Chapter IV: Part 4

_He gets up to draw the curtain. When he turns_ COLPUS _has disappeared, while_ ETHEL _has been followed into the room by_ ALICE MAITLAND, _who shuts the door after her_. MISS ALICE MAITLAND _is a young lady of any age to thirty. Nor need her appearance alter for the next fifteen years; since her nature is healthy and well-balanced. She possesses indeed the sort of athletic chastity which is a characteristic charm of Northern spinsterhood. It mayn't be a pretty face, but it has alertness and humour; and the resolute eyes and eyebrows are a more innocent edition of_ MR. VOYSEY'S, _who is her uncle_. ETHEL _goes straight to her father_ [_though her glance is on_ DENIS _and his on her_] _and chirps, birdlike, in her spoiled-child way_.

ETHEL. We think you've stayed in here quite long enough.

MR. VOYSEY. That's to say, Ethel thinks Denis has been kept out of her pocket much too long.

ETHEL. Ethel wants billiards . . not proper billiards . . snooker or something. Oh, Papa, what a dessert you've eaten. Greedy pig!

ALICE _is standing behind_ EDWARD, _considering his hair-parting apparently_.

ALICE. Crack me a filbert, please, Edward . . I had none.

EDWARD. [_jumping up, rather formally, well-mannered._] I beg your pardon, Alice. Won't you sit down?

ALICE. No.

MR. VOYSEY. [_taking_ ETHEL _on his knee_.] Come here, puss. Have you made up your mind yet what you want for a wedding present?

ETHEL. [_rectifying a stray hair in his beard._] After mature consideration, I decide on a cheque.

MR. VOYSEY. Do you!

ETHEL. Yes, I think that a cheque will give most scope to your generosity. Of course, if you desire to add any trimmings in the shape of a piano or a Turkey carpet you may . . and Denis and I will be very grateful. But I think I'd let yourself go over a cheque.

MR. VOYSEY. You're a minx.

ETHEL. What is the use of having money if you don't spend it on me?

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_giving up the cigar search._] Here, who's going to play?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_pathetically as he gets up._] Well, if my wrist will hold out . .

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_To_ TREGONING.] No, don't you bother to look for them. [_He strides from the room, his voice echoing through the hall._] Honor, where are those Ramon Allones?

ALICE. [_calling after._] She's in the drawing-room with Auntie and Mr. Colpus.

MR. VOYSEY. Now I should suggest that you and Denis go and take off the billiard table cover. You'll find folding it up is a very excellent amusement.

_He illustrates his meaning with his table napkin and by putting together the tips of his forefingers, roguishly._

ETHEL. I am not going to blush. I do kiss Denis . . occasionally . . when he asks me.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_teasing her._] You are blushing.

ETHEL. I am not. If you think we're ashamed of being in love, we're not, we're very proud of it. We will go and take off the billiard table cover and fold it up . . and then you can come in and play. Denis, my dear, come along solemnly and if you flinch I'll never forgive you. [_she marches off and reaches the door before her defiant dignity breaks down; then suddenly_--] Denis, I'll race you.

_And she flashes out._ DENIS, _loyal, but with no histrionic instincts, follows her rather sheepishly_.

DENIS. Ethel, I can't after dinner.

MR. VOYSEY. Women play that game better than men. A man shuffles through courtship with one eye on her relations.

_The Major comes stalking back, followed in a fearful flurry by his elder sister_, HONOR. _Poor_ HONOR [_her female friends are apt to refer to her as Poor_ HONOR] _is a phenomenon common to most large families. From her earliest years she has been bottle washer to her brothers. While they were expensively educated she was grudged schooling; her highest accomplishment was meant to be mending their clothes. Her fate is a curious survival of the intolerance of parents towards her sex until the vanity of their hunger for sons had been satisfied. In a less humane society she would have been exposed at birth. But if a very general though patronising affection, accompanied by no consideration at all, can bestow happiness_, HONOR _is not unhappy in her survival. At this moment, however, her life is a burden._

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Honor, they are not in the dining-room.

HONOR. But they must be!--Where else can they be?

_She has a habit of accentuating one word in each sentence and often the wrong one._

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. That's what you ought to know.

MR. VOYSEY. [_as he moves towards the door._] Well . . will you have a game?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'll play you fifty up, not more. I'm getting old.

MR. VOYSEY. [_stopping at a dessert dish._] Yes, these are good apples of Bearman's. I think six of my trees are spoilt this year.

HONOR. Here you are, Booth.

_She triumphantly discovers the discarded box, at which the Major becomes pathetic with indignation._

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Oh, Honor, don't be such a fool. These are what we've been smoking. I want the Ramon Allones.

HONOR. I don't know the difference.

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. No, you don't, but you might learn.

MR. VOYSEY. [_in a voice like the crack of a very fine whip._] Booth.

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_subduedly._] What is it, sir?

MR. VOYSEY. Look for your cigars yourself. Honor, go back to your reading and your sewing or whatever you were fiddling at, and fiddle in peace.

MR. VOYSEY _departs, leaving the room rather hushed_. MR. BOOTH _has not waited for this parental display. Then_ ALICE _insinuates a remark very softly_.

ALICE. Have you looked in the Library?

