Ornate drawing-room in Sir Jasper Mottram's house. Centre is a large window giving access to a balcony. It is, however, evening, and the drawn curtains conceal the balcony. Door left. Light wall colouring and carpet. Fireplace right. No fire. Chesterfield right centre. Light arm-chairs left and left centre. Japanese screen before fireplace. Large Japanese jar in left corner.

Gladys Mottram is sitting on the Chesterfield reading a novel. She is in evening dress, a pretty, flirtatious, empty-headed girl, bored with her daily life and seizing eagerly on any distraction. Freddie Mottram, her brother, is 30, and conceals real kindness behind his flippant manner. He doesn't go deep and he likes money, but he is on good terms with the world and doesn't mind a little trouble or even unconventionality to put the world on good terms with him. He is fair, with fair moustache, and his figure is that of the ex-athlete who could still give a good account of himself. He leans back in the arm-chair, yawning and consulting his watch, glancing at Gladys, entrenched behind her book, again yawning and making up his mind to address her.

---

Fred (nursing a grievance). I say, Gladys, how much longer do you expect me to wait?

Glad. (looking up from her book, calmly). Till Mr. Garside goes.

Fred. And he hasn't come yet. Just when I particularly want to go out, too. It's all very well for the governor to be civil to him. He's got to. But I do bar doing the honours myself to a horny-handed son of toil.

Glad. (putting her book beside her, face downwards. With an air of resignation). You don't particularly want to go out. You're only going to the Club.

Fred. (seriously). But I particularly want to go to the Club.

Glad. You go every night.

Fred. Every night isn't my lucky night. Thursday is. I always win on Thursdays. The governor ought to do his own dirty work. He's Mayor, not I. Cutting his duty, I call it, being away to-night just when I'm bound to make money.

Glad. He'll be here when he's ready. He's going to be late on purpose.

Fred. Very much on purpose. Yes. There you've got it. He had Rankin and Beverley here to dinner together. Quite right, too. Rankin's a Radical rotter, but he's a gentleman. When it comes to Garside the governor shirks and leaves it to us. Why on earth he wants to ask a Labour candidate here at all simply floors me.

Glad. He has to treat them all alike.

Fred. Then he should have had Garside to dinner, and given us some sport over the asparagus.

Glad. That wasn't necessary.

Fred. And this isn't necessary. Rankin and Beverley, by all means. They're probables. But why waste time on an outsider like Garside? It'll only swell his head to be our guest.

Glad. He isn't an outsider.

Fred. You don't say the governor's taking him seriously.

Glad. He's taking him very seriously.

Fred (horrified). Oh, I say. No. It's absurd.

Glad. Garside's making headway fast. He's a fine speaker, and he's popular.

Fred. A mechanic a fine speaker! Rot! Who says so?

Glad. I for one. I've heard him.

Fred. You have! It's a quaint taste.

Glad. More than once.

Fred. (sarcastically). Making a hobby of it? (Seriously.) Where?

Glad. In the street.

Fred, (genuinely shocked). You've been listening to a tub-thumper at street corners? I say, hang it, Gladys, there are things people don't do.

Glad. The first time was an accident.

Fred. The second was a crime.

Glad, (rising, and speaking enthusiastically). I went again because I admired the man. I liked to hear that ringing voice, to be one of that wild enthusiastic crowd bewitched by the spell of his personality. He saw me too. I stood at the back of the crowd, but he saw me and he spoke for me for me. Our eyes met, and I know he spoke for me alone.

Fred, (sitting and leaning back, fanning his face). Why didn't you warn me? I didn't know I was to meet my future brother-in-law to-night.

Glad. Don't be absurd, Freddie. (Sitting again.) It's because he's doing so well that father asked him here, and we've to keep him as long as possible.

Fred, (looking at watch). My ducats, oh, my ducats! Why?

Glad. Because every moment that he's prevented from speaking is a loss to him and a gain to us. As Mayor, father's supposed to be neutral, at the election, so that gives him an excuse to entertain Garside and spoil his speaking for one night, anyhow.

Fred. That's a bit tricky.

Glad. All's fair in war.

Fred. And love, Gladys, and love.

