 
MALISE. "Not a word, not a whisper of Liberty from all those excellent frock-coated gentlemen—not a sign, not a grimace. Only the monumental silence of their profound deference before triumphant Tyranny."
MALISE. Wait, Mrs. Miller! MRS. MILER. I'm gettin' be'ind'and, sir.
MRS. MILER. There's a man 'angin' about below.
MRS. MILER. I see him first yesterday afternoon. I'd just been out to get meself a pennyworth o' soda, an' as I come in I passed 'im on the second floor, lookin' at me with an air of suspicion. I thought to meself at the time, I thought: You're a'andy sort of 'ang-dog man. MALISE. Well? MRS. MILER. Well-peekin' down through the balusters, I see 'im lookin' at a photograft. That's a funny place, I thinks, to look at pictures—it's so dark there, ye 'ave to use yer eyesight. So I giv' a scrape with me 'eel [She illustrates] an' he pops it in his pocket, and puts up 'is 'and to knock at number three. I goes down an' I says: "You know there's no one lives there, don't yer?" "Ah!" 'e says with an air of innercence, "I wants the name of Smithers." "Oh!" I says, "try round the corner, number ten." "Ah!" 'e says tactful, "much obliged." "Yes," I says, "you'll find 'im in at this time o' day. Good evenin'!" And I thinks to meself [She closes one eye] Rats! There's a good many corners hereabouts. MALISE. [With detached appreciation] Very good, Mrs. Miler. MRS. MILER. So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "Oh! you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is grandmother. "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here I've got my business." "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives there neither. Good mornin'!" And I come straight up. If you want to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one. Wonderful resource! MALISE. What's he like, this gentleman? MRS. MILER. Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily papers. Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock hats you can't abide. MALISE. Isn't he a dun? MRS. MILER. They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir. He's after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain't he to be put a stop to? If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a jug o' water.
MALISE. You can get on now; I'm going to shave.
CLARE. Is Mr. Malise in? MRS. MILER. Yes. But 'e's dressin'. CLARE. Oh. MRS. MILER. Won't take 'im long. What name? CLARE. Would you say—a lady. MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment I'll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with her apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some cigarette ends] This is my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I'm particular about not disturbin' things. CLARE. I'm sure you are. MRS. MILER. He likes 'is 'abits regular.
MRS. MILER. He takes his claret fresh-opened—not like these 'ere bawgwars. CLARE. [Rising] I think I'll come back later. MRS. MILER. Mr. Malise is not in my confidence. We keep each other to ourselves. Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh every mornin'—the Westminister.
MRS. MILER. I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That's 'im; 'e's cut 'isself! I'll just take 'im the tobaccer!
MRS. MILER. [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer. The lady's waitin'.
MALISE. [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to her] Do the other room.
MALISE. Jolly of you to come. Can I do anything? CLARE. I want advice-badly. MALISE. What! Spreading your wings? CLARE. Yes. MALISE. Ah! Proud to have given you that advice. When? CLARE. The morning after you gave it me... MALISE. Well? CLARE. I went down to my people. I knew it would hurt my Dad frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see. No good. He was awfully sweet, only—he couldn't. MALISE. [Softly] We English love liberty in those who don't belong to us. Yes. CLARE. It was horrible. There were the children—and my old nurse. I could never live at home now. They'd think I was——. Impossible —utterly! I'd made up my mind to go back to my owner—And then— he came down himself. I couldn't d it. To be hauled back and begin all over again; I simply couldn't. I watched for a chance; and ran to the station, and came up to an hotel. MALISE. Bravo! CLARE. I don't know—no pluck this morning! You see, I've got to earn my living—no money; only a few things I can sell. All yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women. How does anyone ever get a chance? MALISE. Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your husband would pension you off. CLARE. If I don't go back to him I couldn't take it. MALISE. Good! CLARE. I've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and I do so hate watching pain. The fact is, I'm pretty hopeless; can't even do art work. I came to ask you about the stage. MALISE. Have you ever acted? [CLARE shakes her head] You mightn't think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training. There's Chorus—I don't recommend it. How about your brother? CLARE. My brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get married; and he's going back to India in September. The only friend I should care to bother is Mrs. Fullarton, and she's—got a husband. MALISE. I remember the gentleman. CLARE. Besides, I should be besieged day and night to go back. I must lie doggo somehow. MALISE. It makes my blood boil to think of women like you. God help all ladies without money. CLARE. I expect I shall have to go back. MALISE. No, no! We shall find something. Keep your soul alive at all costs. What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but— emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache. Sit in his drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners, return to—duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so grow old and—die!