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [_relapsing to an injured mutter._] Where's Emily?

HONOR. Upstairs with little Henry, he woke up and cried.

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Letting her wear herself to rags over the child . . !

HONOR. Well, she won't let me go.

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why don't you stop looking for those cigars?

HONOR. If you don't mind, I want a reel of blue silk now I'm here.

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I daresay they are in the Library. What a house!

_He departs._

HONOR. Booth is so trying.

ALICE. Honor, why do you put up with it?

HONOR. Someone has to.

ALICE. [_discreetly nibbling a nut, which_ EDWARD _has cracked for her_.] I'm afraid I think Master Major Booth ought to have been taken in hand early . . with a cane.

HONOR. [_as she vaguely burrows into corners._] Papa did. But it's never prevented him booming at us . . oh, ever since he was a baby. Now he's flustered me so I simply can't think where this blue silk is.

ALICE. All the Pettifers desired to be remembered to you, Edward.

HONOR. I must do without it. [_but she goes on looking._] I think, Alice, that we're a very difficult family . . except perhaps Edward.

EDWARD. Why except me?

HONOR. [_Who has only excepted out of politeness to present company._] Well, you may be difficult . . to yourself. [_Then she starts to go, threading her way through the disarranged chairs._] Mr. Colpus will shout so loud at Mother and she hates people to think she's so very deaf. I thought Mary Pettifer looking old . . [_and she talks herself out of the room._]

ALICE. [_after her._] She's getting old.

_Now_ ALICE _does sit down; as if she'd be glad of her tete-a-tete_.

ALICE. I was glad not to spend August abroad for once. We drove into Cheltenham to a dance . . carpet. I golfed a lot.

EDWARD. How long were you with them?

ALICE. Not a fortnight. It doesn't seem three months since I was here, does it?

EDWARD. I'm down so very little.

ALICE. I'm here a disgraceful deal.

EDWARD. You know they're always pleased.

ALICE. Well, being a homeless person! But what a cart-load to descend all at once . . yesterday and to-day. The Major and Emily . . Emily's not at all well. Hugh and Mrs. Hugh. And me. Are you staying?

EDWARD. No. I must get a word with my father . .

ALICE. A business life is not healthy for you, Edward. You look more like half-baked pie-crust than usual.

EDWARD. [_a little enviously._] You're very well.

ALICE. I'm always well and nearly always happy.

MAJOR BOOTH _returns. He has the right sort of cigar in his mouth and is considerably mollified._

ALICE. You found them?

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of course, they were there. Thank you very much, Alice. Now I want a knife.

ALICE. I must present you with a cigar-cutter, Booth.

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I hate 'em. [_he eyes the dessert disparagingly._] Nothing but silver ones.

EDWARD _hands him a carefully opened pocket knife_.

Thank you, Edward. And I must take one of the candles. Something's gone wrong with the library ventilator and you never can see a thing in that room.

ALICE. Is Mrs. Hugh there?

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Writing letters. Things are neglected, Edward, unless one is constantly on the look out. The Pater only cares for his garden. I must speak seriously to Honor.

_He has returned the knife, still open, and now having lit his cigar at the candle he carries this off._

ALICE. Honor has the patience of a . . of an old maid.

EDWARD. Her mission in life isn't a pleasant one. [_He gives her a nut, about the fifteenth._] Here; 'scuse fingers.

ALICE. Thank you. [_looking at him, with her head on one side and her face more humorous than ever._] Edward, why have you given up proposing to me?

_He starts, flushes; then won't be outdone in humour._

EDWARD. One can't go on proposing for ever.

ALICE. [_reasonably._] Why not? Have you seen anyone you like better?

EDWARD. No.

ALICE. Well . . I miss it.

EDWARD. What satisfaction did you find in refusing me?

ALICE. [_as she weighs the matter._] I find satisfaction in feeling that I'm wanted.

EDWARD. Without any intention of giving yourself . . throwing yourself away.

ALICE. [_teasing his sudden earnestness._] Ah, now you come from mere vanity to serious questions.

EDWARD. Mine were always serious questions to you.

ALICE. That's a fault I find in you, Edward; all questions are serious to you. I call you a perfect little pocket-guide to life . . all questions and answers; what to eat, drink and avoid, what to believe and what to say . . all in the same type, the same importance attached to each.

EDWARD. [_sententiously._] Well . . everything matters.

ALICE. [_making a face._] D'you plan out every detail of your life . . every step you take . . every mouthful?

EDWARD. That would be waste of thought. One must lay down principles.

ALICE. I prefer my plan, I always do what I know I want to do. Crack me another nut.

EDWARD. Haven't you had enough?

ALICE. I =know= I want one more.

_He cracks another, with a sigh which sounds ridiculous in that connection._

EDWARD. Well, if you've never had to decide anything very serious . .

ALICE. [_With great gravity._] Everything's serious.

EDWARD. Everything isn't vital.

ALICE. [_skilfully manoeuvring the subject._] I've answered vital questions. I knew that I didn't want to marry you . . each time.

EDWARD. Oh, then you didn't just make a rule of saying no.

ALICE. As you proposed . . on principle? No, I always gave you a fair chance. I'll give you one now if you like.

