIVE.] Excuse me; one moment——

[_The three men go out, leaving_ OLIVE _staring before her_.
JOHN, SHAFTO, _and_ ELPHICK _are heard talking together
in the hall_.

JOHN.

[_Outside._] My dear Denzil! my dear Peter——!

SHAFTO.

[_Outside._] My good fellow, we are not, at present, in the least hungry.

[OLIVE _runs up the steps and disappears in the library_.

JOHN.

[_Outside._] No conveyance of any kind to get you to the station——!

ELPHICK.

[_Outside._] Much prefer walking, I assure you.

SHAFTO.

[_Outside._] Good-bye.

ELPHICK.

[_Outside._] Enjoyed seeing the cottage again enormously.

[_The sound of the voices dies away_; _a clock in the
library strikes nine_; JOHN _returns_.

JOHN.

[_Looking round._] Olive—Olive——

[_She reappears._

OLIVE.

You didn’t tell me the truth. You can hear the slightest sound in there.

JOHN.

I beg your pardon. Those men went clean out of my head. I was an ass.

OLIVE.

[_Descending the steps._] And that idiot offers me his advice! Take it up where you broke off!

JOHN.

At least, it’s good advice.

OLIVE.

Where _did_ we break off?

JOHN.

At Mrs. Fraser——

OLIVE.

[_Walking up the stage, beating her hands together._] Mrs. Fraser! the eternal Mrs. Fraser! Oh!... oh!... [_Throwing herself into the chair facing the window._] I shall be quite calm in a moment. [_Faintly._] Those men upset me.

JOHN.

[_Going to her, solicitously._] To-day has been as exhausting for you as for the rest of us. Of course, there’s a dinner prepared here——

OLIVE.

[_Quickly, half-frightened._] Oh, no, dear; I couldn’t sit down to table with you; I’m not entitled to do that. Fetch me a glass of wine and a biscuit—[_appealingly_]—don’t let a servant bring it, John. [_He goes to the dining-room door, she rises, and calls him._] John!—[_her head drooping_]—do you think we shall ever sit at the same table again, you and I?

JOHN.

[_After a pause, sitting, looking away from her._] Oh, Olive, Olive! remember——!

OLIVE.

[_Fidgeting with the cigarette-box._] Not for many years, of course—three or four years, at least. Time makes the oddest things possible.

JOHN.

[_Thoughtfully._] I suppose so.

OLIVE.

It would appear supremely ridiculous to the world, you’re afraid?

JOHN.

Pish! the world don’t matter a damn.

OLIVE.

[_Softly._] Ah, that’s delicious!

JOHN.

What is——?

OLIVE.

I haven’t heard a man swear since I turned you out of Pont Street. [_Dreamily, almost inaudibly, as she plays with a cigarette._] Damn! [_He looks round at her; she is lost in thought; suddenly she crushes the cigarette, and flings it from her fiercely._] Ah! Theo Fraser smokes!

JOHN.

[_Starting up in a rage._] Hah! hah!

[_He goes out of the room._

OLIVE.

[_Following him a few steps, penitently._] Oh, John!—— [_There is a knock at the upper door._] Yes?

[QUAIFE _enters, with some cards on a salver_.]

QUAIFE.

[_Looking round._] I beg pardon, ma’am; a lady and two gentlemen would like to see Mr. Allingham, if it’s not disturbing him.

[_She goes to the table and examines the cards._

OLIVE.

[_In a hard voice._] Are these people friends of Mr. Allingham’s? Have they ever called on him before?

QUAIFE.

No, ma’am. [_Hesitatingly._] I fancy the eldest of the two gentlemen came once, if not twice, to Pont Street in—in—in your time, ma’am.

OLIVE.

I’ll give those to Mr. Allingham. [_He lays the cards out on the table._] You’ll be rung for. [_He goes towards the door._] You haven’t mentioned that I am here?

QUAIFE.

Oh, no, ma’am. I simply said Mr. Allingham was engaged for the moment.

OLIVE.

Quite right; thank you.

[_He withdraws. She eagerly scrutinises the cards,
re-arranges them upon the table, then goes to the
fireplace and stands waiting impatiently._ JOHN
_re-enters, carrying a decanter of champagne and some
biscuits in a silver dish, which he places on a
side-table_.

JOHN.

This is the Moet we had just begun to drink when we—— You rather liked it, I fancy.

OLIVE.

