Mrs. Reach Haslam's study. A large apartment, richly and suitably furnished. The retreat of one of the most successful, most wealthy, and most majestic novelists in the world. Large and splendid desk (for two people, sitting opposite each other) about the middle of the room. Door back leading to hall, etc. Door, L., leading to drawing-room. Down stage, left, a sofa, which is partly hidden by a screen from the view of anyone entering by door, L. Date calendar on desk. Telephone.

All the Haslams except Charles are in evening dress. Flora is elaborately attired, with a light Egyptian shawl on her shoulders, and a fan.

Time: Same evening. Immediately after dinner.

The Bishop is waiting, alone. Enter to him, from door back, Mrs. Reach Haslam followed by Mr. Reach Haslam.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (As she enters.) Ah! Bishop. How good of you! (Shakes hands.)

Bishop. (Shaking hands with Mr. Reach Haslam.) My dear Mrs. Reach Haslam. Not at all! I blush for my diocese—that such a deplorable and distressing accident should have occurred in it.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Then it really is true?

Bishop. But I told you on the telephone.

Mrs. R. Haslam. I know, I know! I was only hoping against hope that perhaps after all you might have found that the marriage was legal.

Bishop. (Shaking his head.) No. His late father was undoubtedly in orders, his late brother also. But he himself was no more ordained than you are. (To Mr. Reach Haslam, who recoils.) He presumed on his relationships.... In fact, his sole qualification seems to have been two old suits of his brother's.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well, after all, it is perhaps better so.

Bishop. Better, dear lady?

Mrs. R. Haslam. I mean that you have not brought good news at the eleventh hour. Really—— (Looking at Mr. Reach Haslam.)

Mr. R. Haslam. (To whom the Bishop, puzzled, turns for an explanation.) My wife, with her novelist's instinct, perceives the situation that would be created if we had to go into the drawing-room now and say to them suddenly, "Well, you are married, after all."

Mrs. R. Haslam. Excessively delicate. They would naturally have to leave the house at once.

Bishop. Quite so. I cannot tell you how relieved I was to get your wire saying that you had overtaken them in time. Young people make such a mystery of the honeymoon nowadays that often they don't even leave a postal address. A dangerous innovation!

Mr. R. Haslam. Evidently.

Bishop. I gather that you have brought them both here, poor things!

Mrs. R. Haslam. It seemed the wisest course. I consulted my husband, and he quite agreed with me that in view of the unusual circumstances we ought to act with the greatest prudence—for their sakes! And so we motored quietly back to town and got here just in time for dinner. My son drove. I sat by his side. There wasn't room for their heavy luggage, and so Charlie is bringing that up by train. Charles is my other son.... (Sighs.) And here we are!

Bishop. Admirable! It's a case of——

Mr. R. Haslam. As you were.

Bishop. Just so! Really a terrible blow to them—must have been! And to you, and to you! An appalling shock! How have they borne it?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well—(turning to Mr. R. Haslam). Father, how should you say they have borne it?

Mr. R. Haslam. Grimly. That is—on the grim side.

Bishop. Ah!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Of course, my Lord, we are taking it for granted that the matter can be put right to-morrow, without fail, and beyond question. I have tried to comfort them with that absolute assurance.

Bishop. My dear lady. Without fail! At any hour! any hour ... up to three o'clock. That is why I have come specially to town—to convince you by my presence of my horror at the—er—crime, my sympathy with its innocent victims, and my utter determination that the ceremony shall be performed again to-morrow morning under my personal supervision and guarantee. I feel that I cannot do too much.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Will you excuse my husband while he deals with the post?

Bishop. I beg—— (Mr. Reach Haslam sits down to desk and takes the post. Exeunt Servants.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. I ought to apologise for receiving you in my study, but I thought—my husband thought—we had better see you first alone. Are those the press cuttings, father?

Bishop. But for this unfortunate contretemps, what a charming coincidence that your new book should be published to-day of all days!