Glad. Don't be sillier than you can help.

Fred. Besides, they'll have others to keep the ball rolling while he's here.

Glad. There's a firebrand of a woman speaking every night who's about as popular as he is.

Fred, (interested). A woman? Is she good-looking?

Glad. I don't know.

Fred. You wouldn't. You'd only eyes for him.

Glad. She doesn't speak on the same platforms with him.

Fred. Don't blame her, either. Only one star turn to each show, eh?

Glad. Anyhow, father's instructions are to keep Garside here till he comes home, if we can.

Fred. All right. Tell Timson to lock him up in the pantry and keep him there till the election's over.

Glad. Afraid that's too crude, Freddie. I'll do my best to hold him for to-night.

Fred. Oh? Be careful. Flirtation's a risky game even when both sides know the rules. It's always apt to end in marriage; and that chap won't know the rules. Much better lock him up.

Glad. Kidnapping's out of date.

Fred. Oh, you want him to get in. He's fascinated you.

Glad, (tartly). That's doubtless why I've been canvassing for Mr. Beverley all day, while you've been watching a cricket match.

Fred. Hang it, Glad, someone's got to support-county cricket. I did a jolly plucky thing to-day. Wore old Beverley's colours and nearly got mobbed in the bar by a beastly gang of Radicals.

Glad. You shouldn't go into bars.

Fred. And you shouldn't hang about street corners with a set of Socialists. Serve you right if you'd got your pocket picked. I'd rather be an open drinker than a secret revolutionist any day.

[Enter Lady Mottram. She is white-haired and authoritative in manner, dressed in a high evening gown, too freely jewelled. Freddie rises.

Fred. Hullo, mater. Any luck?

Lady M. If you mean by that expression has Mr. Garside arrived, he has not. (Crosses to Chesterfield.)

Fred. (looking at watch). Well, he may be an upright youth, but punctuality isn't amongst his virtues.

Lady M. (standing by Chesterfield). It's just as well. I have a disagreeable duty to perform. (Sitting, very dignified.)

Fred, (lightly). Hope it'll keep fine for you.

Lady M. Ring the bell, Freddie. (Freddie crosses to fireplace and rings.) Thank you.

Fred. By Jove, Gladys, someone's going to catch it. Mark that awe-inspiring frown. I'm getting frit.

[Enter Timson.

Lady M. Show the young person in here, Timson.

Timson. Yes, my lady.

[Exit Timson. Freddie is following with exaggerated fear.

Lady M. Don't go, Freddie.

Fred. Oh, but I do hate thunderstorms when I've no umbrella.

Lady M. I want to be certain you're here when Mr. Garside comes.

Fred. Mayn't a man have a cigarette? I'll come back. (Timson opens door as Freddie comes to it. Looking off Freddie sees Margaret, and stops short.) By Jove, I'll stay.

Timson (with marked disapproval). Miss Shawcross.

[Enter Margaret dressed as Act I, with the addition of a light coat, without gloves. Lady M. and Gladys remain seated. Fred, stands right, well behind the Chesterfield. Margaret stands left, in some confusion. Exit Timson.

Mar. You... I understand you want to see me, Lady Mottram.

Lady M. (immensely superior). Yes. Your name is Shawcross? Margaret Shawcross?

Mar. Yes.

Lady M. Fifteen, Rosalie Street?

Mar. Yes.

Lady M. Ah! (With patronising kindliness.) I've sent for you, Miss Shawcross, to give you a warning—a friendly warning. Er—you may sit down.

Mar. (sitting stiffly, but not awkwardly, left). Thank you.

Lady M. You are an assistant-teacher at the Midland-ton Girls' High School?

Mar. I am.

Lady M. You're aware that I am a member of the Governing Board?

Mar. Yes.

Lady M. (expansively). In fact, I may say I have a preponderating influence. Bear that fact in mind, Miss Shaweross. (Margaret inclines her head.) We don't enquire offensively into the conduct of our staff out of school hours. So long as they behave themselves respectably we are satisfied. Does your experience confirm that?

Mar. Quite.

Lady M. You've suffered no inquisition into your private life? No interference into your personal affairs?