Some people have called; they’re waiting to see you.

JOHN.

[_Turning._] People—so late?

OLIVE.

[_Pointing to the table._] These are their cards.

JOHN.

[_Picking up the cards._] “Mrs. Cloys,” “Mr. Claude Aylmer Emptage,” “Sir Fletcher Portwood.” Mrs. Cloys—that’s an aunt.

OLIVE.

[_Stonily._] An aunt——?

JOHN.

An aunt of Mrs. Fraser’s. What can they want with me?

OLIVE.

Isn’t it curious!

JOHN.

I assure you I haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose nothing has happened to her!

OLIVE.

To Mrs. Fraser?

JOHN.

Yes.

OLIVE.

Oh, no, nothing ever happens to these women with fair hair and heavy eyelids.

JOHN.

[_Biting his lip._] Really?

OLIVE.

You will see them, I suppose?

JOHN.

I can’t refuse to see them.

OLIVE.

May I—may I wait till they have gone?

JOHN.

Oh, Olive——! [_She walks to the dining-room, he following her._] I won’t let them detain me very long.

OLIVE.

[_Rapidly, agitatedly, facing him, her hand on the door-handle._] This is a most extraordinary visitation. These three people—her relatives—to come down on you like this, at such an hour!

JOHN.

I am sure you will find that their visit admits of a perfectly reasonable explanation.

OLIVE.

I’ve no doubt!

JOHN.

You shall have the fullest account of what passes between us.

OLIVE.

How shall I know it is a full account?

JOHN.

[_Leaving her._] Oh——!

OLIVE.

[_Advancing quickly._] No, I don’t mean that! [_Her hand to her heart._] Oh, do make some allowance for me, for my state of mind!

JOHN.

[_Turning abruptly._] Have you the courage to meet these people with me? If so, you can begin to-night to carry out your promise to serve Mrs. Fraser; you can tell her relatives now what your intentions are towards her.

OLIVE.

[_Falteringly._] Certainly, I have the courage to meet them. [_Advancing, tremblingly, breathlessly._] But do you know where you are drifting, John?

JOHN.

Where I am drifting——?

OLIVE.

Yes. I mean—what position are you willing to give me before these people?

JOHN.

Position——?

OLIVE.

I couldn’t submit to be treated as a culprit; and there is only one other possible position for me.

JOHN.

What is that?

OLIVE.

The—the—the wife.

JOHN.

[_Slowly._] The wife.

OLIVE.

[_Tearfully._] Oh——! oh, I would try!

[_He leaves her, and walks about agitatedly. She sits on the
settee, weeping._

JOHN.

[_Rather wildly._] Well, I—I only want to cleanse the slate. My cursed stupidity has smeared poor little Mrs. Fraser’s character; I want to put _that_ right. It cuts me to the heart to see how wretched _you_ are, Olive; I want to put _that_ right. Oh, if we fail again——!

OLIVE.

We c—c—can’t fail again—it’s impossible!

JOHN.

[_Desperately, throwing himself into the chair._] All right! Heaven have mercy upon us—we’re reconciled! Ring the bell. [_She rises and touches the bell-press, and with the aid of the mirror over the mantelpiece attempts to adjust her hair and straighten her bonnet, he watching her._] By Jove, you have pluck!

OLIVE.

To face these people?

JOHN.

[_With a short laugh._] I call it true courage.

OLIVE.

It’s nothing; I am so happy. Oh, John, you shall never regret this.

[QUAIFE _enters_.

JOHN.

[_Rising._] Show Mrs. Cloys and the two gentlemen in here.

QUAIFE.

Yes, sir.

JOHN.

Tell them that Mr. and _Mrs._ Allingham are now disengaged.

QUAIFE.

Yes, sir. [_He withdraws._

OLIVE.

[_Turning sharply._] _Mrs._ Allingham——?

JOHN.

It wouldn’t be quite fair to spring you upon them suddenly——

OLIVE.

You’ve given them warning; they may hurry away, to avoid me!

JOHN.

No, no——

OLIVE.

If they did do such a thing——! [_Agitatedly._] Gurrrh! I can’t get my bonnet to sit straight. May I take it off, and receive them as if I were—at home?

JOHN.

If you would rather do so——

OLIVE.

[_Going to the dining-room door._] Is there a mirror in here?

JOHN.