MALISE. [Looking at the door in doubt] By the wayhe'd no means of tracing you?
MALISE. Was there a man on the stairs as you came up? CLARE. Yes. Why? MALISE. He's begun to haunt them, I'm told. CLARE. Oh! But that would mean they thought I—oh! no! MALISE. Confidence in me is not excessive. CLARE. Spying! MALISE. Will you go in there for a minute? Or shall we let them ring—or—what? It may not be anything, of course. CLARE. I'm not going to hide.
MALISE. [Opening the door of the inner room] Mrs. Miler, just see who it is; and then go, for the present.
MRS. MILER. [Re-entering] The cards. MALISE. Mr. Robert Twisden. Sir Charles and Lady Dedmond. [He looks at CLARE.] CLARE. [Her face scornful and unmoved] Let them come. MALISE. [TO MRS. MILER] Show them in!
TWISDEN. Mr. Malise? How do you do, Mrs. Dedmond? Had the pleasure of meeting you at your wedding. [CLARE inclines her head] I am Mr. George Dedmond's solicitor, sir. I wonder if you would be so very kind as to let us have a few words with Mrs. Dedmond alone?
SIR CHARLES. [Suddenly] What! LADY DEDMOND. Mr. Twisden, will you——? TWISDEN. [Uneasy] Mrs. Dedmond I must apologize, but you—you hardly gave us an alternative, did you? [He pauses for an answer, and, not getting one, goes on] Your disappearance has given your husband great anxiety. Really, my dear madam, you must forgive us for this—attempt to get into communication. CLARE. Why did you spy, HERE? SIR CHARLES. No, no! Nobody's spied on you. What! TWISDEN. I'm afraid the answer is that we appear to have been justified. [At the expression on CLARE'S face he goes on hastily] Now, Mrs. Dedmond, I'm a lawyer and I know that appearances are misleading. Don't think I'm unfriendly; I wish you well. [CLARE raises her eyes. Moved by that look, which is exactly as if she had said: "I have no friends," he hurries on] What we want to say to you is this: Don't let this split go on! Don't commit yourself to what you'll bitterly regret. Just tell us what's the matter. I'm sure it can be put straight. CLARE. I have nothing against my husband—it was quite unreasonable to leave him. TWISDEN. Come, that's good. CLARE. Unfortunately, there's something stronger than reason. TWISDEN. I don't know it, Mrs. Dedmond. CLARE. No? TWISDEN. [Disconcerted] Are you—you oughtn't to take a step without advice, in your position. CLARE. Nor with it? TWISDEN. [Approaching her] Come, now; isn't there anything you feel you'd like to say—that might help to put matters straight? CLARE. I don't think so, thank you. LADY DEDMOND. You must see, Clare, that—— TWISDEN. In your position, Mrs. Dedmond—a beautiful young woman without money. I'm quite blunt. This is a hard world. Should be awfully sorry if anything goes wrong. CLARE. And if I go back? TWISDEN. Of two evils, if it be so—choose the least! CLARE. I am twenty-six; he is thirty-two. We can't reasonably expect to die for fifty years. LADY DESMOND. That's morbid, Clare. TWISDEN. What's open to you if you don't go back? Come, what's your position? Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl; fair game for everybody. Believe me, Mrs. Dedmond, for a pretty woman to strike, as it appears you're doing, simply because the spirit of her marriage has taken flight, is madness. You must know that no one pays attention to anything but facts. If now—excuse me—you—you had a lover, [His eyes travel round the room and again rest on her] you would, at all events, have some ground under your feet, some sort of protection, but [He pauses] as you have not—you've none. CLARE. Except what I make myself. SIR CHARLES. Good God! TWISDEN. Yes! Mrs. Dedmond! There's the bedrock difficulty. As you haven't money, you should never have been pretty. You're up against the world, and you'll get no mercy from it. We lawyers see too much of that. I'm putting it brutally, as a man of the world. CLARE. Thank you. Do you think you quite grasp the alternative? TWISDEN. [Taken aback] But, my dear young lady, there are two sides to every contract. After all, your husband's fulfilled his. CLARE. So have I up till now. I shan't ask anything from him— nothing—do you understand? LADY DEDMOND. But, my dear, you must live. TWISDEN. Have you ever done any sort of work? CLARE. Not yet. TWISDEN. Any conception of the competition nowadays? CLARE. I can try.