Mar. None.

Lady M. (nodding grimly). Ah! Then you'll do us the justice to acknowledge that we don't move except in extreme cases. I regret to say yours is an extreme ease, Miss Shaweross.

Mar. (rising). Mine!

[Freddie's attitude conveys interest plus pity, Gladys's unrelieved contempt.

Lady M. (severely). Yours. I don't complain of your holding heterodox views. It is a regrettable fact that many young women of to-day hold alarmingly lax opinions. But they keep their views to themselves. They confine them to their own circle. It has been left to you to proclaim publicly at street corners your loose morality, to——

Mar. You'll pardon me. I've done nothing of the sort.

Lady M. I'm grievously misinformed if you're not a self-confessed Socialist.

Mar. You spoke of loose morality.

Lady M. (curtly). Same thing. Do you admit to publicly advocating Socialism?

Mar. Certainly. You publicly advocate Tariff Reform. Why shouldn't I advocate Socialism?

Lady M. The cases are hardly parallel. The one is respectable, the other isn't. However, you're not here to argue with me. You have to earn your living. An orphan, I understand.

Mar. Yes.

Lady M. You've the more reason to walk warily. (Kindly.) Now, you're young, and you're ignorant, and I'm ready to overlook this. I could have you dismissed at once, but I've no doubt you'll be a good girl after this little talk. Good night, Miss Shawcross.

Mar. Good night, Lady Mottram. (She moves towards door. Freddie opens it, she turns back.) No, I won't go like this. You'd have the right to tell me I deceived you. (Freddie closes door and stands centre.) I can't take your warning, Lady Mottram. (Lady M. rises.) I dare say it's kindly meant. I thank you for that. But as for stopping speaking, working heart and soul for the cause that's all in all to me, I can't do that.

Lady M. Can't? Won't, you mean. This is defiance, Miss Shawcross. You'd better take care.

Mar. (splendidly contemptuous). Care! Life isn't all taking care.

Lady M. (calmly). It's really very rash of you. Your livelihood's at stake. I say nothing about your immortal soul, which is endangered if it's not already lost.

Mar. Suppose you leave my soul out, Lady Mottram.

My employment is in your hands. You have the power to take that from me.

Lady M. Persist in your defiance and I shall be compelled to exercise that power.

Fred, (to Mar.). Speaking from long and intimate acquaintance with my mother, I should just like to interpolate the remark that she invariably means what she says.

Mar. (coldly). Thank you. I haven't worked for Socialism without knowing the risks I took. There's nothing unusual in this. Since Socialism's been the bogey of the employing class, dismissal for Socialists is an everyday occurrence.

Lady M. (mildly angered). This is too much. To associate me with cowardly employers who abuse their power, when my only object is to secure respectability in our teaching staff.

Mar. Oh, they all do it for excellent motives. How long have I, Lady Mottram?

Lady M. Till Miss Allinson can replace you.

Mar. Till then I can go on contaminating my pupils! However, to replace me won't take an hour. Unemployed teachers aren't scarce.

Lady M. (viciously). You are dismissed for gross misconduct, and the fact will be stated on any reference you ask for.

Fred. I say, mater, that's a bit rough. (Margaret turns to door. Freddie stands intercepting her.) Give the girl a chance.

Lady M. Mind your own business, Freddie.

Fred. Hang it, how do you know she won't starve?

Lady M. Her sort don't starve.

Glad. She's wearing an engagement ring. Someone's ready to keep her.

Mar. (quietly). My engagement's broken off.

Lady M. Then why do you carry a lie on your finger?

Mar. I hadn't the courage to take it off—till now. (Putting ring in coat-pocket.)

Fred. You're in a bit of a hole, you know.

Lady M. Gladys, if Freddie's going to be sympathetic to this young person, you and I had better retire. Conversations between young men and persons of her class are not carried on in the presence of ladies.

[Lady M. and Gladys go out, Freddie opening door. Margaret is following. He closes the door.

Fred. One moment, Miss Shaweross.

Mar. Let me go, please.