Yes. [_She goes out hurriedly._] Let me hold the lamp for you——

[_He follows her. After a brief pause_, QUAIFE _re-enters,
showing in_ MRS. CLOYS, SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD, _and_
CLAUDE. QUAIFE _withdraws_.

MRS. CLOYS.

[_After looking round the room._] The wife.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

The wife!

MRS. CLOYS.

Who could have anticipated anything so extraordinary.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Walking about uneasily._] Harriet, your theories and suspicions have involved us in an entanglement of—ah—an unexpected kind.

CLAUDE.

[_Moodily._] A reg’lar mess, I call it.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

I wish your choice of expressions was a little happier, Claude——

MRS. CLOYS.

The boy is right; and we must get out of this as quickly as possible.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Yes, yes; yes, yes.

CLAUDE.

But I don’t believe the woman will have the daring effrontery to show her face to us; to _me_—the brother!

MRS. CLOYS.

If she does appear, Fletcher, how on earth are we to explain our visit?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Never explain, Harriet. I once explained in the House——

MRS. CLOYS.

Devil take the House!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Harriet!

MRS. CLOYS.

Heaven forgive me!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

You are unhinged—not yourself. No, no, we must simply avail ourselves of any topic that presents itself.

MRS. CLOYS.

Mercy on us! there’s only one topic that _can_ present itself.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

I am not often nonplussed. You had better watch me closely; follow my lead—tsch!

JOHN _enters with_ OLIVE, _who is now without her outdoor
apparel_.

JOHN.

[_After bowing to_ MRS. CLOYS.] How do you do, Sir Fletcher? [_Nodding to_ CLAUDE.] How are you, Emptage?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_With a wave of the hand towards_ MRS. CLOYS.] My sister, Mrs. Cloys.

JOHN.

Mrs. Cloys, Sir Fletcher; there have been some most unhappy differences between my wife and myself in the past, as you know too well. Unfortunately, she and I have not been the only sufferers from these differences; we have dragged others along with us. However, we met this evening, half an hour ago, and are—reconciled——

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_In a murmur._] Very proper—very sensible——

JOHN.

And I have my wife’s authority for saying that her feeling towards Mrs. Fraser are now considerably—in fact, entirely—— But she will speak for herself. [_Presenting_ OLIVE, _awkwardly_.] Er—my wife.

OLIVE.

[_To_ SIR FLETCHER _and_ MRS. CLOYS, _graciously_.] Pray sit down. [MRS. CLOYS _sits again_.] Sir Fletcher, we knew each other years ago——

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

I am delighted to renew—[_pulling himself up uneasily_]—that is, of course——

[OLIVE _sits on the left and_ SIR FLETCHER _on the right of
the table_.

OLIVE.

[_Addressing_ MRS. CLOYS.] Mrs. Cloys, it is only fair to you that I should say at once that I don’t expect Mrs. Fraser’s relatives to treat me at all tenderly over the painful proceedings which terminated to-day. [MRS. CLOYS _bows stiffly_; SIR FLETCHER _eyes her anxiously_.] So I beg that you will speak before me entirely without reserve. [_Looking at_ JOHN.] It is my husband’s wish that you should do so.

JOHN.

Certainly.

[MRS. CLOYS _and_ SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD _sit staring before
them in a glassy way_; OLIVE _again glances at_ JOHN,
_puzzled_.

OLIVE.

[_A little impatiently._] Naturally, Mrs. Cloys, I can’t think that you have taken this inconvenient journey to-night without some very special, some very definite object.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Er—so far as I am concerned, the object of my visit is in a great part attained when I have given Mr. Allingham my assurance that only absolute proof of his unworthiness will ever induce me to withdraw my friendship from him. I am nothing if not a just man——

JOHN.

Genuinely obliged to you, Sir Fletcher.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Oh, I am not ashamed of my simple faith in young English manhood and in the efficacy of a training at one of our most honoured public schools. True, I was never a public-school boy myself——

CLAUDE.

[_Leaning on a chair near the window, with his back to those in the room._] Ha!

[_All turn their heads towards_ CLAUDE, _surprised_.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Rising, and going to_ CLAUDE.] No, but I am still capable of rejoicing when I see the traditions of popular British institutions worthily upheld. The world was my public school——

OLIVE.

[_Changing her position._] Mrs. Cloys——

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Eyeing_ OLIVE, _and returning quickly_.] Er—is there a question more vital, more absorbing, than this great vexed question of Education? Is there a question which calls more imperatively upon the attention of thinking men——?