_He rouses himself to play up to this outrageous piece of flirting._

EDWARD. I'm not to be caught.

ALICE. Edward, how rude you are. [_She eats her nut contentedly._]

EDWARD. Do other men propose to you?

ALICE. Such a thing may have happened . . when I was young. Perhaps it might even now if I were to allow it.

EDWARD. You encourage me shamelessly.

ALICE. It isn't everyone who proposes on principle. As a rule a man does it because he can't help himself. And then to be said no to . . hurts.

_They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of_ MRS. HUGH VOYSEY, _a brisk, bright little woman, in an evening gown, which she has bullied a cheap dressmaker into making look exceedingly smart_. BEATRICE _is as hard as nails and as clever as paint. But if she keeps her feelings buried pretty deep it is because they are precious to her; and if she is impatient with fools it is because her own brains have had to win her everything in the world, so perhaps she does overvalue them a little. She speaks always with great decision and little effort._

BEATRICE. I believe I could write important business letters upon an island in the middle of Fleet Street. But while Booth is poking at a ventilator with a billiard cue . . no, I can't.

_She goes to the fireplace, waving her half finished letter._

ALICE. [_soothingly._] Didn't you expect Hugh back to dinner?

BEATRICE. Not specially. . He went to rout out some things from his studio. He'll come back in a filthy mess.

ALICE. Now if you listen . . Booth doesn't enjoy making a fuss by himself . . you'll hear him rout out Honor.

_They listen. But what happens is that_ BOOTH _appears at the door, billiard cue in hand, and says solemnly_ . .

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Edward, I wish you'd come and have a look at this ventilator, like a good fellow.

_Then he turns and goes again, obviously with the weight of an important matter on his shoulders. With the ghost of a smile_ EDWARD _gets up and follows him_.

ALICE. If I belonged to this family I should hate Booth.

_With which comment she joins_ BEATRICE _at the fireplace_.

BEATRICE. A good day's shopping?

ALICE. 'M. The baby bride and I bought clothes all the morning. Then we had lunch with Denis and bought furniture.

BEATRICE. Nice furniture?

ALICE. It'll be very good and very new. They neither of them know what they want. [_Then suddenly throwing up her chin and exclaiming._] When it's a question of money I can understand it . . but if one can provide for oneself or is independent why get married! Especially having been brought up on the sheltered life principle . . one may as well make the most of its advantages . . one doesn't go falling in love all over the place as men seem to . . most of them. Of course with Ethel and Denis it's different. They've both been caught young. They're two little birds building their nests and it's all ideal. They'll soon forget they've ever been apart.

_Now_ HONOR _flutters into the room, patient but wild eyed_.

HONOR. Mother wants last week's Notes and Queries. Have you seen it?

BEATRICE. [_exasperated at the interruption._] No.

HONOR. It ought not to be in here. [_so she proceeds to look for it._] She's having a long argument with Mr. Colpus over Oliver Cromwell's relations.

ALICE. [_her eyes twinkling._] I thought Auntie didn't approve of Oliver Cromwell.

HONOR. She doesn't and she's trying to prove that he was a brewer or something. I suppose someone has taken it away.

_So she gives up the search and flutters out again._

ALICE. This is a most unrestful house.

BEATRICE. I once thought of putting the Voyseys into a book of mine. Then I concluded they'd be as dull there as they are anywhere else.

ALICE. They're not duller than most other people.

BEATRICE. But how very dull that is!

ALICE. They're a little noisier and perhaps not quite so well mannered. But I love them.

BEATRICE. I don't. I should have thought Love was just what they couldn't inspire.

ALICE. Of course, Hugh is unlike any of the others.

BEATRICE. He has most of their bad points. I don't love Hugh.

ALICE. [_her eyebrows up, though she smiles._] Beatrice, you shouldn't say so.

BEATRICE. It sounds affected, doesn't it? Never mind; when he dies I'll wear mourning . . but not weeds; I bargained against that when we were engaged.

ALICE. [_her face growing a little thoughtful._] Beatrice, I'm going to ask questions. You were in love with Hugh when you married him?

BEATRICE. Well . . I married him for his money.

ALICE. He hadn't much.

BEATRICE. I had none . . and I wanted to write books. Yes, I loved him.

ALICE. And you thought you'd be happy?

BEATRICE. [_considering carefully._] No, I didn't. I hoped he'd be happy.

ALICE. [_a little ironical._] Did you think your writing books would make him so?

BEATRICE. My dear Alice, wouldn't you feel it a very degrading thing to have your happiness depend upon somebody else?

ALICE. [_after pausing to find her phrase._] There's a joy of service.

BEATRICE. [_ironical herself now._] I forgot . . you've four hundred a year?

ALICE. What has that to do with it?

BEATRICE. [_putting her case very precisely._] I've had to earn my own living, consequently there isn't one thing in my life that I have ever done quite genuinely for its own sake . . but always with an eye towards bread-and-butter, pandering to the people who were to give me that. Happiness has been my only independence.

_The conservatory door opens and through it come_ MR. VOYSEY _and_ MR. BOOTH _in the midst of a discussion_.