Mrs. R. Haslam. So you find time in your busy life, Bishop, to keep abreast of modern literature—even novels?

Bishop. Even novels! My dear lady, there is no greater force for good.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Or for evil—alas!

Bishop. Quite so! I have often thought—I have indeed said so from the platform—that the two most truly important influences for good in our generation are your novels and the leaflets of the National Society for Promoting the Education of the Poor in the Principles of the Established Church.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Indeed! Father, do you recall that press-cutting?

Mr. R. Haslam. (Busy.) No.

Bishop. It was reported in our Diocesan Magazine.

Mrs. R. Haslam. And yet, my dear Bishop, I have more than once felt it my duty to criticise the Church rather sharply in my work.

Bishop. I know, I know. We bow the head, we kiss the rod.

Mrs. R. Haslam. In my new novel I am back in politics again. Have you seen it yet?

Bishop. No, not yet. But I have already ordered it from Boot's.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Boot's?

Bishop. Yes, the cash chemists. I find their circulating library the most economical of all. And I have to be particular. As you know, I publish every year a detailed account of all my expenditure, personal and otherwise, and too large a sum for books might be misconstrued as self-indulgence, especially in a bachelor.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Ah, yes. (Handing him a book.) Here is a copy.

Bishop. Pretty cover.

Mr. R. Haslam. (To his wife, in a low tone.) Twenty-one columns.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Pleased.) Really!

Bishop. (Looking up.) Twenty-one columns?

Mrs. R. Haslam. We are treating you without ceremony, my dear Bishop. My husband has just calculated the total length of the reviews of my book that have appeared in the London papers on the first day. Of course we attach no value whatever to the actual opinions expressed—the critics have to work in such a hurry—and they are so sadly unfitted for their work, poor dears—but the amount of space given is an excellent indication of the public importance ascribed to the book.

Bishop. (Who has been inspecting the book.) How true!

Mrs. R. Haslam. (To Mr. Reach Haslam.) Anything special?

Mr. R. Haslam. No. "Surpassed herself," seven or eight times. "Masterpiece," fourteen times. The "Piccadilly Gazette" is unfavourable.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Very?

Mr. R. Haslam. Yes.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Better tell me.

Mr. R. Haslam. (Deprecating gesture, reads.) "The book is of course admirable in workmanship, knowledge and insight, but Mrs. Reach Haslam has not, if the truth must be told, surpassed herself."

Mrs. R. Haslam. If I'd known about that when I saw their lady reporter this morning!...

Bishop. (Putting the book down.) Enthralling narrative! Enthralling! Now, my dear lady (rising).

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Interrupting him.) Please sit down. As you are having a glimpse of me in my profession to-night, I want to ask you one or two professional questions—about the psychology of that false curate.

Bishop. (Sitting down again.) Yes, yes. Psychology. Just so.

Mrs. R. Haslam. I never lose an opportunity of gathering material. Father, will you mind taking down? My husband is good enough to act as my stenographer.

Bishop. Touching!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Now I noticed nothing remarkable about that curate.

Bishop. (Agreeing.) No. And yet, you know—curious thing—he's a gentleman, quite! Oh, quite! And I even remember once meeting his father, when I was Court Chaplain, at a garden party in aid of the Additional Curates Society.

Mr. R. Haslam. (Repeating what he has written.) Curates Society.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But why should he choose to personate a curate? That is what is so interesting to a novelist. Why a curate? It couldn't have been for the money, or the glory.

Mr. R. Haslam. Glory.

Bishop. The case is highly peculiar. He is certainly not without means, or brains. My opinion is that his action was due to excessive intellectual curiosity. He told me he wanted to feel what it was like to be a curate.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Yet he looked quite sane.

