  [Scene, the shady piazza of the hotel at Marianao, Cuba. Time, nine o’clock on a hot March morning. Miss Peltonville and Arthur Chester tÊte-À-tÊte.] She. Why did you follow us to Cuba? He. I have already told you that I thought you were in Florida. She. Yes? And so you came to Marianao, where nobody comes at this time of year, in order that you might be perfectly safe from an encounter, I suppose. He. Oh, I—that is; precisely. She. I had a letter from Annie Cleaves yesterday. He. Had you? She. Yes; and she said you told her that you were coming to Cuba to find me. He. Oh, that’s nothing. It isn’t to be supposed I told her the truth. She. Do you speak the truth so seldom, then? Is there no dependence to be put on what you say? He. None whatever; otherwise I should be continually hampered by the necessity of conforming my actions to my words. You can see yourself how inconvenient that would be. She. For one who has had so little practice, very likely; but then you would find it a novel experience, I have no doubt. He. Ah, you have given me an idea. I’ll try it when all other novelties in life are exhausted. She. Don’t put it off too long, or from the force of habit you may find it impossible. He. You underrate my adaptability. She. Meanwhile I wish to know why you came. He. Since you are here yourself, you might be supposed to regard the place as sufficiently interesting to attract the traveller. She. Then you decline to tell me? He. Oh, no; I came because you amuse me. She. Thank you for nothing. He. And consequently I am in love with you, as I did myself the honor to mention before you left New York. She. Am I to understand that amusement is your idea of love? He. Love certainly must be something that does not bore one. She. But it seems a somewhat limited view to take. He. Oh, it is only one way out of many; I assure you I have quantities of ideas upon the subject, all founded upon experience. I loved Lottie Greenwell because she made a glorious champagne cup. Indeed, for ten days I positively adored her, until one night she put in too much curaÇoa, and I She. You excel in nice metaphysical distinctions. He. Then there was Miss French. I loved her because she snubbed me,—just as I loved Nora Delaney for her riding, and Annie Cleaves for her music. She. And now you love me, I am to understand, as suited to the position of court jester to your Royal Highness. He. One must have some sort of a reason for being in love. She. But one needn’t be in love. He. Oh, yes; life is very dull otherwise; and besides, I have always thought it very stupid to marry without having been in love a dozen times at least. One is apt to lose his head otherwise; She. So you advertise yourself as a marrying man? He. Every bachelor is a marrying man. It is only a question of finding a convenient wife. She. Like a convenient house, I suppose. He. Exactly. She. I wonder any woman ever consents to marry a man. He. They know their own sex too well to be willing to marry a woman. She. But men are such selfish creatures! He. You are amazingly pretty when you toss your head that way. It is worth coming from New York to see. She. It is well you think so; otherwise you might consider your voyage a waste of time. He. What, with the certainty of your consenting to marry me? She. I like your assurance! Why should I marry you? He. I supposed that with your sex the fact of my amazing attachment would be a sufficient reason. She. Your knowledge of our sex is then remarkably limited. Apparently, whether I happen to love you is of no particular consequence. He. Oh, love is said to beget love. She. But you love me, you say, because I amuse He. Do you know what a tremendously hot day it is? She. I don’t see the connection, and I am sure I am cool enough. He. But you make it very hot for me! How picturesque that ragged fellow over there looks, riding on the top of his high saddle. She. With a string of mules tied to his horse’s tail. I am fond of the mules, their bells are so musical. He. And their bray. She. And the muleteers sing such weird songs. I hear them going by about four o’clock in the morning, on their way to the Havana market, and the effect is most fascinating. He. I should have expected you to be fond of the mules. She. Why? He. A fellow feeling is said to have a softening effect, and the mule’s strongest characteristic is— She. Consistency! He. And as I was about to remark, we are apt to value others most for the virtues we do not ourselves possess. She. You are sufficiently rude. He. There is always danger that honesty will be thought rude. She. Really, you begin to amuse me. Please go on; I would like to try falling in love on the amusement plan; it must be very droll. He. Oh, bother the amusement! Like the young ladies in novels, I would be loved for myself alone. She. I fear that would be more difficult than the other way. What have you ever done to make me admire you? He. Perhaps nothing. Admiration presupposes the capability of appreciation. She. Ah! What have you done, then, worthy of admiration? He. I have managed to find you at Marianao, and bring about a tÊte-À-tÊte before I have been here fifteen hours. She. Wonderful man! And of all that, what comes? He. That I ask you to marry me. That is certainly something. She. Yes; it isn’t much, and you have done it before. But as you say, it is certainly something. He. You are always flattering! Really, one wouldn’t have expected you to be light now, when it is my deepest affections and all that sort of touching thing with which you are trifling. She. You are a humbug! He. Of course; so are you; so is everybody. Civilization is merely the apotheosis of humbug. She. My friend, that trick of striving after epigram is fast making you as bad as a confirmed punster. He. Still, it is all true. I am a humbug in proposing to you; you, if you reject me— She. I certainly do, most emphatically and finally! He. You make me the happiest of men. She. You make your system of humbug far too complicated for me to follow. He. Why, this is genuine. She. Anything genuine from you, I fear, is impossible. He. Oh, no; I have to be genuine occasionally, for the sake of contrast. The humbug was in asking you to marry me, and I wouldn’t have had you say yes for the world. She. I never suspected you of