Peter's rooms in the Temple. Door extreme right centre, with the passage beyond visible with telephone on its wall when the door is open. Door left. Fireplace centre, with low fire shining dully in the darkened room. Bookcase right. Below it, table with inkstand. Blue books, etc., and revolving chair. Arm-chairs, left and right of fireplace. Sofa left, between fireplace and door. Heavy carpet. The whole appointments indicate comfort and taste, as understood in Tottenham Court Road: there is nothing individual about them.

As the curtain rises the room is in darkness, except for the glow from the fire, and the telephone bell right is ringing. After a moment's pause the outside door opens; then Peter in a lounge suit, overcoat, and bowler hat opens the door right and turns on the electric light. He speaks as he looks off right. His self-confidence has increased. He is, in fact, coarsened and even brazen at times.

Peter. Come in here. (Freddie and Gladys follow him in. Peter stands by door.) Make yourselves at home for two minutes. That's my telephone ringing like mad.

[Exit Peter hurriedly, closing the door. Bell ceases ringing. Gladys is in winter costume with furs. Freddie, in heavy overcoat with hat in hand and a cane which he swings as he stands centre, surveying the room in astonishment.

Fred. By Jove! By Jove!

Glad. (standing off). What's the matter?

Fred. Does himself all right.

Glad. What did you expect?

Fred. I didn't expect this.

Glad. Was that why you didn't want to come in?

Fred. I didn't want to come because I've to meet Charlie Beversham at the hotel in half an hour.

Glad. Well, you can meet him.

Fred. Not if we stay here long.

Glad. You needn't stay here.

Fred. Oh? And what about you?

Glad. I'll stay.

Fred. Hang it, you can't do that.

Glad. No. You'd rather I wasted another evening sitting with the frumps in the hotel drawing-room while you discuss odds with your sporting friend in the bar till it's too late to go anywhere. I'm having no more nights in a refrigerator, thank you.

Fred. It's not the thing to leave you here. You'll only be in Garside's way. He'll be going to the House.

Glad. Then he'll leave me at the hotel as he goes.

Fred. You know the mater only let you loose in London because I promised to look after you. (Good-naturedly perplexed.) You're a ghastly responsibility. Why on earth do you want to stay with Garside?

Glad. Garside's amusing and the hotel isn't.

Fred. I simply must sec Beversham. It means money to me.

Glad. Don't let me stand in your way.

Fred, (giving way). Well, I do like to be generous. It's the only thing that keeps my blood at normal temperature——

Peter (off right, at telephone). I shall shout. You may be the whip, but you'll not whip me. Important division? I know that as well as you do. No, I shan't be there. Promised? Of course I promised. I started to come. How did I know I was going to be indisposed in the Strand?

Fred, (whistling). Whew! I wouldn't mind betting you're the indisposition, Gladys.

Peter (off). Yes. I'm far too ill to turn out. What? No, I'm not too ill to shout. Good night. (Opens door and enters without his hat and overcoat.) Oh, do sit down, Miss Mottram. So sorry I'd to leave you. (Pulls left armchair before fire and pokes it.) I'll make the fire up. It's a cold night. (Gladys sits.)

Fred. Comfortable enough in here, Garside. You've snug quarters.

Peter (failing to conceal his pride in his room). It's a beginning. (Rising from fire.) One moment. (Goes off left quickly, and is heard as he exits, saying:) Mother, you let that fire go low.

Mrs. G. (off left). I thought you'd gone out.

Fred. Oh, if he's got a mother on the premises that alters the case. I don't mind your staying now.

[Peter re-enters with Mrs. Garside in a neat black dress, spectacles on, and a "Daily Telegraph" in her hand. Mrs. Garside, though sharing Peter's prosperity, has now an habitually worried look and is vaguely pathetic. She enters embarrassed.

Peter (off-handedly, treating his mother without ceremony). Mr. Mottram, Miss Mottram—my mother.

[Freddie bows. Gladys advances and takes hands.

Glad. How do you do, Mrs. Garside?

Mrs. G. Nicely, thank you, miss.

Peter (peremptorily). Why didn't you hear the telephone, mother? Were you asleep?

Mrs. G. (meekly). Did it ring? I was reading the report of your speech at Battersea last night.

Peter (interested). Oh! Where is it? I haven't had time to look at a paper to-day.