Bishop. Oh, quite! Astonishing story! His brother, through the influence of the Primate, had been engaged as curate, by the Vicar of St. Saviour's, Chelmsford, subject to an interview. This brother had been doing some chaplaining in Switzerland—just rough winter work. On the way home he died suddenly in Paris. Well, our friend of this morning calmly took up the dead man's identity. Came to Chelmsford, conquered the simple Vicar, and was at once accepted. That was two months ago.

Mr. R. Haslam. Ago.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But how dangerous.

Bishop. So I pointed out to him. His reply was that it was just the danger that had attracted him—coupled with the desire to understand why the members of his family had had such a passion for curacy. It seems that two of his sisters have espoused curates. This will be a grievous blow for all of them.

Mr. R. Haslam. All of them.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But why should the man be struck with remorse just now?

Bishop. Well, his explanation is that he was so moved by the bride's beauty.

Mr. R. Haslam. Duty.

Bishop. Beauty. (Gesture of mild triumph from Mr. Reach Haslam to Mrs. Reach Haslam.) He could not bear to think that any action of his should cause—er—inconvenience to a woman so beautiful. Hence he came to me at once. Fortunately I happened to be at the Palace.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Had he performed any other marriages?

Bishop. Happily none; but he had celebrated ten funerals and four baptisms. However these did not seem to trouble him in the least, I regret to say. It was the wedding alone that roused his conscience.

Mr. R. Haslam. Conscience.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Of course you sent for the police.

Bishop. I trust and believe that he is now in prison. But I did not send for the police. The Church has its dignity to maintain against the civil judicature in these modern days. Also with so much irreligion—shall I say?—flaunting in the very air, She must avoid scandal—particularly local scandal. London scandal is less deleterious. Accordingly I brought the young man up to town with me, and I put him into a cab for the police-station, where he will surrender himself of his own free will to the law. I prefer that way. It is, perhaps, original; but nowadays we Bishops have to be original.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But do you really suppose he has surrendered?

Bishop. I am sure of it. I cannot pretend to your skill in reading character, dear lady, but I know a gentleman at sight.

Mr. R. Haslam. Sight.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Of course, if one put such a story into a novel, it would never be believed. That's the worst of real life.

Bishop. And yet this distressing affair reminded me strongly of the false archdeacon in "The Woman of Kent."

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Pleased.) Ah! You remember my early book?

Bishop. (Protestingly.) My dear lady! You have no more earnest student! And may I add that from the first I found that episode of the false archdeacon entirely convincing. Its convincingness was one of the very few points on which I shared the opinions of the late Mr. Gladstone. "The Woman of Kent" has always been a favourite of mine among your novels. It must have had a vast circulation.

Mrs. R. Haslam. How many copies, father?

Mr. R. Haslam. (Without looking up from the desk.) One hundred and seventy-two thousand.

Bishop. Wonderful memory!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Is it not? He knows more about my books than I do myself, far more.

Bishop. Touching. (Rising.) I must go—reluctantly. Now what time shall we say for to-morrow morning? I am absolutely at your disposal.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But do we understand that you mean to conduct the ceremony in person?

Bishop. I do. I wish particularly to show by my presence at the altar my sense of what complete reparation is due to you—due to you all.

Mrs. R. Haslam. I think we had better consult Flora herself. (Rings bell.) As you know, my original intention was that you should be asked to preside at the ceremony. But the young people insisted on a simple curate—doubtless from modesty, my dear Bishop.... Would that I had been firm in the first instance!

(Enter Cuthbert, back.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Is Mrs. Lloyd in the drawing-room?

Cuthbert. Yes, ma'am.

Mrs. R. Haslam. With Mr. Cedric?

Cuthbert. No, ma'am. She is alone.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Will you tell her that I should be very much obliged if she could join us here for a moment.

Cuthbert. Yes, ma'am.... A representative of the "Piccadilly Gazette" has just called, ma'am—for information. A male representative.

Mrs. R. Haslam. "The Piccadilly"! (To Mr. R. Haslam.) The audacity! (To Cuthbert.) About what? (Cuthbert makes a gesture of embarrassment.) You told him to call again to-morrow?