Fred. Yes. I say. I know I'm being assinine. I am rather an ass. But I'm a genial sort of ass, and if there's one thing I ean't stand it's one woman being beastly to another. Women are the limit. (Rapidly, as Margaret shows impatience.) What I mean is, can I do anything for you?

Mar. (curtly). No, thank you, Mr. Mottram. (Trying to pass him.)

Fred, (with a stronger note of seriousness). No, you're not going till I let you. The mater's made it hard enough. That's the worst of women. They won't be sportsmen. Mind you, I'm not blaming her. Swop positions and you'd do it yourself. But you've lost your job. That's an idiotic thing to do now. As if any footling politics were worth a tinker's cuss!

Mar. Why are you keeping me here?

Fred. I'm telling you, aren't I?

Mar. It wasn't very lucid.

Fred. What are you going to do for a living?

Mar. That isn't your business, Mr. Mottram.

Fred, (seriously). Look here, I'm not a woman eater. I'm a cheerful soul, and I hate to see people in distress. The mater's got you down. Foul blow, too. Hitting below the belt, to sack you without a character. What are you going to do about it, Miss Shaweross?

Mar. I don't know yet.

Fred. Let me talk to some Johnnie at the Club, and make him take you into his office.

Mar. Why should you? And do you think anybody will have me without a character?

Fred. I'll fix that all right. Only it'll be an office.

Mar. I can typewrite.

Fred. By Jove! What a brainy chap you are.

Mar. I don't know why you're doing this, but I'll work my fingers to the bone if you can get me work where they'll not mind my principles.

Fred. You can be a Particular Baptist, or a Neo-Confucian for all this Johnnie 'ull care.

Mar. Are you sure he's the same man in his office as in his Club?

Fred. Oh, don't wet blanket me. I'm only trying.

Mar. I'm sorry, Mr. Mottram. Your friend will find me a hard worker.

Fred. I say, you won't overdo that part of it, will you?

Mar. What part?

Fred. The working. Bad form to make the pace hotter than the regular rate.

Mar. I thought offices were places for hard work.

Fred. I dare say you're right. I expect that's why the office men I know spend so much time at the Club, out of work's way.

Mar. Mr. Mottram, why are you doing this?

Fred. Oh, I'm a starved creature. Being good keeps me warm.

[Enter Timson.

Timson. Mr. Garside.

[Peter enters. He has gained considerably in self-confidence, and enters rather defiantly. Exit Timson.

Fred, (stepping forward). Good evening, Mr. Garside.

Peter (seeing Margaret, and seeing red. Ignoring Fred.). You here!

Mar. Lady Mottram sent for me.

Peter. It's a very suspicious circumstance. I find you here in the enemy's camp, looking confused, guilty. You'd better explain yourself.

Fred, (offering hand again, emphatically). Good evening, Mr. Garside. Why's it the enemy's camp, when mayors are neutral at elections?

Peter (carelessly, just touching his hand). Oh, good evening. Sir Jasper is officially neutral, sir. But he is actually chairman of the Employers' Federation, and, as such, our bitterest enemy.

Fred. By the way, you're here yourself, you know.

Peter. I am paying an official visit to the Mayor. It's different with this lady. She works for me—ostentatiously. She's supposed to be addressing a meeting for me at this moment. Instead, I find her here, playing the traitor and betraying me to my political enemies.

Fred. I always thought it wanted a lot of imagination to be a politician. Does yours often bolt like this?

Peter. That's not very convincing. (Brushing him aside.) Excuse me, Mr. Mottram. I must get to the bottom of this. (To Margaret.) What have you to say for yourself?

Mar. Nothing.

Fred. Quite right, too. Some things are too silly to reply to.

Peter. Then I shall draw my own conclusions.

[Peter is left, Freddie centre, and Margaret right.

Fred. I'd advise you to draw 'em mild. (Turning to Margaret.) This isn't your lucky night, Miss Shaw-cross.

Mar. It doesn't matter, Mr. Mottram.

Fred. Yes, it does. If you won't tell Mr. Garside why you're here, I will.

Mar. (appealingly). Please don't. (Proudly.) My personal affairs are no concern of Mr. Garside's.

Peter. And meantime let me tell you, sir, that your ardour to defend the lady only makes bad worse.