Mrs. G. (handing him the paper and pointing). There, dear.

Peter (looking and speaking with satisfaction). Two columns. Good. That's pretty near verbatim.

Fred. Two columns in the "Telegraph"? You're getting on, Garside.

Mrs. G. (handing the paper from Peter to Fred.). And look at the headings!

Fred. (looking—awkwardly). Er—yes—not very complimentary.

Glad, (curiously). What are they?

Fred. (returning paper to Peter). Tact never was my sister's strong point, Garside.

Peter (holding up the paper). Oh, I don't mind this in the least. It means my blows are getting home. (Reading the headings.) "The Demagogue again." "More Firebrand Oratory from the egregious Garside." (Putting paper on table.) Spreading themselves, aren't they?

Fred. Well, it's all right, so long as you don't mind.

Peter. Oh, they'll need a big vocabulary to express their feelings before I'm done with them. I haven't started yet.

Fred. Hope it'll keep fine for you. Afraid I must toddle, Garside. I've an appointment.

Peter (his face falling in deep disappointment). Appointment! Oh, I did hope you'd both stay a bit. In fact, I—I put off an engagement while I was at the telephone.

Fred, (looking at Gladys). Well—er—I might come back for my sister.

Peter (enthusiastically). Splendid! Have something before you go?

Fred (surprised). Eh?

Peter (taking his arm). Just to keep the cold out. Next room.

Fred, (turning with him). I'd an idea you were a teetotaller.

Peter. I was a lot of things in Midlandton. In London I'm a man of the world.

[Exeunt Freddie and Peter, l.

Glad, (sitting on sofa). You must find London a great change after Midlandton, Mrs. Garside.

Mrs. G. (sitting in left arm-chair, facing her—confidentially). I haven't had an easy hour since Peter brought me. You wouldn't believe the prices they charge me in the shops if I want a chop or a bit of steak for Peter's tea. Dinner he calls it now, though how it can be dinner at seven of an evening I don't know. Thieves, that's what they are. Not shopkeepers. You mustn't mind me running on, I haven't a soul I know to talk to here. It's a pleasure to see you, I'm sure. And the streets! I'm feared for my life if I go out. I know I'll be knocked down and brought home dead. Eh, London's an awful place, but it's Peter's home now, and his home's mine.

Glad. But you'll get used to it.

Mrs. G. I doubt I'll never get used to this. I'm too old to change, and Peter moves so fast. What's fit for him one day isn't good enough the next. The waste's enough to frighten you.

Glad. You must be very proud of your son, Mrs. Garside.

Mrs. G. (with conviction, dropping her querulous tone). He's something to be proud of. I'm the mother of a great man. You can't open a newspaper without you see his name.

Glad. I know that.

Mrs. G. You've seen it?

Glad. Often.

Mrs. G. (rising and coming to table). But not all. I've got them all here. I cut them out, reports of his speeches, and paste them in this book. (Crosses to sofa with press-cutting book and sits by Gladys.)

Glad. His speeches in Parliament?

Mrs. G. (with fine scorn). Peter doesn't waste his words on Parliament. He goes direct to the people—addressing meetings up and down the country. (Glowing with pride.) They fight to get him. Pity is he can't split himself in bits and be in six places at once. Two guineas a speech he gets—and expenses,—more sometimes. That's what they think of him, Miss Mottram. That's my son. (Pointing to a heading in the hook.) Silver-tongued Garside. That's what they call him.

Glad. Yes, I see. (She turns a page.)

Mrs. G. (looking, bending round Gladys). Oh, no, not that. I oughtn't to have pasted that in. It's an attack on him in one of our own papers. They call him something he didn't like.

Glad, (reading). Platitudinous Peter.

Mrs. G. It's all their spite.

Glad. I suppose all politicians make enemies.

Mrs. G. Oh, he's not afraid of his real enemies. The capitalists can call him what they like. They do, too, and the more the better, Peter says. But that's different. Mean things, attacking their own side.

Glad, (absently). Yes. (Putting book down.) And this is where he prepares his speeches. (Crossing to table.)

Mrs. G. (rising with book and crossing, replacing it on table). Yes. Those are his books.

[Gladys looks at titles.

Glad. Why, this row's all dictionaries.

Mrs. G. Peter says people like long words. He writes his article at that desk. Peter's printed in the paper every week.

Glad. He's kept busy.