MR. VOYSEY. Very well, man, stick to the shares and risk it.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, of course, if you seriously advise me--

MR. VOYSEY. I never advise greedy children; I let 'em overeat 'emselves and take the consequences--

ALICE. [_shaking a finger._] Uncle Trench, you've been in the garden without a hat after playing billiards in that hot room.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. We had to give up . . my wrist was bad. They've started pool.

BEATRICE. Is Booth going to play?

MR. VOYSEY. We left him instructing Ethel how to hold a cue.

BEATRICE. Perhaps I can finish my letter.

_Off she goes._ ALICE _is idly following with a little paper her hand has fallen on behind the clock_.

MR. VOYSEY. Don't run away, my dear.

ALICE. I'm taking this to Auntie . . Notes and Queries . . she wants it.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Damn . . this gravel's stuck to my shoe.

MR. VOYSEY. That's a new made path.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now don't you think it's too early to have put in those plants?

MR. VOYSEY. No, we're getting frost at night already.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I should have kept that bed a good ten feet further from the tree.

MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense, the tree's to the north of it. This room's cold. Why don't they keep the fire up! [_He proceeds to put coals on it._]

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You were too hot in that billiard room. You know, Voysey . . about those Alguazils?

MR. VOYSEY. [_through the rattling of the coals._] What?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_trying to pierce the din._] Those Alguazils.

MR. VOYSEY _with surprising inconsequence points a finger at the silk handkerchief across_ MR. BOOTH'S _shirt front_.

MR. VOYSEY. What d'you put your handkerchief there for?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Measure of precau--[_at that moment he sneezes._] Damn it . . if you've given me a chill dragging me round your infernal garden--

MR. VOYSEY. [_slapping him on the back._] You're an old crock.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, I'll be glad of this winter in Egypt. [_He returns to his subject._] And if you think seriously, that I ought to sell out of the Alguazils before I go . . ? [_He looks with childlike enquiry at his friend, who is apparently yawning slightly._] Why can't you take them in charge? . . and I'll give you a power of attorney or whatever it is . . and you can sell out if things look bad.

_At this moment_ PHOEBE, _the middle aged parlour-maid comes in, tray in hand. Like an expert fisherman_ MR. VOYSEY _once more lets loose the thread of the conversation_.

MR. VOYSEY. D'you want to clear?

PHOEBE. It doesn't matter, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. No, go on . . go on.

_So_ MARY, _the young housemaid, comes in as well, and the two start to clear the table. All of which fidgets poor_ MR. BOOTH _considerably. He sits shrivelled up in the armchair by the fire; and now_ MR. VOYSEY _attends to him_.

MR. VOYSEY. What d'you want with high interest at all . . you never spend half your income?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I like to feel that my money is doing some good in the world. These mines are very useful things and forty two per cent is pleasing.

MR. VOYSEY. You're an old gambler.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_propitiatingly._] Ah, but then I've you to advise me. I always do as you tell me in the end, now you can't deny that.

MR. VOYSEY. The man who don't know must trust in the man who does! [_He yawns again._]

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_modestly insisting._] There's five thousand in Alguazils--what else could we put it into?

MR. VOYSEY. I can get you something at four and a half.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, Lord . . that's nothing.

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sudden serious friendliness._] I wish, my dear George, you'd invest more on your own account. You know--what with one thing and the other--I've got control of practically all you have in the world. I might be playing old Harry with it for all you know.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_overflowing with confidence._] My dear feller . . if I'm satisfied! Ah, my friend, what'll happen to your firm when you depart this life! . . not before my time, I hope, though.

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little frown._] What d'ye mean?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward's no use.

MR. VOYSEY. I beg your pardon . . very sound in business.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. May be . . but I tell you he's no use. Too many principles, as I said just now. Men have confidence in a personality, not in principles. Where would you be without the confidence of your clients?

MR. VOYSEY. [_candidly._] True!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. He'll never gain that.

MR. VOYSEY. I fear you dislike Edward.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with pleasant frankness._] Yes, I do.

MR. VOYSEY. That's a pity.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with a flattering smile._] Well, he's not his father and never will be. What's the time?

MR. VOYSEY. [_with inappropriate thoughtfulness._] Twenty to ten.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I must be trotting.

MR. VOYSEY. It's very early.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, and I've not said a word to Mrs. Voysey . .

_As he goes to the door he meets_ EDWARD, _who comes in apparently looking for his father; at any rate catches his eye immediately, while_ MR. BOOTH _obliviously continues_.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you stroll round home with me?

MR. VOYSEY. I can't.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_mildly surprised at the short reply._] Well, good night. Good night, Edward.

_He trots away._

MR. VOYSEY. Leave the rest of the table, Phoebe.

PHOEBE. Yes, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. You can come back in ten minutes.

PHOEBE _and_ MARY _depart and the door is closed. Alone with his son_ MR. VOYSEY _does not move; his face grows a little keener, that's all_.

MR. VOYSEY. Well, Edward?

EDWARD _starts to move restlessly about, like a cowed animal in a cage; silently for a moment or two. Then when he speaks, his voice is toneless and he doesn't look at his father._

EDWARD. I should like you now, sir, if you don't mind, to drop with me all these protestations about putting the firm's affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course . . what a cleverer man than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday that my own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would have put things rightfirm's affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course . . what a cleverer man than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday that my own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would have put things right.