Fred. Good Lord! I always said politicians were people who hadn't the brains to be frivolous, but I never knew they were quite so stupid. Why, man—————-

[Enter Lady Mottram and Gladys. Fred stops abruptly.

Lady M. (sweetly). So pleased you've come, Mr. Gar-side.

Peter (quite sure of himself). Good evening, Lady Mottram.

Lady M. Mr. Garside, my daughter. (Gladys meets Peter's eyes and bows; he starts perceptibly.) So sorry Sir Jasper isn't here to welcome you, but I hope my son's made you feel quite at home.

Fred. We've talked like brothers.

Lady M. (realising Margaret's presence). Miss Shaw-eross, I think I told you you could go. Will you ring, Freddie?

Fred. I'll sec Miss Shaweross out.

[Lady Mottram shrugs, and turns virtuously away. Fred, opens door, and Margaret moves to it.

Peter (as she goes past). Where are you going?

Mar. I'm going to speak. I'm advertised to speak.

Peter. For me?

Mar. (frigidly). No, Socialism.

Lady M. (turning). Then you will take the consequences.

Mar. (quietly). Oh, yes. I'll take the consequences.

[Exeunt Margaret and Freddie.

Lady M. (sitting on Chesterfield and motioning Peter to sit by her. Gladys sits opposite). Young men are so susceptible to a pretty face. Don't you think so, Mr. Garside? (Quickly.) Oh, but of course you are serious-minded.

Peter (glancing at Gladys). I'm not beauty-proof, Lady Mottram.

Lady M. Ah, but real beauty is so rare.

Peter. That's why it haunts me.

Lady M. Is there a case in point?

Peter. Yes.

Lady M. (insincerely). How romantic! Do tell us about it, Mr. Garside.

Peter (eyeing Gladys). Shall I?

Glad. Do please.

Peter. It is romantic, Lady Mottram. I didn't think such beauty could be earthly. It came upon me just as I stood speaking at a street corner one night, a face on the outskirts of my audience. I was tired and it gave me strength. My voice was failing, but it rang out fresh again to reach those ears. I've seen it many times since then, that angel's face with a halo, always at the fringe of the crowd, always an inspiration, eyes that yearned to mine across the sea of caps and drew my very soul into my words. I thought it was a dream. Could the same clay that moulded me be shaped to this vision? Until to-night I didn't know such women could exist.

Lady M. (trying to appear interested). It's a woman, then.

Peter. Woman or goddess, she's alive. Yes.

Lady M. She'd be flattered if she heard you now.

Peter. I'm not flattering her.

[Re-enter Freddie.

Fred. I've seen her off the premises.

Lady M. Don't interrupt. Mr. Garside's telling us about a woman with a wonderful face who's been inspiring his speeches.

Fred, (sitting r.c.). Oh, yes? A face that launched a thousand speeches? Bit of a responsibility for any face.

Lady M. And who is she, Mr. Garside?

Peter. I didn't know.

Glad. What a pity. She'll never know what she's been to you.

Peter. I think she knows now, Miss Mottram.

Fred. Fair Unknown inspires your speeches, your speeches inspire electors, electors elect you, and it'll be Garsidc, M.P., when it ought to be Fair Unknown, M.P.

Peter. Only the electors haven't elected me yet.

Fred. I hear they're going to.

Peter (confidently). It's highly probable.

Lady M. Do you know London, Mr. Garside?

Peter. No, but I hope to shortly.

Fred. You must let me show you round. You'll feel strange at first.

Peter. I'm not afraid of London. If it's a case of London conquering me or me conquering London I know which will win.

Fred. Going to be one of our conquerors, eh?

Peter. I mean to try. I've got ambitions.

Fred. Thank God, I haven't. A cosy club and a decent cigar are good enough for me. Please count me conquered in advance. (Lolling easily in chair.)

Lady M. But has a Labour member such opportunities of—er—conquering London, Mr. Garside?

Peter. If he puts them to the right use. Yes—there's money in it.

Fred, (sitting up, interested). Money? I'll be a Labour member. I like money.

Peter. I don't say it's been done up to now. I'm going to do it, though.

Fred. What's the recipe?