Mrs. G. And he keeps me busy looking after him.

Glad, (sitting in the revolving chair and facing Mrs. Garside, standing centre). Have you no help?

Mrs. G. Me? Nay. I couldn't abide the thought of a strange woman doing 'owt for Peter. I've cared for him all his life, and I'll go on caring for him until he's put another woman in my place. Peter's wife won't be of my class. It'll be my duty then to keep myself out of her sight, and a hard job I'll find it, too, but I was never one to shirk.

Glad. Didn't I hear something about a girl in Midland-ton, who——

Mrs. G. (with conviction). Don't you believe it, miss. She wasn't fit to clean his boots.

Glad. And of course he's all London to choose from now.

Mrs. G. London! He'll never wed a Londoner.

Glad. No?

Mrs. G. He's in love with a Midlandton young lady. Calls her his inspiration and I don't know what. But I tell you this, miss, I don't care who, she is, she'll be doing well for herself when she marries my Peter.

Glad. You think she will marry him, then?

Mrs. G. I'd like to see the woman who'd refuse him when he asks her.

[Re-enter, left, Fred, and Peter. Fred, addressing Peter.

Fred. Yes. I'll come back. I say, Garside, before I go, congratters, and all that sort of thing, you know.

Peter (the pair have emerged very friendly). Congratulations?

Fred. (sweeping his hat round). On all this.

Peter (still puzzled). This?

Fred. This jolly little place, and so on.

Peter. Oh, that's nothing. Part of the game, my boy.

Fred. It's a profitable game when you can run to this after six months of it.

Peter. It doesn't afford it. Did you ever hear of the hire system? A man who means to be a big success simply must have a decent address and be on the telephone. People won't believe in you if you're content to hide yourself up a mean street.

Fred. But you are a big success, Mr. Garside.

Peter. Oh, I've not arrived yet. I'm ambitious.

Fred. I like your pluck. Give me a quiet life and a thousand a year paid quarterly by the Bank of England. Security's my mark.

Peter. I'm betting on a certainty when I put money on myself.

Fred. I'm such a thrifty soul. I never risk more than 10 per cent of my income on certainties. That reminds me. Beversham. I must fly. See you later. (Reaches door right.) About half an hour, Gladys.

[Peter goes out with him, is heard closing outer door, and returns immediately, closing door. Mrs. Gar-side yawns ostentatiously.

Glad. (more with an air of saying something than meaning anything). Strange that we should meet in the Strand by accident, Mr. Garside.

Peter (who has paid for the moment more attention to Mrs. Garside than to Gladys, speaking jerkily). You call it accident? I call it Fate. (Mrs. Garside executes another palpably diplomatic yawn.) You're tired, mother.

Mrs. G. Yes.

Peter. I'm sure Miss Mottram will excuse you.

Mrs. G. Then I think I'll go to my bed. I'm an early bird. Good night, Miss Mottram.

Glad, (after a moment's twinge of conscience, accepting Mrs. Garside's hand). Good night, Mrs. Garside.

Mrs. G. (to Peter, who opens right door). I'll put your supper out. You'll only have your cocoa to make.

[Peter tries not to look angry at the intrusion of domestic details. Exit Mrs. Garside. Peter closes the door and stands by it. Gladys is still in the revolving chair with her back to the table.

Peter. Yes. Fate didn't mean us two to miss each other.

Glad, (lightly). Do you believe in Fate?

Peter. I believe in mine. I know I was born under a lucky star. I've a genius for overcoming obstacles, no matter what they are, Miss Mottram. I've the knack of getting what I want.

Glad. Don't you find continuous success monotonous?

Peter (smiling). They're such precious small successes. I'm on the foothills yet, and I've set myself a lot of peaks to climb, but already I'm in sight of the highest of them all. (Looking at her hard.) Even from where I stand now I can glimpse the Mount Everest of my ambition.

Glad. Happy man, to know what you want. Most of us poor creatures haven't the faintest idea what we want to do with our lives.

Peter. I think better of you than that. You're not a bored society butterfly.

Glad. Must one be in society to be bored? I am bored in Midlandton.

Peter (with the quickly acquired London attitude to the provinces). Oh, Midlandton!

Glad. We don't live in Midlandton. No one does. Midlandton! It sends a shiver up your baek like the tear of a sheet.

Peter. I couldn't go back now.