insanity, Mr. Chester. Am I to infer that the climate of Cuba, or the wines— He. Oh, neither, I assure you. Besides, Cuba has no wines, as you ought to know. Now, see; I’ll do you the rare honor of telling you the truth. Of course, you are at liberty to believe it or not, as you please; and very likely you won’t, because it happens to be as true as the Gospel, revised version. Some days since, I asked Annie Cleaves to marry me. She. What particular thing had she been playing to rouse you to that point of enthusiasm? He. If my memory serves me, it was the Chopin Nocturne in G minor. She did play extremely well, and as we happened to be in the conservatory afterward, I improved the opportunity to propose. She. Oh, very naturally! He. It is a form of words that comes very readily to my lips, as you know. Annie confessed to that very superfluous and old-fashioned sentiment called love, which wasn’t in good form, I’ll admit; but in consideration for the object of her attachment, and the fact that on that particular evening I was in love myself, I managed to overlook it. She. Very good of you, I’m sure. I hope Annie appreciated your generosity. He. Very likely she didn’t. Your sex very seldom do appreciate masculine virtues; but Annie has a far more old-fashioned and worse vice than love. Why, the girl, in the midst of these enlightened nineteenth-century days, actually goes to the nonsensical bother of keeping a conscience! It must be more trouble to attend to, Agnes, than her aunt Wheeler’s seven pet poodles and three red-headed parrots. She. I suppose you are right. You don’t speak from experience, though, do you? He. Oh, no; I never had a conscience: as a boy, I preferred white mice; now I have my horses, you know. She. And your innumerable loves. He. If such trifles are to be taken into account. She. Go on about Annie. He. Well, on my confessing how far I had carried my flirtation with you— I can’t, for the life of me, tell how I happened to speak of it; I am usually more discreet. She. I should hope so. He. Oh, I am, I assure you; but the loves are so numerous, while I am but one, that they sometimes get the better of my discretion. What is one among so many? She. Oh, in this case, absolutely nothing. He. Thank you again. She. But to continue— He. Well, to continue, Annie actually seemed to think that you had some sort of claim upon me. Fancy! She. She needn’t have troubled. He. Oh, of course not. Why, I have offered myself to dozens of girls, with no more idea of marrying them than I have of becoming a howling dervish; and more than that, I have habitually been accepted. That is one thing about you that attracted me, do you know? There is a beautiful novelty about being rejected. She. So that is the secret of my amusing you, is it? You ought to have explained this to Annie. He. Oh, she wouldn’t have understood. Like every other girl, ’twas the personal application that She. Really, Arthur, that’s so hackneyed that if you haven’t the gallantry not to say it you ought to be ashamed to repeat anything so stale. He. Perhaps you are right; I have known you to be on very rare occasions. However, Annie insisted that I should come, and, as she said, “assure myself of your sentiments and of my own.” Did you ever hear anything more absurd? As if I didn’t know, all the time, that you were dying for me; and as if I—despite my mad and overpowering passion for your lovely self, Miss Peltonville—couldn’t tell as well in New York as in Cuba whether I wanted to marry her or not. She. If you were no better informed of your own sentiments than of mine, I don’t wonder she doubted your conclusions. He. Oh, she didn’t in the least. She. At least, Annie may set her mind quite at rest, so far as I am concerned. He. Thank you so much. It is such a relief to have things settled. She. What would you have done if I had accepted you? He. Oh, I was confident of my ability of putting the question so that you wouldn’t. She. I have almost a mind to do it, even now. He. Really? She. Oh, don’t be alarmed. There is one insuperable obstacle. He. What is that? She. Yourself. He. Then I am quite safe. That is a permanent one. She. Well, I wish Annie joy of her bargain. She is worthy of a better fate; and since we are talking frankly, I must say that what she can see in you I can’t imagine. He. These things are so strange; there is no accounting for them. Why, I have been perfectly puzzled—do you know?—ever since I came last night, to tell what I found in you last winter. She. Since we seem to be striving to outdo each other in abuse, it is quite in keeping for me to add, that I have no occasion to bother my head on such a question, for I never pretended to have found anything in you. He. But then, as I said, you amused me; and one may sometimes be so far amused that— She. His amusement may even amount to astonishment, perhaps; and, by the way, that gentleman on the gray horse, just coming between the China laurels with papa, expects to marry me. He. Fred Armstrong, by all that is unspeakable! Agnes Peltonville, I humble myself in the She. Yes; and how? He. I was always jealous of Fred Armstrong; he was forever dangling about Annie. Do I understand that you are engaged? She. Oh, I didn’t say that I expected to marry him; but since Annie confesses such a strong attachment to you— He. Oh, I didn’t say I was the object of the attachment. [They sit confronting each other in silence a moment, until the riders, having dismounted, are seen approaching the piazza. Then Chester leans forward impulsively, and speaks with a new intensity.] He. Agnes! She. Arthur! He. Quick! Before they come! You won’t send me away? She. But— He. No, no more nonsense; I am in dead earnest now. You know I couldn’t live without you, or I shouldn’t have followed you to Cuba. She. And Annie Cleaves? He. Oh, if you had a letter from her yesterday, you must know she’s engaged to Bob Wainwright. Is it yes? She. (rising.) It would be a pity that you should have come so far for nothing. [As he rises also he manages to catch her hand, which he clasps joyously before the pair go forward to meet the new-comers.] He. I hope you had a pleasant ride, Mr. Peltonville? I like Marianao so well that I have concluded to remain a while.
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