OLIVE.

[_Turning to him with a forced smile._] But, Sir Fletcher, you surely haven’t brought Mrs. Cloys all the way to Epsom that she may hear you discuss Education with my husband?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Disconcerted._] No, no. Good! ha, ha! good! Excellent! Er—— [_Suddenly._] Now, this cottage—I wonder whether I may ask how many rooms?

OLIVE.

How many rooms!

JOHN.

Twelve.

OLIVE.

[_Between her teeth._] Twelve.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

The reason I put the question is this: my dear brother-in-law, the bishop——

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Under her breath._] Eh?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Looking at_ MRS. CLOYS _significantly_.] The bishop often suffers from the effects of severe intellectual strain, and it has more than once struck me that for a few weeks in the year this peculiarly invigorating air—— [_Going to the dining-room door._] The arrangements appear to be most convenient. May I?

JOHN.

The dining-room.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Opening the door and peeping into the room._] Delightful! I can picture the bishop sitting there, my sister there, myself, perhaps, over there—delightful! [_Closing the door and moving away, pointing to the upper door._] The hall and the little card-room I have seen. [_Rapping the table._] But the grand question is, Mrs. Allingham—would you let? That’s the point, Allingham—would you feel inclined to let?

JOHN.

Oh, if his lordship did us the honour of expressing a wish——

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

That’s extremely good-natured. [_Trying to catch_ MRS. CLOYS’ _eye_.] You hear, Harriet?

MRS. CLOYS.

[_With a gulp._] Yes.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Pointing to the steps._] And here?

OLIVE.

[_Struggling to suppress her anger._] The library—the library.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Have I permission?

OLIVE.

Oh, by all means.

[SIR FLETCHER _bustles up the steps and enters the library_.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Out of sight._] Cheerful—very cheerful. A paucity of volumes, but the bishop would bring his own books.

OLIVE.

[_Quickly._] Sir Fletcher, while you are there, do examine the little clock on the mantelpiece. The case is modern oriental.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Out of sight._] Ah, yes, yes.

OLIVE.

I gave it to Mr. Allingham some years ago. Count those curious stones round the dial. [_To_ MRS. CLOYS, _rapidly but forcibly, dropping her voice_.] Mrs. Cloys, I confess I find it difficult to accept Sir Fletcher’s suggestion that you are engaged at this time of night in hunting for fresh air for the bishop. I——

[_Upon_ SIR FLETCHER’S _disappearance_, CLAUDE _advances and
stands waiting for an opportunity to speak_.

CLAUDE.

[_Breaking in in a hollow voice._] As Mrs. Fraser’s brother——

[_All turn their heads towards_ CLAUDE _again_.

OLIVE.

[_With clenched hands._] Oh! I am endeavouring to speak to Mrs. Cloys——

CLAUDE.

Pardon me. As Mrs. Fraser’s brother, and as, perhaps, the chief sufferer from the result of to-day’s proceedings——

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Appearing suddenly on top of the steps, no longer carrying his hat._] What’s this? What’s this?

CLAUDE.

I refuse to be silenced. As Mrs. Fraser’s brother, I desire to say that I did not expect to be received to-night by the lady who has done her best—her utmost——

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Sssh! sssh!

MRS. CLOYS.

Be quiet, Claude, please!

OLIVE.

[_Rising and going to_ JOHN.] John, really——

JOHN.

[_Hotly._] Look here, Emptage, you’re a boy—at any rate, a very young man——!

CLAUDE.

I am a truly unfortunate young man. A blight has been cast upon my name at the very outset of my career——

JOHN.

[_Bluntly._] What career?

CLAUDE.

Well, when I am turning various careers over in my mind——

MRS. CLOYS.

Enough, Claude——!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Coming down the steps._] Why, when I was five years younger than he I had already applied my lever to the mountain. I first saw light in ’forty-four——

OLIVE.

[_To_ JOHN.] Oh——!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

’Forty-four; an easily remembered date—two fours. And what was I doing at his age?

OLIVE.

Mrs. Cloys——

MRS. CLOYS.

Go away, Claude!

CLAUDE.

[_Retiring._] Ha, at least I have had the courage to speak out——!

[_He throws himself into a chair at the back, and in course
of time falls asleep. His head is seen to drop back upon
his shoulder; an arm hangs over the side of the chair._

OLIVE.