Glad. And I've given up hope of ever getting to London.

Peter. Do you want to very much? (Draws towards right arm-chair, and sits leaning forward towards her.)

Glad, (with deep conviction). I feel sometimes I'd do anything on earth to live here. (Smiling.) You see, I'd like to be a society butterfly. You can't understand that, I suppose.

Peter. Why not?

Glad. I thought you despised luxury.

Peter. Oh dear no. I like good clothes and soft living.

Glad. But you denounce them.

Peter. What I denounce is luxury for the few and penury for the many. We want to level up, not level down.

Glad. I've heard something like that before.

Peter. Probably. It's not my business to be original. If I tried to be lofty I'd be talking above the heads of my audiences.

Glad, (puzzled). I wonder how much is sincere!

Peter. Sincere? I'm a professional advocate. I take a tiny grain of truth, dress it up in a pompous parade of rhetoric and deliver it in the manner of an oracle and the accent of a cheapjack. It's a question of making my points tell. Sincerity doesn't matter.

Glad, (rising). If I turned myself into a human gramophone, I shouldn't boast about it, Mr. Garside. It's not very creditable to live by fooling the public.

Peter (rising). Creditable? If I fooled them from Fleet Street they'd make me a peer. The public likes to be fooled. They know I'm fooling them. They pay me to go on fooling them. Some men live by selling adulterated beer. I live by selling adulterated truth.

Glad. And neither makes an honest livelihood.

Peter. No, neither your father the brewer, nor I the demagogue. But I'm being frank with you, Miss Mottram. Between us two there's not to be pretence.

Glad. Why am I honoured with your confidences?

Peter. Because you have a right to know. I do these things to make money. I want money because—because of the hope that was born in me when your eyes first met mine across the crowd in Midlandton.

Glad, (after a slight pause). Mr. Garside, I—I think I ought to go. My brother only left me because he thought your mother would be here.

Peter (going towards door right). Shall I bring her?

Glad. She's gone to bed.

Peter. I fancy I can find her if you tell me to.

Glad. I'm sure I ought.

Peter. I'm sure you always do what you ought, so——

(Putting his hand to the door-handle.)

Glad. (quickly). Yes, I do—in Midlandton.

Peter (turning quickly from door). And this is London. You're on holiday.

Glad, (checking him). But not from my conscience, Mr. Garside.

Peter. Oh, conscience is so much a matter of climate. A Midlandton conscience finds London air very relaxing.

Glad, (sitting slowly right as before). I don't think you ought to disturb your mother, Mr. Garside.

Peter (resuming his own chair, with conscious hypocrisy). No. Old people need such a lot of sleep. So that's settled. Let me see. I was talking about myself, wasn't I?

Glad. Yes. You seem to find the subject interesting.

Peter. I'll talk about the weather if you prefer it.

Glad. No. You can stick to your text.

Peter. Thanks. But I wasn't talking about myself alone.

Glad, (reflectively). I don't remember the exception. It was all yourself and the money you're going to make.

Peter. The money. Yes. I'm making money, Miss Mottram, and I'm going to make more. Do you know why?

Glad. Money's always useful, I suppose.

Peter. Yes, even a little of it. But I shan't be satisfied with little. And I'm a fairly frugal man.

Glad. You'll grow into a miser on the margin between your moderate wants and your colossal income.

Peter. I might grow into a married man on that margin. It's to be a good margin, because I believe no man should ask his wife to accept a lower standard of living than she's been accustomed to.

Glad. I didn't know Miss Shawcross lived so well.

Peter (rising, sternly). It isn't a question of Miss Shaweross.

Glad. I thought it was.

Peter. So did I when I was a boy in Midlandton about a hundred years ago. I'm wiser now. Women of her class can't adapt themselves to changed circumstances. They're a drag on a man's career. You've seen Miss Shawcross?

Glad. Yes.

Peter. Well, you know the type. Good, plodding, conscientious, provincial girl, with about as much ambition as a potato. Marry her to a bank clerk and she'll be in her proper place. Picture her the wife of a Cabinet Minister, and—well, no, you can't. It's unthinkable.

Glad. The wife of a what?

Peter (imperviously). A Cabinet Minister.

Glad. But you're not a Cabinet Minister.

Peter (quite seriously). No, I'm young yet. What a man of my stamp wants is a wife who can help him to push his way, not one I'd be ashamed to show in society.