Cuthbert. No, ma'am. He's waiting.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Father, would you mind going out to him? (Exit Cuthbert.) I really wonder at Cuthbert! (To Bishop.) We have an absolute rule against seeing journalists after dinner. As you know, Bishop, I detest notoriety. Hence our rule. And yet Cuthbert allows this man to wait!

Mr. R. Haslam. (Going to door.) Cuthbert is not himself. Cuthbert has been staggered by the events of the day. The strain of pretending that nothing in the least unusual has happened must be tremendous. Allowance should be made for Cuthbert. How shall I treat this invader?

(The Bishop dips into the novel.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well, without actually mentioning their review, perhaps you might just indicate by your manner——

Mr. R. Haslam. These journalists are so obtuse, but still——

Mrs. R. Haslam. I think perhaps if you said that we cannot understand how a purely private matter can interest the public, but that if they must know, the Bishop is here in person, and—— (Mr. Reach Haslam nods.) You think that will be judicious?

Mr. R. Haslam. Quite. (Exit back.)

Bishop. (Putting down the book.) Enthralling!

(Enter Flora, L.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Flora, darling, this is the Bishop of Chelmsford—Mrs. Lloyd, my—er—prospective daughter-in-law.

Flora. (Stiffly.) My lord.

Bishop. My dear young lady, I have already tried to express to Mrs. Haslam my consternation, my shame, at the——

Flora. (Smiling coldly.) I am sure that is sufficient.

Mrs. R. Haslam. The Bishop has come to town specially to see us, Flora. In order to guard against any possibility of further accident, he has kindly suggested that he should officiate himself to-morrow morning.

Flora. (To Bishop.) It's really very good of you.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Relieved.) Is it not?

Bishop. At what hour? I am entirely at your disposal.

Flora. Oh, any time!

Bishop. Noon? If you come down by the nine-fifteen train——

Flora. That will do perfectly.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Where is Cedric, dear?

Flora. I have no idea. Shall I see? (Exit, L.)

Bishop. The dear child has evidently been much upset.

Mrs. R. Haslam. We all have.

Bishop. Ravishing creature! Who was Mr. Lloyd?

Mrs. R. Haslam. He seems to have been on the Stock Exchange. He was a Chelmsford man, and had a house just outside the town.

Bishop. Indeed! I never met him. Did he leave a large fortune?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Oh, no! The house—not much else, I believe.

Bishop. Probably an admiration for your work was the original basis of the—er——

Mrs. R. Haslam. Oh, no! I was first introduced to Mrs. Lloyd by Charlie, my second son. In fact, quite confidentially, Bishop; we thought it was a match between them.

Bishop. But heaven decided otherwise?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Cedric decided otherwise.

(Enter Mr. R. Haslam, back.)

Mr. R. Haslam. Flora tells me that it is arranged for to-morrow.

Bishop. Yes. I have just been hearing from Mrs. Haslam how this beautiful young lady has attracted both your sons.

Mr. R. Haslam. Very catching. Ran through the family.

Bishop. Ha, ha! (Seriously.) Ravishing creature!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Has Charlie come yet?

Mr. R. Haslam. No.

Mrs. R. Haslam. If he isn't here soon I fear he'll be late for the office. And he's had no sleep to-day, poor boy. (To Bishop.) Charles is the assistant manager of the circulation department of the "Daily Sentinel," and his hours are from 9.30 at night till three in the morning.

Bishop. How trying! I'm afraid we little think when we open our newspaper at breakfast—I always read the "Sentinel"—we little think what an immense amount of endeavour——

(Enter Charles, back.)

Charles. Hullo! Mater. No trace of any dinner for me in the dining-room. Here you stick me up with the luggage and all the dirty work——

Mrs. R. Haslam. Charles, the Bishop of Chelmsford.

Bishop. We have met once before, I think. (Shaking hands.) Now, dear Mrs. Haslam (looking at his watch), I have half an hour to get to Liverpool Street.