MR. VOYSEY. No, it would not.

EDWARD. [_appealing for the truth._] Oh . . at some time or other!

MR. VOYSEY. Well, if there have been good times there have been bad times. At present the three hundred a year I'm to allow your sister is going to be rather a pull.

EDWARD. Three hundred a year . . and yet you've never attempted to put a single account straight. Since it isn't lunacy, sir . . I can only conclude that you enjoy being in this position.

MR. VOYSEY. I have put accounts absolutely straight . . at the winding up of a trust for instance . . at great inconvenience too. And to all appearances they've been above suspicion. What's the object of all this rodomontade, Edward?

EDWARD. If I'm to remain in the firm, it had better be with a very clear understanding of things as they are.

MR. VOYSEY. [_firmly, not too anxiously._] Then you do remain?

EDWARD. [_in a very low voice._] Yes, I remain.

MR. VOYSEY. [_quite gravely._] That's wise of you . . I'm very glad. [_and he is silent for a moment._] And now we needn't discuss the impractical side of it any more.

EDWARD. But I want to make one condition. And I want some information.

MR. VOYSEY. [_his sudden cheerfulness relapsing again._] Well?

EDWARD. Of course no one has ever discovered . . and no one suspects this state of things?

MR. VOYSEY. Peacey knows.

EDWARD. Peacey!

MR. VOYSEY. His father found out.

EDWARD. Oh. Does he draw hush money?

MR. VOYSEY. [_curling a little at the word._] It is my custom to make a little present every Christmas. Not a cheque . . notes in an envelope. [_He becomes benevolent._] I don't grudge the money . . Peacey's a devoted fellow.

EDWARD. Naturally this would be a heavily taxed industry. [_then he smiles at his vision of the mild old clerk._] Peacey! There's another thing I want to ask, sir. Have you ever under stress of circumstances done worse than just make use of a client's capital? You boasted to me yesterday that no one had ever suffered in pocket because of you. Is that absolutely true?

MR. VOYSEY _draws himself up, dignified and magniloquent_.

MR. VOYSEY. My dear Edward, for the future my mind is open to you, you can discover for yourself how matters stand to-day. But I decline to gratify your curiosity as to what is over and done with.

EDWARD. [_with entire comprehension._] Thank you, sir. The condition I wish to make is that we should really do what we have pretended to be doing . . try and put the accounts straight.

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little polite shrug._] I've no doubt you'll prove an abler man of business than I.

EDWARD. One by one.

MR. VOYSEY. Which one will you begin with?

EDWARD. I shall begin, Father, by halving the salary I draw from the firm.

MR. VOYSEY. I see . . Retrenchment and Reform.

EDWARD. And I think you cannot give Ethel this five thousand pounds dowry.

MR. VOYSEY. [_shortly, with one of the quick twists of his eye._] I have given my word to Denis.

EDWARD. The money isn't yours to give.

MR. VOYSEY. [_in an indignant crescendo._] I should not dream of depriving Ethel of what, as my daughter, she has every right to expect. I am surprised at your suggesting such a thing.

EDWARD. [_pale and firm._] I'm set on this, Father.

MR. VOYSEY. Don't be such a fool, Edward. What would it look like . . suddenly to refuse without rhyme or reason? What would old Tregoning think?

EDWARD. [_distressed._] You could give them a reason.

MR. VOYSEY. Perhaps you'll invent one.

EDWARD. If need be, Ethel should be told the truth.

MR. VOYSEY. What!

EDWARD. I know it would hurt her.

MR. VOYSEY. And Denis told too, I suppose?

EDWARD. Father, it is my duty to do whatever is necessary to prevent this.

MR. VOYSEY. It'll be necessary to tell the nearest policeman. It is my duty to pay no more attention to these scruples of yours than a nurse pays to her child's tantrums. Understand, Edward, I don't want to force you to continue my partner. Come with me gladly or don't come at all.

EDWARD. [_dully._] It is my duty to be of what use I can to you, sir. Father, I want to save you if I can.

_He flashes into this exclamation of almost broken-hearted affection._ MR. VOYSEY _looks at his son for a moment and his lip quivers. Then he steels himself._

MR. VOYSEY. Thank you! I have saved myself quite satisfactorily for the last thirty years, and you must please believe that by this time I know my own business best.

EDWARD. [_hopelessly._] Let the money come some other way. How is your own income regulated?

MR. VOYSEY. I have a bank balance and a cheque book, haven't I? I spend what I think well to spend. What's the use of earmarking this or that as my own? You say none of it is my own. I might say it's all my own. I think I've earned it.

EDWARD. [_anger coming on him._] That's what I can't forgive. If you'd lived poor . . if you'd really devoted your skill to your clients' good and not to your aggrandisement . . then, even though things were only as they are now, I could have been proud of you. But, Father, own the truth to me, at least . . that's my due from you, considering how I'm placed by all you've done. Didn't you simply seize this opportunity as a means to your own end, to your own enriching?