Glad. I see. You're marrying into one of the big political families.

Peter. No. I'm showing you how you can be done with Midlandton and get to London. You said you'd do anything for that.

Glad. I meant anything in reason. Shall we change the subject?

Peter. No.

Gladys (rising, curtly). Then I must go back to the hotel.

Peter. Your brother's coming for you. Meantime I ask you to remember the difference between the Peter Garside of six months ago and the Garside of to-day. I've bridged the gulf that lay between us. A man of genius can do things like that. I meant what I said, Miss Mottram. I didn't say it till you encouraged me.

Glad. I have not encouraged you.

Peter. You're here, you know. You let your brother go without you. You let my mother leave us alone. Isn't that encouragement?

Glad. (as cruelly as she can). I stayed because I find you amusing.

Peter. Yes. I dare say I am amusing. People in deadly earnest usually are.

Glad, (gently). We'll forget what you said, Mr. Garside.

Peter. No, we won't. I can't ask you to marry me yet because I am not rich. I'm merely prospering. But I ask you to wait. Give me a year—no, six months. I can offer you a home in London then. It won't be worthy of you, but we shan't stagnate. May I come to you in six months' time to get your answer to the question I haven't yet the right to ask?

Glad. I don't know.

Peter. No. Rut I know six months of Midlandton are longer than six years here. You badly want to live in London now. You'll want it worse then. Don't think of me as I was. That's buried. Think of me as I am and as I'm going to be. (Electric bell rings right.) That's probably your brother.

Glad (half sorry, but on the whole relieved). Yes. Don't keep him waiting.

Peter (moving right, and stopping). Before I open the door won't you tell me what I want to know? It's all for you—all my ambitions. I only want position for you to grace it, money for you to spend. Give me six happy months of hope.

Glad, (with a low laugh). Will hoping make you happy?

Peter. Yes, if you tell me I may hope.

Glad (sincerely). Then by all means hope.

[Bell rings again.

Peter. That's all I want. (He looks at her humbly. She extends her hand impulsively. Peter kisses it reverently.)

Glad. You're very absurd. Now let my brother in.

[Peter crosses and opens door right, leaving it half open, as he goes through and opens outside door.

Peter (heard off right, in surprised voice). Hullo!

Ned. (off right, less loudly). Good evening.

[Peter appears outside door right, pulling it to him.

Peter (off). Leave your coats here. Excuse me. I'll—I'll just close this door and keep the cold out till you're ready.

[He enters rapidly, opening the door as little as possible, and closing it quickly, putting his back to it. The manouvre is not, however, executed fast enough to prevent Jones peering over his shoulder as he enters.

Peter (standing against the door). It's not your brother.

Glad, (dryly). I gathered that. I'd better go without him.

Peter (agitated). You can't. That's the only way out. They'd see you.

Glad, (surprised). I don't mind.

Peter. They mustn't.

Glad. Why not? Who are they?

Peter. Constituents.

Glad, (alarmed). From Midlandton?

Peter. Yes. Let them get a glimpse of you, and God only knows what tale will be over Midlandton.

Glad, (agreeing). Yes. They mus'n't see me. On no account. (She crosses to left, Peter nods approvingly.) Peter. My mother's there. I'll get rid of them quickly. Glad. Remember, I'm trusting you.

[Exit Gladys, left. Peter opens door right, and speaks off.

Peter. Ready, comrades? Come in. (Ned and Jones enter, dressed much as in Act I. Peter is genial.) How are you? Both well?

Jones (as they shake hands). Yes, thanks. (With slight emphasis.) Are you well?

Peter. Quite well, thanks. Never better in my life. (Ned and Jones exchange glances.) Sit down, comrades. It's good to see Midlandton faces again.

[Ned in arm-chair right, Jones left, Peter in revolving chair. Peter's attitude at first is the mixture of obsequiousness and patronage of an M.P. to influential supporters.

Ned. I suppose you don't see many people from the old town here?

Peter. You're the first I've seen since I came up.

Ned. Ah!

Peter. And what brings you to town? Pleasure, I suppose.

Jones. Well——

Peter. Yes, I know. London's a playground to you fellows. It's more like a battlefield to your hard-worked member.

Jones (firmly). It's not exactly pleasure we're here for, Comrade Garside.

Peter. Oh?