Peter. Oh, you begin by journalism and lecture engagements.

Fred. And that's the royal road to wealth? Mother, why wasn't I brought up to be a Labour member! This solves the problem of what shall we do with our sons. Only it's too like work for me.

Glad. Freddie, don't chaff Mr. Garside. He isn't one of your frivolous Club companions.

Peter. Oh, I haven't been through the half of an election campaign without toughening my epidermis, Miss Mottram. I'm not afraid of ridicule.

Fred. You'll go far, Mr. Garside. The secret of success is to have no sense of humour.

Glad. A lot you know about success.

Fred. I know everything. I'm not successful and outsiders watch the game.

Lady M. Children! Children!

Peter. Oh, don't apologise, Lady Mottram. I know what family life is in upper-class households. I've read my Shaw.

[To their relief Timson enters.

Lady M. What is it, Timson?

Timson. Sir Jasper is asking for you on the telephone.

Lady M. Excuse me, Mr. Garside. (Rising.)

Timson. And there's a man called for you, sir. (To Peter.)

Peter. For me?

Glad. You go, Freddie. Tell him Mr. Garside wants to be left alone.

Fred, (nodding with understanding to Gladys). All right. I'll deal with him. Don't disturb yourself, Mr. Garside.

[Lady Mottram goes out first, Fred, follows quickly to give Peter no chance to reply. Exit Timson.

Peter. I ought to go, Miss Mottram. I've meetings to address.

Glad. Oh, but you mustn't disappoint Sir Jasper. He'll be in soon.

Peter. My time's precious.

Glad. So are you—(hastily)—to your party, I mean. You'll break down if you overdo things.

Peter (consulting watch). My conscience isn't easy.

Glad, (coldly). Oh, don't let me detain you against your will.

Peter. It's not against my will, only——

Glad. Then won't you sit down?

Peter (deciding to stay, and sitting on Chesterfield).

Thank you. (Stiffly.) Some day I hope to have the pleasure of asking you to sit in a room of mine like this one.

Glad. You aim high, Mr. Garside.

Peter. I mean to succeed. I feel I'm one of the men who do succeed. (He doesn't boast, he states a conviction.)

Glad. (insincerely). I'm sure you are.

Peter (ardently). If you're sure, there's no doubt about it. I'm going to rise, Miss Mottram. I shall win fame, fortune—— Everything the heart of woman can desire will be mine to fling at the feet of my... my inspiration of the Midlandton election.

Glad. Ah. Your mysterious vision!

Peter (leaning forward). Is she a mystery to you? I thought you knew.

Glad. Knew what?

Peter. You see that inspiration every morning in your looking-glass.

Glad, (rising). Mr. Garside!

Peter. I thought you understood. (He rises.)

Glad. I understand you're being impertinent.

Peter (confidently). That's because you're thinking of my past. Peter Garside, the Board School boy, the working engineer with a home in a back street—a great gulf yawned between that Garside of the past and the daughter of Sir Jasper Mottram, four times Mayor of Midlandton. The gulf is narrower to-day. In a year or two it won't exist. I'm not impertinent, Miss Mottram. I'm being bold enough to look into the future... the future you've inspired.

Glad. I ought to scold you, Mr. Garside.

Peter. Why?

Glad, (lightly). You appropriated me as your inspiration without leave.

Peter. Didn't my eyes tell you across the crowd?

Glad. Your eyes?

Peter (emphatically). Yes, mine spoke and yours answered mine, not once but half a dozen times.

Glad, (freezing). I'm afraid you're subject to delusions, Mr. Garside.

Peter. You're afraid to tell the truth.

Glad, (fencing). Truth's so miscellaneous, don't you think? It's a diamond with many facets.

Peter. I'm not here to bandy epigrams. Truth is truth. You're afraid to own by mouth the truth you told me with your eyes.

Glad. Don't you think you overrate the communicative capacity of eyes?

Peter. I think you're playing with me now. I know you didn't play then. We had reality there in the street. I'll make you tell me yet you meant the things your eyes spoke to me.

Glad. Make! This is strange language for a drawing-room, sir.