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sledge hammer irony._] Certainly. I sat that morning in my father's office, studying the helmet of the policeman in the street below, and thinking what a glorious path I had happened on to wealth and honour and renown. [_Then he begins to bully_ EDWARD _in the kindliest way._] My dear boy, you evidently haven't begun to grasp the A. B. C. of my position. What has carried me to victory? The confidence of my clients. What has earned that confidence? A decent life, my integrity, my brains? No, my reputation for wealth . . that, and nothing else. Business now-a-days is run on the lines of the confidence trick. What makes old George Booth so glad to trust me with every penny he possesses? Not affection . . he's never cared for anything in his life but his collection of prints. No; he imagines that I have as big a stake in the country, as he calls it, as he has and he's perfectly happy.

EDWARD. [_stupefied, helpless._] So he's involved!

MR. VOYSEY. Of course he's involved, and he's always after high interest too . . it's little one makes out of him. But there's a further question here, Edward. Should I have had confidence in myself, if I'd remained a poor man? No, I should not. You must either be the master of money or its servant. And if one is not opulent in one's daily life one loses that wonderful . . financier's touch. One must be confident oneself . . and I saw from the first that I must inspire confidence. My whole public and private life has tended to that. All my surroundings . . you and your brothers and sisters that I have brought into, and up, and put out in the world so worthily . . you in your turn inspire confidence.

EDWARD. Not our worth, not our abilities, nor our virtues, but the fact that we travel first class and ride in hansoms.

MR. VOYSEY. [_impatiently._] Well, I haven't organised Society upon a basis of wealth.

EDWARD. Is every single person who trusts you involved in your system?

MR. VOYSEY. What new hole are you finding to pick in my conduct?

EDWARD. My mind travelled naturally from George Booth with his big income to old Nursie with her savings which she brought you to invest. You've let those be, at least.

MR. VOYSEY. I never troubled to invest them . . it wasn't worth while.

EDWARD. Father!

MR. VOYSEY. D'you know what she brought me? . . five hundred pounds.

EDWARD. That's damnable.

MR. VOYSEY. Indeed. I give her seventy five pounds a year for it. Would you like to take charge of that account, Edward? I'll give you five hundred to invest to-morrow.

EDWARD, _hopelessly beaten, falls into an almost comic state of despair_.

EDWARD. My dear Father, putting every moral question aside . . it's all very well your playing Robin Hood in this magnificent manner; but have you given a moment's thought to the sort of inheritance you'll be leaving me?

MR. VOYSEY. [_pleased for the first time._] Ah! That is a question you have every right to ask.

EDWARD. If you died to-morrow could we pay eight shillings in the pound . . or seventeen . . or five? Do you know?

MR. VOYSEY. And my answer is, that by your help I have every intention, when I die, of leaving a will behind me of property to you all running into six figures. D'you think I've given my life and my talents to this money making for a less result than that? I'm fond of you all . . and I want you to be proud of me . . and I mean that the name of Voysey shall be carried high in the world by my children and grandchildren. Don't you be afraid, Edward. Ah, you lack experience, my boy . . you're not full grown yet . . your impulses are a bit chaotic. You emotionalise over your work, and you reason about your emotions. You must sort yourself. You must realise that money making is one thing, and religion another, and family-life a third . . and that if we apply our energies whole-heartedly to each of these in turn, and realise that different laws govern each, that there is a different end to be served, a different ideal to be striven for in each,--

_His coherence is saved by the sudden appearance of his wife, who comes round the door smiling benignly. Not in the least put out, in fact a little relieved, he greets her with an affectionate shout, for she is very deaf._

MR. VOYSEY. Hullo, Mother!

MRS. VOYSEY. Oh, there you are, Trench. I've been deserted.

MR. VOYSEY. George Booth gone?

MRS. VOYSEY. Are you talking business? Perhaps you don't want me.

MR. VOYSEY. No, no . . no business.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has not looked for his answer._] I suppose the others are in the billiard room.

MR. VOYSEY. [_vociferously._] We're not talking business, old lady.

EDWARD. I'll be off, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. [_genial as usual._] Why don't you stay? I'll come up with you in the morning.

EDWARD. No, thank you, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow.

EDWARD. Good-night, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY _places a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up affectionately_.

MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired.

EDWARD. No, I'm not.

MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say?

EDWARD. [_too weary to repeat himself._] Nothing, Mother dear.

_He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air._

MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy.

_Then he goes._ MRS. VOYSEY _is carrying her Notes and Queries. This is a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving, healthy. That is her history._

MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd taken a chill walking round the garden.

MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right.

MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have?

MR. VOYSEY. [_in her ear._] No.

MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on?

MR. VOYSEY. Nothing.

MRS. VOYSEY. How very foolish! Let me feel your hand. You are quite feverish.

MR. VOYSEY. [_affectionately._] You're a fuss-box, old lady.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_coquetting with him._] Don't be rude, Trench.

HONOR _descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done._

HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish clearing?

MR. VOYSEY. [_arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness._] Now who's careless!

PHOEBE _comes into the room_.

HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr. Hugh.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_having looked at the shawl, and_ HONOR, _and connected the matter in her mind_.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape.

HONOR. Papa!

MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right.

HONOR. [_fluttering more than ever._] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey? And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill.

_Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again._ MRS. VOYSEY _sits at the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump cheek. This is her favourite attitude; and she is apt, when reading, to soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover._ MR. VOYSEY _stands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces_.

MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where the taint crept in.

MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself putting in all those strawberry plants.

MARY, _the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner for_ HUGH _and plants it on the table_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting. There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where was it . . [_and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely._]

THE THIRD ACT

_The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon. Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches, biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance of_ PHOEBE, _the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that this is probably a funeral. When_ MARY _comes in the fact that she has evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain_.

MARY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the drawing room.

PHOEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the door.

MARY _got rid of_, PHOEBE _composes her face still more rigorously into the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her apron as well goes to admit the funeral party. The first to enter are_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ MR. BOOTH, _she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very tenderly._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you come in here?

MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.

_With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer.

MRS. VOYSEY. You'll take some lunch?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No.

MRS. VOYSEY. Not a glass of wine?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If there's anything I can do just send round.

MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.

_He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He shakes hands with them both._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Emily! My dear Booth!

EMILY _is a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair._

BOOTH. I think it all went off as he would have wished.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feeling that he is called on for praise._] Great credit . . great credit.

_He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time by_ TRENCHARD VOYSEY, _to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his formula. But_ TRENCHARD _speaks first_.

TRENCHARD. Have you the right time?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_taken aback and fumbling for his watch._] I think so . . I make it fourteen minutes to one. [_he seizes the occasion._] Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't mind me saying how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death closes all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to you that you did not see him before . . before . .

TRENCHARD. [_his cold eye freezing this little gush._] I don't think he asked for me.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_stoppered._] No? No! Well . . well. . .

_At this third attempt to depart he actually collides with someone in the doorway. It is_ HUGH VOYSEY.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude.

_Quite determined to escape he grasps his hand, gasps out his formula and is off._ TRENCHARD _and_ HUGH, _eldest and youngest son, are as unlike each other as it is possible for_ VOYSEYS _to be, but that isn't very unlike_. TRENCHARD _has in excelsis the cocksure manner of the successful barrister_; HUGH _the rather sweet though querulous air of diffidence and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of letters or artist. The self-respect of_ TRENCHARD'S _appearance is immense, and he cultivates that air of concentration upon any trivial matter, or even upon nothing at all, which will some day make him an impressive figure upon the Bench_. HUGH _is always vague, searching Heaven or the corners of the room for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this assembly, to which each member of the family as he arrives adds his share, is unbelievable. Instinct apparently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possible the appearance and conduct of the corpse on which their minds are fixed._ HUGH _is depressed partly at the inadequacy of his grief_; TRENCHARD _conscientiously preserves an air of the indifference which he feels_; BOOTH _stands statuesque at the mantelpiece; while_ EMILY _is by_ MRS. VOYSEY, _whose face in its quiet grief is nevertheless a mirror of many happy memories of her husband_.

BOOTH. I wouldn't hang over her, Emily.

EMILY. No, of course not.

_Apologetically, she sits by the table._

TRENCHARD. I hope your wife is well, Hugh?

HUGH. Thank you, Trench: I think so. Beatrice is in America . . on business.

TRENCHARD. Really!

_There comes in a small, well groomed, bullet headed boy in Etons. This is the Major's eldest son. Looking scared and solemn he goes straight to his mother._

EMILY. Now be very quiet, Christopher . .

_Then_ DENIS TREGONING _appears_.

TRENCHARD. Oh, Tregoning, did you bring Honor back?

DENIS. Yes.

BOOTH. [_at the table._] A glass of wine, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY. What?

BOOTH _hardly knows how to turn his whisper decorously into enough of a shout for his mother to hear. But he manages it._

BOOTH. Have a glass of wine?

MRS. VOYSEY. Sherry, please.

_While he pours it out with an air of its being medicine on this occasion and not wine at all_, EDWARD _comes quickly into the room, his face very set, his mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. No one speaks to him for the moment and he has time to observe them all._ TRENCHARD _is continuing his talk to_ DENIS.

TRENCHARD. Give my love to Ethel. Is she ill that--

TREGONING. Not exactly, but she couldn't very well be with us. I thought perhaps you might have heard. We're expecting . .

_He hesitates with the bashfulness of a young husband._ TRENCHARD _helps him out with a citizen's bow of respect for a citizen's duty_.

TRENCHARD. Indeed. I congratulate you. I hope all will be well. Please give my love . . my best love to Ethel.

BOOTH. [_in an awful voice._] Lunch, Emily?

EMILY. [_scared._] I suppose so, Booth, thank you.

BOOTH. I think the boy had better run away and play . . [_he checks himself on the word._] Well, take a book and keep quiet; d'ye hear me, Christopher?

CHRISTOPHER, _who looks incapable of a sound, gazes at his father with round eyes_. EMILY _whispers "Library" to him and adds a kiss in acknowledgement of his good behaviour. After a moment he slips out, thankfully._

EDWARD. How's Ethel, Denis?

TREGONING. A little smashed, of course, but no harm done.

ALICE MAITLAND _comes in, brisk and businesslike; a little impatient of this universal cloud of mourning_.

ALICE. Edward, Honor has gone to her room. I want to take her some food and make her eat it. She's very upset.