Ned. More like business. We're a sort of a delegation.

Peter. Delegates, eh? What's on? I don't remember any congress at the moment?

Jones. We're on a special mission.

Peter (obviously forcing an appearance of interest). Now, that's very interesting. May I ask the object of this mission?

Jones (grimly). You're the object.

Peter. I?

Ned. Yes. We've a crow to pluck with you, my lad.

Peter (not yet greatly concerned). Oh? Something you want to discuss?

Jones. Something we're going to discuss.

Peter (rising). Well, suppose I meet you to-morrow morning. Come here at—yes—at eleven, and I'll give you an hour with pleasure.

Ned (shaking his head). You'll give us an hour, or as long as we want, now.

Peter. Really, I'm afraid I can't. (Involuntarily glancing left.) I'm busy to-night. I'll see you to-morrow.

Jones. We shan't be here to-morrow. We've to go back by the midnight train. We've our livings to earn.

Peter. Well, look here, eome back in an hour or so, and I'll see you then.

Jones (commandingly). You'll see us now. Your time's ours, we pay for it.

Peter. You haven't bought me, you know. You pay me to represent your interests at Westminster.

Jones. Then why aren't you there representing them to-night?

Peter (irritably). I've told you I'm busy.

Jones. Busy with what?

Peter. Mind your own business.

Ned (quietly). It is our business. We've a right to know why you're neglecting your duty.

Peter (hotly). I don't neglect my duty.

Ned. What's on at the House to-night?

Peter (embarrassed). Well——

Ned (inexorably). What's on?

Peter. The Right to Work Bill, I believe. (Sitting again.)

Ned. Yes. The Right to Work Bill. The cornerstone of the Labour policy. Any Labour member who's absent from to-night's division deserves drumming out of the party as a traitor to its cause.

Peter. Oh, I'll be there for the division if you don't keep me here too long.

Ned. The division's over. You're out of your place on the most important night of the session. You've missed your ehanee to speak. You've missed the division. You've not paired. Your vote's lost.

Peter. It's not. The division can't take plaee so early.

Jones. We've been to the House. We thought we'd find you there. Why weren't you there?

Peter. I've told you I was busy.

Ned. You told the Whip on the telephone you were ill—too ill to turn out. We were there when he rang you up. We eome here, and we find you well.

Peter. I am indisposed.

Jones. Indisposed!

Peter. I meant to go. I started out to go only I became ill on the way.

Jones. You told us when you shook hands you'd never been better.

Peter. Oh, I dare say. The usual figure of speech. I am recovering.

Jones. No. You spoke the truth then. You're lying now.

Peter. Lying! This is too much. (Rising.)

Jones (rising). You'll like it less before we've finished. We're not in London losing a day's wages for our health. We've been called up to decide what's to be done with you.

Peter (angrily). You'll decide what's to be done with me. You!

Jones (firmly). We have decided.

Ned (still sitting). They've been showing us your record at the Whip's office. You ignore them. You go to the House when you think you will. You refuse to submit to discipline.

Peter. I serve the cause in my own way. (He is consciously on his defence now.) It's a better way than listening to dry-as-dust debates and tramping endless miles through the division lobbies. I'm getting at the people. I'm carrying the fiery sword of revolutionary Socialism through the length and breadth of the land. I'm the harbinger of the new age. Wherever I go I leave behind me an awakened people, stirred from their lethargy and indolent acceptance of things as they are, fired with new hopes of the coming dispensation, eager to throw off the yoke and strike their blow for freedom, justice, and the social revolution. That's my work, comrades, not wasting my energy, my gift of oratory on the canting hypocrites at Westminster, but keeping them fresh for the honest man outside. I'm going to quarter England, town by town, until——

Ned (rising, and putting his hand on Peter's arm, shaking his head). It won't do, Garsidc.

Jones. You needn't wag that silver tongue at us. You're found out.

Peter. Found out! You can't find out a man you're incapable of understanding. You can't drive genius with a bearing rein. I'm a man of genius, and you're angry because I can't be a cog in the parliamentary machine.

Ned (quietly). Whatever you are, you're paid to be a cog.

Peter. If I'm to do my great work for the cause I must live somehow. The labourer is worthy of his hire.

Jones. You're hired twice over. You get lecture fees when you ought to be in the House. You make local secretaries compete for your lectures to force your price up. You've got swelled head till you think you can do as you like.