Mrs. R. Haslam. You return to Chelmsford to-night?

Bishop. Essential! I have a midnight procession of drunkards. You know they call me "the drunkards' Bishop." I am proud of the title.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Shaking hands.) Exceedingly good of you to have come.

Bishop. Not at all. The obligation is mine for your forbearance. Now—may I presume on our slight acquaintanceship? If at any time you should think of adding a Bishop to your wonderful gallery of contemporary portraits, and I could be of assistance—need I say more?

Mrs. R. Haslam. I have already drawn two.

Bishop. Really?

Mr. R. Haslam. Suffragans, my dear.

Bishop. Ah! Suffragans! I thought I could not have forgotten two Bishops. Till to-morrow then, at noon. Young man, till to-morrow. (Shakes hands with Charles.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. (As Bishop and Mr. R. Haslam go out.) Father, would you mind speaking firmly to Cuthbert about Charlie's dinner?

(Exeunt Bishop and Mr. Reach Haslam, back.)

Charles. Why the Bishop?

Mrs. R. Haslam. He came up specially to arrange for to-morrow. Certainly it was the least he could do.

Charles. To-morrow?

Mrs. R. Haslam. The wedding.

Charles. Oh yes, of course, I was forgetting.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Really, Charlie, you get more and more absent-minded as you grow older. I'm not sorry Cedric won't let you meddle with aeroplanes. The wedding will be at noon to-morrow. We go down by the nine-fifteen.

Charles. With all that luggage again! It would have been simpler to leave it where it was. Seven trunks! What with cabs, tips, fares, excess, and a special omnibus, somebody owes me one pound thirteen, not to speak of compensation for the total loss of tea, dinner, and temper.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well, you are always enthusiastic about Flora's clothes. We acted for the best. We couldn't tell exactly what would happen. Fortunately the Bishop saw at once that it was his duty to take things in hand himself.

Charles. I should say that what the Bishop saw was a chance of getting himself into one of your books, mater.

Mrs. R. Haslam. That also is possible.

Charles. (Imitating the Bishop.) "Need I say more?" What a cuckoo!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Charles!

(Enter Cedric, L.)

Cedric. Has that dashed Bishop actually departed? I began to think he was going to spend the night here.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Cedric! I am ready to make great allowances, but I really do not know what has come over my sons.

Cedric. Sorry, mother. (To Charles.) Hello! You back?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Flora's told you it's all arranged for noon to-morrow?

Cedric. No. Haven't seen her.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Well, it is. And now, my boys, you can't stay any longer in your mother's study. My article for "Harper's" must absolutely be finished to-night. Your father and I had been expecting a placid afternoon and evening of work.

Charles. By the way, Rick. About that Klopstock business. Of course you've seen the papers. (Cedric nods.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Oh, yes. I quite intended to mention that, Cedric; but really one has had so many things to think about—and my article, too! How very awkward it is, isn't it?

Charles. I met one of our johnnies at Liverpool Street, and he was a little excited about it. And I may inform you it isn't often our johnnies do get excited.

Cedric. Oh! (Sits down on sofa.)

Charles. He told me they'd received a later wire at the office, from Breslau, saying that Klopstock has had a private trial over a mountain near there—I forget the name—and done it, my boy! Done it on his head!

Cedric. Has he, indeed?

Charles. And he'll be over here in a week or ten days, it seems. They want to know at the office exactly what you're going to do. So I told the johnnie I should be seeing you to-night, and I'd bring an official message. I had to explain to him a bit what had happened—couldn't help it. I suppose you'll be forced to cut the honeymoon next week and begin to get things into shape at once.

Mrs. R. Haslam. It is annoying for you, dear, and for Flora, too!

Cedric. I shan't do any such thing.

Charles. You surely won't let him——

Cedric. I shan't do anything for a full month.

Charles. Do you mean to say you'll let Klopstock get in first.