[_Advancing to the table, imperatively._] Mrs. Cloys——

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

I——

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Firmly._] Excuse me, Fletcher; I believe Mrs. Allingham is looking to me for some further explanation. [_Sitting._] Mrs. Allingham, happening to become acquainted to-day, for the first time, with several features of this disagreeable business, I thought—it was a fancy of mine—that I should like to—to meet Mr. Allingham—to talk over—to——

OLIVE.

[_Sitting._] To talk over——?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

To thresh it all out with John—with Allingham.

OLIVE.

[_Quickly._] It has not been sufficiently threshed out, then, in the Divorce Court?

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Hastily._] Quite sufficiently. [_Eyeing_ SIR FLETCHER _reprovingly_.] My brother doesn’t interpret me correctly. Er—as I have told you, it is a fancy of mine—to meet Mr. Allingham.

OLIVE.

Just to make his acquaintance?

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Steadily._] Just to make his acquaintance.

JOHN.

[_Uncomfortably._] Very pleased—very gratified——

OLIVE.

[_With a hard smile._] This is rather an odd hour for such a call.

MRS. CLOYS.

It would have been earlier but for a little difficulty in discovering Mr. Allingham’s whereabouts.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Genially._] When ladies have fancies they don’t study the hour before indulging them.

OLIVE.

I am afraid it _is_ so, in your family, Sir Fletcher.

[MRS. CLOYS _makes a movement, but restrains herself_.

JOHN.

[_In a low voice._] Olive——!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Er—the fact is, my sister shares with me the Lavater-like faculty for judging character at sight.

OLIVE.

Judging character by face, manner?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Yes. I possess it in a remarkable degree. I remember——

OLIVE.

[_To_ MRS. CLOYS.] Oh, I see! You are here to—to form an impression of Mr. Allingham?

MRS. CLOYS.

Sir Fletcher a little exaggerates my powers; but I confess I am, like many people, very sensitive to receiving impressions through such mediums.

OLIVE.

I hope your impressions of my husband will be to his advantage.

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Looking at_ JOHN.] I think I may say at once that they are not unfavourable.

OLIVE.

Because the necessity you find for estimating my husband’s character shows—you know what it shows?

MRS. CLOYS.

Mrs. Allingham——?

OLIVE.

It shows, obviously, that if you are uncertain as to my husband’s innocence, you must be equally doubtful of the innocence of your niece, Mrs. Fraser.

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Rising._] I—I beg that you will not put such a construction on what I have said——

OLIVE.

[_Rising._] What other construction——?

JOHN.

Olive, you are not keeping your promise——

OLIVE.

[_Passionately._] I will keep my promise when I am treated openly and fairly. [_Walking away._] I feel something is going on here that I don’t understand, that I am not allowed to understand.

JOHN.

[_To_ MRS. CLOYS _and_ SIR FLETCHER.] I am extremely sorry. But my wife is very fatigued and unstrung to-night——

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Quite so, quite so. We are most inconsiderate, Harriet. Come—come; another time——

OLIVE.

[_Turning._] No, no! Mrs. Cloys——

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Facing_ OLIVE _firmly_.] Mrs. Allingham, I think, when we look back upon this evening, that you and I will be able to congratulate ourselves upon a considerable exercise of politeness. But there are signs that neither of us is equal to a prolonged strain.

OLIVE.

I beg your pardon; I will be patient. You need have no misgivings on my account.

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Formidably._] Perhaps not; but I am beginning to be acutely conscious of my own weakness. [_Looking round._] Fletcher——

OLIVE.

[_Angrily._] Oh, oh!

[_She paces the room_; JOHN _joins her, and is seen
expostulating_. MRS. CLOYS _joins_ SIR FLETCHER.

JOHN.

Olive, Olive, be reasonable!

OLIVE.

I will be, when you and your friends are honest with me.

[_She leaves him, as_ QUAIFE _enters with a note upon a
salver_.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Looking at his watch._] Oh, Allingham, the hotel people were to send a carriage up for us; perhaps you’ll get your servant——

JOHN.

Certainly. [_To_ QUAIFE.] Quaife—what’s that?

[_Upon entering_, QUAIFE _has encountered_ MRS. ALLINGHAM;
_her eyes fall upon the letter on the salver_.

OLIVE.

[_Under her breath, staring at the letter._] Ah-h-h!

QUAIFE.

Ma’am?