Peter. I'm not talking to the drawing-room miss. She's a stranger to me. I'm talking to the real woman, the woman I knew outside there, stripped of the veil of lies you try to hide behind.

Glad. But you don't know me. I never met you till to-night.

Peter. I didn't know your name until to-night. What do names matter? Your eyes had blazed into my soul.

[The door opens violently, and Jones, wearing his hat, bursts in followed by Freddie, who is mildly protestant. Peter and Gladys rise.

Jones (crossing to centre). What's the meaning of this, Garside?

Fred (following and tapping him on the bach). I say, don't you even take your hat off in a lady's presence?

Jones (growlingly). Ugh! (But he takes his hat off.)

Peter. How dare you force your way in here?

Jones. I may well come. You're wanted outside.

Meetings shouting themselves hoarse for you. Chances passing while you loll here in plutocratic luxury, idling in the gilded chambers of our enemies. Faugh! (Kicking chair violently centre. Freddie picks up the cushion from it and offers it.)

Fred. That's rather an expensive chair. Take it out of this if you must kick something.

Peter. I am paying an official call authorised by my Committee on Sir Jasper Mottram.

Jones. I don't sec Sir Jasper.

Fred. I told this Johnnie you were busy. Tried to soothe the beggar, but he broke away.

Jones (to Peter). Well, you'd better come at once.

[Peter wavers visibly when Gladys interposes.

Glad. Mr. Garside is our guest.

Jones (more roughly still). Come away.

Peter (his mind made up). I shall do nothing of the sort.

Jones. Don't you understand? It's imperative. They're calling for you. We've done our best, marking time, promising them every minute you'd come—and you don't come. It's serious. They're impatient. They don't want us others. They want you—(sarcastically)—silver-tongued Garside. We can't hold them much longer. There'll be a riot if you don't turn up.

Peter (lightly). Oh, I'll come soon. Let them wait.

Jones. They won't wait.

Peter. They'll have to.

Jones (imperatively). You're coming now with me.

Peter. No. I'll follow you. (Reassuringly.) It's all right, man. I shan't be long.

Jones. I'll report you to the Committee if you don't come at once.

Peter. You can report me to the devil. Get along now, that's a good chap. I'm busy.

Jones (very earnestly). Garside, I warn you. You know what a crowd's like when it gets out of hand.

Peter. I tell you I'm coming. The longer you stay the longer it'll be before I get there.

Jones (making his best effort and meaning it). If you don't come with me you'll have no need to get there. I shall bring them here to you.

Fred. Oh, but you can't do that you know.

Jones. Can't I? You tell him to come or I'll show you if I can't.

Peter (impatiently). In a minute.

Jones (inexorably). Now!

Peter. No.

Jones (turning abruptly). Very well, then.

[Exit Jones, slamming door. Fred, opens it after a moment.

Fred. I don't think the furniture's safe until he's out of the house.

[Exit Freddie.

Glad. (excited and utterly sincere). It must be glorious to be wanted like that, Mr. Garside. Isn't it risky to deny them when they call for you?

Peter. I can do what I like with them.

Glad. Why didn't you go?

Peter. You know why not.

Glad. (sitting on Chesterfield). Do I?

Peter (standing centre). Every night I can make myself the master of a mob. It's no new joy to me to feel I've got them there in the hollow of my hand. I can't speak with you every night. That's why I didn't go.

Glad. But is it wise?

Peter. Wise?

Glad. You mustn't spoil your chances, Mr. Garside.

Peter. I won't spoil my chances of speaking with you.

Glad. But if the crowd makes a disturbance? That man's malicious. He'll stir them up to mischief.

Peter. I can calm them with a word.

Glad. What confidence you have!

Peter. Yes. In the power you give me.

Glad. You don't let me shuffle off responsibility.

Peter. You wouldn't want to if you could forget that you're Miss Mottram and I'm a working man.

[Low murmurs as of a distant crowd off, approaching and growing louder as the scene proceeds. Gladys catches it at once, and is alarmed. Peter, if he hears at all, is inattentive.

Glad. I really think you'd better go to them, Mr. Garside, before that man leads them here.

Peter. Not long ago you were urging me to stay—to wait for Sir Jasper.