Cedric. If Klopstock chooses to try during my honeymoon, I can't help that, can I? Let somebody else have a shot. I'm not the only aviator in England, confound it!

Mrs. R. Haslam. Cedric!

Charles. You're the only aviator in England that can get in front of Klopstock over Snowdon.

Cedric. I can't help that.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But, Cedric—surely your duty——

Cedric. Oh! d—— (stopping himself).

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Recalling her.) Flora.

Flora. (With false simplicity.) So you are back, Charlie. What an angel you've been to worry yourself with all that big luggage.

Charlie. Oh! That's all right (surveying her). I see you had at least one frock in the portmanteau. We were just discussing the Snowdon flight. So you two have decided——

Flora. No, we really settled nothing. Cedric alone settles that, of course. All questions relating to aeroplanes should be addressed to the head of the flying department and not to the firm.

Cedric. (Rising, with restrained savageness.) I tell you I shall do nothing whatever for a full month. (Exit, L.)

Charles. (Trying to break the extreme awkwardness caused by Cedric's behaviour, in a bantering but affectionate tone.) I suspect the fact is that the bones of a husband are doubly precious in her sight.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But you don't really think there is any special danger, do you, Flora dear?

Flora. Of course not. If I wasn't convinced that Cedric in his aeroplane is a great deal safer than Charlie in a motor-car, or Paderewski at the end of a concert, or a cabinet minister at a public meeting, should I have gone as far as marrying him?

Mrs. R. Haslam. Then, seeing how serious it is for the country, why——

Flora. My dear, you must ask Cedric. I don't interfere with business.

(Enter Cuthbert, back.)

Cuthbert. A Mr. Frampington, to see the Bishop, ma'am. I told him his Grace had gone, and now he asks to see either you or Mr. Haslam.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Mr. Frampington? Where is your master?

Cuthbert. I believe he's in the kitchen at the moment, ma'am.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Frampington?

Charles. Wasn't that the name of our young hopeful this morning?

Flora. (Brightening again.) The imitation curate? Of course it was!

Mrs. R. Haslam. But surely——

Cuthbert. He bears no resemblance to a curate, ma'am.

Flora. Then it is he! Oh! if it is, do let's see him! In private life he must be extremely interesting. (To Cuthbert.) Show him in, will you, please?

(Exit Cuthbert.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. Flora—really I don't know what's come over you all!

Flora. It seems to me that the curate has come over us all.

(Enter Cuthbert, and Frampington in tourist attire.)

(Exit Cuthbert.)

Frampington. (In a quite natural, easy tone.) We meet again. I'm so sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Haslam, but I'm in a slight difficulty, and I hoped to find the Bishop here.

Mrs. R. Haslam. The Bishop left a few minutes ago.

Flora. Won't you sit down? (Outraged glance from Mrs. R. Haslam. Frampington sits down calmly.) May one inquire what this slight difficulty is?

Frampington. (After a little hesitation.) I suppose the Bishop has explained everything?

Mrs. R. Haslam. So far as everything is capable of explanation, yes.

Frampington. I'm glad of that. It makes the situation so much easier. No doubt the Bishop gave you all the messages of apology and regret that I asked him to deliver on my behalf.

Flora. (To Mrs. Reach Haslam.) Did he?

Mrs. R. Haslam. No. He only spoke for himself.

Frampington. That was not nice of him.

Mrs. R. Haslam. He told us you were a gentleman——

Frampington. Generous!

Mrs. R. Haslam. And that you had promised to go to the police-station and give yourself up of your own accord.

Frampington. Quite correct. And as soon as I'd got something to eat I took a cab and went to Vine Street. Well, they refused to take me in.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Refused to take you in!

Frampington. Wouldn't even take my name.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But did you tell them clearly what you'd done—your crime?

Frampington. I was most explicit.

Flora. I suppose it is a crime.