Peter. I won't be dictated to by you.

Ned. And yet we're your masters, you know.

Peter. It's my nature to be a free lance. Routine would kill me. I've to work for the cause in my own way.

Ned. We don't want free lances. We want workers. If you want to speak to the people aren't your week-ends and vacations good enough?

Peter. A hundred days to every week are not enough.

Ned. We sent you to Parliament to obey the Party Whips and be governed by older and wiser heads than yours.

Peter. Nelson won battles by disobeying orders. If you didn't want independence you shouldn't have chosen me.

Jones. We see that now. You'd ceased to be representative of the Midlandton working classes before we chose you for our candidate. You were a B.A. You're still less able to represent us now when you make as much in a month as your average constituent does in a year. We'll have a better man next time.

Peter. Yes. You find an ignorant, dense average specimen of the British workman without a soul above thirty shillings a week, and he'll just about represent the ideas and ambitions of the Midlandton mob.

Jones. Yes, he'll represent us better than you.

Peter. Then God help representative government! You'd better be careful. My personal popularity's your finest platform asset.

Ned. Well, it's an asset we can do without. Put it that you're too brilliant for us.

Peter. Oh, it's the old story. Genius and the Philistine. For two pins I'd resign my seat.

Ned (gravely). We accept your resignation.

Peter. What!

Jones. We come here to demand it.

Peter (abject). Comrades, you don't mean this! You wouldn't do a man out of his job.

Jones (curtly). Oh, we're finding you a new job.

Peter. What's that?

Jones. The Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds.

Peter (slight pause). I won't resign. You've tried and judged me in my absence. You haven't given me a chance to say a word in my own defence.

Ned. You can talk till you're blue in the face without shifting facts.

Peter (growing increasingly hysterical). The facts are that I'm a Member of the House of Commons for the term of this Parliament, and you can't force me to resign until I do it of my own free will. I'm still M.P. for Midlandton, if I've to sleep on the Embankment. I'll go to the House in rags. I'll be an M.P. still, M.P. for the outcast, the despised, the rejected, the human derelicts, victims of jealousy and injustice and all man's inhumanity to man.

Jones (contemptuously). You're the victim of nothing but your own swelled head.

Peter. I'm the victim of my own great nature. A nature that's cast in too large a mould to submit to pettifogging little rules. My life was the people's. I demanded nothing in return but a free hand and no interference. I've to do this mighty task in my own way.

Jones. Yes. The way you found most profitable.

Peter. I'm spending every penny I earn.

Jones. Yes. I'll believe you for once. This place proves that. We sent you here to be our representative, not to be a bloody * gentleman. I know what your indisposition was that kept you from the House tonight. I saw its skirts when you opened the door. That's what we're paying for. For you to—faugh, you sicken me.

Peter. You lie.

Jones. I don't. I saw her.

Peter (deliberately). There's no woman here except my mother.

Ned (solemnly). Is that the truth, Peter? I also thought I saw a skirt that I'm sure your mother couldn't wear.

Peter. It's the truth. Upon my word of honour it's the truth.

Jones (roughly). I don't believe it.

Ned (protesting). We have his word, Karl.

Jones. The word of a convicted liar. He lied about his absence from the House. He's lying now.

Peter (with determination). You'll take my word for it.

[Door bell rings r.

Jones. Yes, if you'll let me see who's in that room.

Peter. My mother's there.

Jones. And no one else?

Peter. Nobody.

Jones. Then show us. Prove it.

Ned. He's said enough, Karl. He's passed his word.

Jones. I don't believe his word's worth that. (Snapping fingers.) He's lying for a woman. (Bitterly.) It's the code of a gentleman to lie for a woman.

[Door bell rings again.

Peter. I can't help your disbelief.

Jones. No, but you can open that door. (Indicating left.)

Peter (his back to the door). You'll take my word. (Again the door bell rings, and Mrs. Garside enters left. Peter turns round on her, surprising her by his vehemence. Angrily.) What is it?

[The door remains open.

Mrs. G. Someone's at the door. Didn't you hear the bell ring?

Peter. Let it ring. Don't you see I've visitors?

Ned (coming forward like a friend). Good evening, Mrs. Garside.

Mrs. G. (unheeding, troubled with Peter). But it'll be Mr. Mottram eome baek for his sister.