Glad. Sir Jasper will be late.

Peter. You said he'd be here soon.

Glad, (rising, exasperated). Mr. Garside, will you go?

Peter (shaking his head). You haven't told me what I want to know.

Glad. What is it? I'll tell you anything if you'll only go-go.

Peter (calmly). Did I read the meaning in your eyes aright? (A slight pause.) Did I?

Glad, (nervously glancing towards window). I don't know what you mean.

Peter. You do know. You won't tell me.

Glad. I can't.

Peter (sitting centre). Then I'll stay here till you do.

Glad. And hold me responsible if your ragamuffins wreck the house.

Peter. You've only to speak, and I'll see they don't come near.

[A moment's silence, then Freddie enters briskly.

Fred. I say, Mr. Garside, I'm afraid we must turn you out.

Peter (still sitting). Oh, how's that?

Fred. Your friend went off in no end of a rage. Said he'd bring your meeting here. Mohammed and the Mountain, don't you know? I really think you'd better go. We don't want to read the Riot Act.

[Gladys is at the window, peeping through blind.

Peter. The matter's out of my hands, Mr. Mottram.

Fred. Why? Surely you can head them off.

Peter. Easily.

Fred. (irritated). Well, I wish you'd go and do it.

Glad, (at window). They're there. There's a crowd coming round the corner now.

Fred. You'll have to look lively. Come on, man. (Trying to make him move.)

Peter (to Gladys, who is standing left). Well, Miss Mottram?

Fred, (impatiently). Oh, never mind her. Get along sharp. (He opens door.)

Peter. I'm ready when Miss Mottram gives the word. I shall know what she means if she says "Yes."

Glad. I can't.

Peter (sitting in chair). Then I stay here.

[Shouts below are heard: "Garside!" "We want Garside!" "Where's that silver-tongue?"

Fred. Look here, this is getting beyond a joke.

Peter. I'm only waiting for the word of command.

Fred. Gladys, for God's sake say what he wants!

Glad. No.

[Shouts more fiercely.

Fred, (helplessly irritable). Where the devil are the police?

[Lady Mottram rushes in hysterically.

Lady M. Mr. Garside, save us. Speak to them before they get violent.

Peter (coolly). They're doing the speaking. (Lady M. cries out inarticulately.) I'm waiting for Miss Mottram.

Lady M. For Gladys? (Top pane of the window is broken by a stone which falls between blind and window. Almost shrieking.) What's that?

Peter. The voice of the people.

Fred. They've a nasty way of talking. This looks serious. (Crosses, picks up and quickly pockets the stone, which is a large one.)

Lady M. Is it a big one?

Fred. (nonchalantly). Size of a piece of wood.

Glad. Very well, then. Yes.

Peter (rising briskly). That's what I wanted. (Crosses as if to open door, comes round to window, runs blind up, and steps out to balcony.)

Glad, (as he is at window). I didn't mean it.

Peter. You said it. (He goes out, speaking as if to a crowd below.) Comrades, I'm here. (Cheers off.) From the house of our Mayor, on whom I am calling as the people's candidate at this election——

[Fred, crosses and closes window. Faint murmur only is audible off.

Fred. I can't stand this. He's spouting Socialism from our balcony. (Angrily.) This is your fault, Gladys.

Glad. I was told to keep him here.

[Lady Mottram has collapsed on the Chesterfield.

Fred. Not with a mob howling for him outside.

Glad. I didn't bring the mob.

Lady M. What will Sir Jasper say?

Fred, (recovering his temper). He'll not be fit to listen to. We're the laughing-stock of Midlandton. This 'ull win Garside the election. He's using the balcony of the Chairman of the Employers' Federation for his platform, and we've let him do it.

Glad. We tried to trick him and he's turned the tables on us. That's all.

Fred. Clever beast. (Laughter off.)

Lady M. Listen to the cheering!

Fred. Oh, he's popular, only that's not cheering. It's laughter.

Lady M. What are they laughing at?

Fred. At us, ma petite mÈre, at us.

Lady M. (standing, with extreme dignity). They wouldn't dare!

[Loud burst of laughter.

CURTAIN

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