Frampington. Oh, yes! It's a crime all right. As far as the Bishop and I could make out, it means anything up to three years; but I must say the episcopal library at Chelmsford isn't very strong in criminal law. It seems to deal chiefly with vegetarianism and drunkenness.

Mrs. R. Haslam. (Brushing all this aside.) I may be dull, Mr.——

Frampington. Frampington.

Mrs. R. Haslam. But I don't yet understand why you've come here.

Flora. Mr. Frampington was going to explain how it was the police-station was so inhospitable.

Frampington. The Inspector wouldn't believe my story. He thought I was a practical joker.

Flora. And don't you think you are?

Frampington. (Judicially.) Depends how one looks at it. I feel sure I should have been more convincing if I hadn't changed my clothes. But the Bishop insisted on me doing that, and so I put on the only suit I had. And then I found I'd chosen a bad night. Owing to these vivisection riots, they were doing a big business in medical students at Vine Street. In fact, my suspicion is that all their cells were engaged. And there's another thing—I don't think I ought to have gone to Vine Street. Vine Street specialises in what you may call West End cases—pocket-picking, confidence tricks, murder, aristocratic inebriety, and so on. It runs in a groove. But then Vine Street was the only police-station that I was personally acquainted with—a youthful souvenir of Boatrace night—and so I went there. It was a mistake.

Mrs. R. Haslam. I'm afraid you didn't insist.

Frampington. Yes. I did. I insisted so much that at last the Inspector got cross and said that if I didn't clear he should lock me up.

Mrs. R. Haslam. And wasn't that enough for you, my man?

Frampington. (Starting slightly at the appellation.) It was too much. I naturally wanted to be locked up for the right thing. The truth is the Inspector thought I was drunk—probably because I was so calm. One of the constables said I—er—smelt of drink.

Mrs. R. Haslam. And did you?

Frampington. Certainly not. Beyond half-a-pint of Bordeaux at the Ritz, I assure you I had had nothing whatever.

Flora. The Ritz?

Frampington. Why not, madam?

Flora. As you say, why not!

Frampington. It was handy for Vine Street, and this being my last night of freedom, you see—— As a novelist, Mrs. Haslam, you will understand I had a natural desire to do myself well.

Mrs. R. Haslam. The only thing I understand is that you seem to have come here for the pleasure of hearing yourself talk.

Frampington. (Rising simply.) I beg your pardon. I came here to ask the Bishop to accompany me to the police-station as corroborative evidence. When your servant told me he wasn't here, the idea occurred to me that perhaps some member of your family wouldn't mind going with me—just to identify me.

Mrs. R. Haslam. Charlie, you'd better go on your way to the office.

Charles. That's all very well, but——

Frampington. It would be very good of you. But I really think we ought to try another police-station. Bow Street would be better—more classical—if it isn't too much off your beat.

Flora. Why don't you go to Liverpool Street?

Frampington. But Liverpool Street is not a police-station.

Flora. No. But it's a railway station. Chelmsford isn't the only place it leads to. There's Harwich, for instance, the continent—— (Smiles.)

Mrs. R. Haslam. (In a low voice.) Really, Flora! Christianity can be carried too far.

Frampington. (To Flora.) I should be caught. And, honestly, I prefer the new experience which lies before me. It can't last long. And new experiences are my hobby.

Flora. But this is serious. You mayn't get a long sentence, but when you're discharged from prison you'll be a social outcast.

Frampington. Oh, no, I shan't. In two years time I come into twenty thousand pounds.

Flora. I see.

Frampington. (To Charles.) May I count on your help? (Bowing adieu to Mrs. R. Haslam.) Madam. (To Flora.) Mrs. Lloyd, your sympathy is very remarkable, and I appreciate it. Please accept my sincerest apologies for any temporary inconvenience I may have caused you. I assure you, this morning I didn't realise until afterwards the awful seriousness of what I'd done.

Flora. Neither did I. Well, good luck! (Shakes hands with him to the deep astonishment of Mrs. Reach Haslam.)