Jones. What?

[He crosses to look through the left door. Gladys enters, meeting Jones' eye.

Glad. May I go through to my brother, Mr. Garside?

Jones (falling back). Miss Mottram!

[Peter looks from one to the other like a caged animal.

Ned (with genuine feeling). Lad, lad, do you lie for the sake of lying?

Jones (triumphantly, his voice ringing). I think there'll be no dilliculty about that resignation now.

Peter (after a slight pause, tensely). On one condition.

Jones (scornfully). You're in a grand position for making conditions.

Peter. Keep your mouths shut about Miss Mottram's presence here, and I place my resignation in the Speaker's hands to-morrow. (Slight pause.)

Ned. I accept.

Jones (disagreeing violently). Well, I——

Ned. You accept.

Jones. But———

Ned. You have our promise, Garside, and you can take my word.

[Jones is silent and sullen.

Glad, (vaguely). What!

Peter (hysterically). You heard. I'm resigning my seat in the House of Commons. Humpty-dumpty had a great fall. (Jones laughs aloud, Gladys smiles slightly, Peter almost screams.) Don't laugh. (Suddenly self-pitying.) I don't know what I'm saying. (With a flicker of the old pride.) But I was an M.P. once. You can't take that from me. (Blundering blindly to door, left.) Oh, go, go, all of you. I want to be alone.

[The door bell has been steadily ringing. Peter goes off left, and bangs the door behind him.

Glad. Will you let my brother in, Mrs. Garside?

[Mrs. Garside goes right, and opens door, goes through and lets Fred. in.

Fred, (to Gladys). Thought you'd gone to sleep. (Seeing Jones.) Hello! Our friend of the election.

Glad, (impatiently). Never mind these men. Come away.

Fred. Well, don't snap a fellow's head off. (Ned and Jones quietly go out right.) Sorry I've been so long, only——-

Glad. It doesn't matter. (Raising her voice, looking left). Mr. Garside's been an entertainment in himself.

Fred, (crossing). Where is he? In there?

Glad, (crossing to right door). Oh, will you come?

Fred. Must do the decent by our Member, you know.

Glad. He's not our Member, he's resigned.

Fred. Good Lord! Why?

Glad. Oh, can't you see we're not wanted here?

Fred. (crossing towards her). All right. Don't get vicious. Nothing to lose your temper over, is it?

Glad. I've lost more than my temper. I've lost a chance.... Oh, never mind. What's the next train for Midlandton?

Fred. Train? What you want's some supper. We've two more days of town.

Glad. Yes. We'll eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. You're standing me champagne to-night, Freddie.

[She goes out right. Fred, looks after her, puzzled, crosses, and shakes Mrs. Garside's limp hand.

Fred. Good night, Mrs. Garside.

[He follows Gladys. Mrs. Garside goes right, the outer door closes, she turns light off in the hall and re-enters, closing the door behind her. Peter reenters left, composed.

Peter. Have they all gone?

Mrs. G. Yes. (Pathetically puzzled.) What does it all mean, Peter?

Peter. Mean? Ruin. My career's blasted. (Sits at table, turning chair towards her.)

Mrs. G. But why, Peter? I can't understand it. I——

Peter. Why? Because I was too successful. Jealousy. That's it. They do nothing themselves, but they won't give young blood a chance. Mediocrity's their motto. They've no use for brains. So I'm kicked out.

Mrs. G. Don't take on about it, deary. They'll find they can't do without you.

Peter. You'd always faith, hadn't you, mother? (Turning to table and putting his head on his hands.) But I've fallen like Lucifer, never to rise again.

Mrs. G. (struck with a new delightful thought, hesitating to utter it). Peter, it means—it means——

Peter (not turning). What?

Mrs. G. (standing centre). Oh, I'm so glad.

Peter (leaping up angrily, and turning on her). Glad!

Mrs. G. I've been so unhappy here. I shall be glad to be in Midlandton again.

Peter (disgustedly). Midlandton! (Shuddering.) Those grimy streets reeking of poverty.

Mrs. G. (reproachfully). Peter! Midlandton is home.

[She gives way a little. Peter stands centre.

Peter. Yes. After all, why not? The wounded lion crawls to its lair to die. (Pause, looking straight out.) I wonder. Am I a lion or only an ass braying in a lion's skin?

CURTAIN.