OLIVE.

[_Drawing back and speaking to_ QUAIFE.] Well, give it to Mr. Allingham.

QUAIFE.

A boy has brought this, sir—waiting for an answer.

[JOHN _is about to take the letter; when he sees the writing
upon the envelope he hesitates for a moment and draws
his hand back; then he picks up the letter
deliberately_.

JOHN.

[_To_ QUAIFE, _calmly_.] Wait; I’ll ring.

[QUAIFE _retires_.

OLIVE.

[_Pointing to the letter._] Isn’t that letter from Mrs. Fraser?

JOHN.

[_After opening the letter._] Yes. [_He reads the letter to himself._] Poor little lady! This is bad news.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Agitatedly._] Really, Mr. Allingham, really?

JOHN.

Don’t you know? She has left her husband.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Er—yes, sir, we do know it—certainly we know it. I was almost the last person she spoke to before she quitted her mother’s house. She is deeply attached to me. [_Buttoning his coat._] Where is she? Where is she?

JOHN.

I gather she is waiting not very far from this house——

OLIVE.

[_Breathlessly._] Waiting——!

JOHN.

She—she wishes to see me.

OLIVE.

[_In a low voice._] Oh, yes. [_Sitting, her hands tightly gripped together._] Oh, yes.

JOHN.

[_Going to her and handing her the letter._] Read it, please, Olive.

OLIVE.

[_After a pause, holding the letter between her finger and thumb, reading._] “Station Hotel, Epsom. My dear old Jack”—— [_Hastily returning the letter to_ JOHN, _with a shudder_.] Take it from me!

JOHN.

[_Reading aloud._] “My dear old Jack”—[_looking round, simply_]—we have known each other many years—[_reading_]—“oh! I have had such a job to find you. I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage and get a messenger to bring this to you. The messenger will show you where I am, if you will only consent to see me for a few moments on—[_looking round_]—on a matter of business.”

[MRS. CLOYS, _concealed from the others by_ SIR FLETCHER,
_sinks on to the settee_.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Ha, a matter of business! Of course, a matter of business.

JOHN.

[_Resuming._] “I have left my husband. He turned against me at the end and crushed my one hope of being able to whitewash myself.” The cur! [_Resuming._] “Am off to Paris the first thing in the morning. Very likely this is the last chance you will ever have of a word with your poor little friend, Theo.” [_To_ SIR FLETCHER.] Sir Fletcher, I congratulate you on finding your niece; please tell her that it is impossible for me to grant her request.

OLIVE.

[_Calmly._] Oh, but wait. [_Rising._] Surely it would be rather uncivil to refuse what Mrs. Fraser asks.

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Rising._] I can be trusted to explain——

OLIVE.

But she is apparently in need of some business service which my husband can render her.

MRS. CLOYS.

Now that she is again in the hands of her relatives there can be no necessity for troubling Mr. Allingham.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

Not the slightest; not the slightest.

OLIVE.

Perhaps not. But before such a very curt message is sent to Mrs. Fraser, will you do me the favour of letting me have two or three minutes’ conversation with my husband alone?

MRS. CLOYS.

I—I am anxious to go to my niece.

OLIVE.

Two minutes. Please, John.

[JOHN _goes to the dining-room door and opens it. After a
moment’s hesitation_, MRS. CLOYS _goes to the door_.

MRS. CLOYS.

[_Turning._] I beg that I may not be detained longer.

[_She passes out;_ JOHN _follows her, leaving the door
open_.

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Standing over_ CLAUDE, _shaking him_.] Wake up, sir! wake up!

CLAUDE.

[_Waking._] What is it? eh? [_Rising._] Hullo, Uncle!

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

You’ve been sleeping, sir; your manners are appalling.

CLAUDE.

[_Stupidly._] Where’s aunt?

SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD.

[_Leading him towards the door._] In the next room. Come, sir! You are deficient in tact, delicacy——

[JOHN _re-enters._ SIR FLETCHER _passes him and goes out_.

CLAUDE.

[_As he passes_ JOHN.] The dining-room?

JOHN.

[_To_ CLAUDE.] I shan’t keep you more than a minute or two.

CLAUDE.

[_In the doorway, turning to_ JOHN.] Allingham, of course you and I can never again be the same to each other as we have been in the past; but may I take the liberty of foraging for a piece of cake?

JOHN.

[_Laying a hand on his shoulder._] Certainly.