EDWARD. Make her drink a glass of wine, and say it is necessary she should come down here. And d'you mind not coming back yourself, Alice?

ALICE. [_her eyebrows up._] Certainly, if you wish.

BOOTH. [_overhearing._] What's this? What's this?

_Alice gets her glass of wine and goes. The Major is suddenly full of importance._

BOOTH. What is this, Edward?

EDWARD. I have something to say to you all.

BOOTH. What?

EDWARD. Well, Booth, you'll hear when I say it.

BOOTH. Is it business? . . because I think this is scarcely the time for business.

EDWARD. Why?

BOOTH. Do you find it easy and reverent to descend from your natural grief to the consideration of money . . ? I do not. [_he finds_ TRENCHARD _at his elbow._] I hope you are getting some lunch, Trenchard.

EDWARD. This is business and more than business, Booth. I choose now, because it is something I wish to say to the family, not write to each individually . . and it will be difficult to get us all together again.

BOOTH. [_determined at any rate to give his sanction._] Well, Trenchard, as Edward is in the position of trustee--executor . . I don't know your terms . . I suppose there's nothing more to be said.

TRENCHARD. I don't see what your objection is.

BOOTH. [_with some superiority._] Don't you? I should not have called myself a sentimental man, but . .

EDWARD. You had better stay, Denis; you represent Ethel.

TREGONING. [_who has not heard the beginning of this._] Why? . .

HONOR _has obediently come down from her room. She is pale and thin, shaken with grief and worn out besides; for needless to say the brunt of her father's illness, the brunt of everything has been on her. Six weeks nursing, part of it hopeless, will exhaust anyone. Her handkerchief to her eyes and every minute or two she cascades tears._ EDWARD _goes and affectionately puts his arm round her_.

EDWARD. My dear Honor, I am sorry to be so . . so merciless. There! . . there! [_he hands her into the room; then shuts the door; then turns and once more surveys the family, who this time mostly return the compliment. Then he says shortly._] I think you might all sit down. [_But he goes close to his mother and speaks very distinctly, very kindly._] Mother, we're all going to have a little necessary talk over matters . . now, because it's most convenient. I hope it won't . . I hope you don't mind. Will you come to the table?

MRS. VOYSEY _looks up as if understanding more than he says_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Edward . .

EDWARD. Yes, mother?

BOOTH. [_commandingly._] You'll sit here, mother, of course.

_He places her in her accustomed chair at the foot of the table. One by one the others sit down_, EDWARD _apparently last. But then he discovers that_ HUGH _has lost himself in a corner of the room and is gazing into vacancy_.

EDWARD. Hugh, would you mind attending?

HUGH. What is it?

EDWARD. There's a chair.

HUGH _takes it. Then for a minute--while_ EDWARD _is trying to frame in coherent sentences what he must say to them--for a minute there is silence, broken only by_ HONOR'S _sniffs, which culminate at last in a noisy little cascade of tears_.

BOOTH. Honor, control yourself.

_And to emphasise his own perfect control he helps himself majestically to a glass of sherry. Then says_ . .

BOOTH. Well, Edward?

EDWARD. I'll come straight to the point which concerns you. Our father's will gives certain sums to you all . . the gross amount something over a hundred thousand pounds. There will be no money.

_He can get no further than the bare statement, which is received only with varying looks of bewilderment, until_ MRS. VOYSEY, _discovering nothing from their faces, breaks this second silence_.

MRS. VOYSEY. I didn't hear.

HUGH. [_in his mother's ear._] Edward says there's no money.

TRENCHARD. [_precisely._] I think you said . . 'will be.'

BOOTH. [_in a tone of mitigated thunder._] Why will there be no money?

EDWARD. [_letting himself go._] Because every penny by right belongs to those clients whom our father spent his life in defrauding. When I say defrauding, I mean it in its worst sense . . swindling . . thieving. I have been in the swim of it, for the past year . . oh, you don't know the sink of iniquity . . and therefore I mean to collect every penny, any money that you can give me; put the firm into bankruptcy; pay back all these people what we can. I'll stand my trial . . it'll come to that with me . . and as soon as possible. [_he pauses, partly for breath, and glares at them all._] Are none of you going to speak? Quite right, what is there to be said! [_Then with a gentle afterthought._] I'm sorry to hurt you, mother.

_The_ VOYSEY _family is simply buried deep by this avalanche of horror_. MRS. VOYSEY, _though, who has been watching_ EDWARD _closely, says very calmly_.

MRS. VOYSEY. I can't hear quite all you say, but I guess what it is. You don't hurt me, Edward . . I have known of this for a long time.

EDWARD. [_with almost a cry._] Oh, mother, did he know you knew?

MRS. VOYSEY. What do you say?

TRENCHARD. [_collected and dry._] I may as well tell you, Edward, I suspected everything wasn't right about the time of my last quarrel with my father. Of course, I took care not to pursue my suspicions. Was father aware that you knew, Mother?

MRS. VOYSEY. We never discussed it. There was once a great danger . . when you were all younger . . of his being found out. But we never discussed it.

EDWARD. [_swallowing a fresh bitterness._] I'm glad it isn't such a shock to all of you.