CLARE. [Her composure a little broken by that look] It's real to me—this—you see! SIR CHARLES. But, my dear girl, what the devil's to become of George? CLARE. He can do what he likes—it's nothing to me. TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, I say without hesitation you've no notion of what you're faced with, brought up to a sheltered life as you've been. Do realize that you stand at the parting of the ways, and one leads into the wilderness. CLARE. Which? TWISDEN. [Glancing at the door through which MALISE has gone] Of course, if you want to play at wild asses there are plenty who will help you. SIR CHARLES. By Gad! Yes! CLARE. I only want to breathe. TWISDEN. Mrs. Dedmond, go back! You can now. It will be too late soon. There are lots of wolves about. [Again he looks at the door] CLARE. But not where you think. You say I need advice. I came here for it. TWISDEN. [With a curiously expressive shrug] In that case I don't know that I can usefully stay.
CLARE. Please don't have me followed when I leave here. Please! LADY DEDMOND. George is outside, Clare. CLARE. I don't wish to see him. By what right have you come here? [She goes to the door through which MALISE has passed, opens it, and says] Please come in, Mr. Malise.
TWISDEN. I am sorry. [Glancing at MALISE, he inclines his head] I am sorry. Good morning. [He goes] LADY DEDMOND. Mr. Malise, I'm sure, will see—— CLARE. Mr. Malise will stay here, please, in his own room.
SIR CHARLES. My dear girl, 'pon my soul, you know, I can't grasp your line of thought at all! CLARE. No? LADY DEDMOND. George is most willing to take up things just as they were before you left. CLARE. Ah! LADY DEDMOND. Quite frankly—what is it you want? CLARE. To be left alone. Quite frankly, he made a mistake to have me spied on. LADY DEDMOND. But, my good girl, if you'd let us know where you were, like a reasonable being. You can't possibly be left to yourself without money or position of any kind. Heaven knows what you'd be driven to! MALISE. [Softly] Delicious! SIR CHARLES. You will be good enough to repeat that out loud, sir. LADY DEDMOND. Charles! Clare, you must know this is all a fit of spleen; your duty and your interest—marriage is sacred, Clare. CLARE. Marriage! My marriage has become the—the reconciliation—of two animals—one of them unwilling. That's all the sanctity there is about it. SIR CHARLES. What!
LADY DEDMOND. You ought to be horribly ashamed. CLARE. Of the fact-I am. LADY DEDMOND. [Darting a glance at MALISE] If we are to talk this out, it must be in private. MALISE. [To CLARE] Do you wish me to go? CLARE. No. LADY DEDMOND. [At MALISE] I should have thought ordinary decent feeling—Good heavens, girl! Can't you see that you're being played with? CLARE. If you insinuate anything against Mr. Malise, you lie. LADY DEDMOND. If you will do these things—come to a man's rooms—— CLARE. I came to Mr. Malise because he's the only person I know with imagination enough to see what my position is; I came to him a quarter of an hour ago, for the first time, for definite advice, and you instantly suspect him. That is disgusting. LADY DEDMOND. [Frigidly] Is this the natural place for me to find my son's wife? CLARE. His woman. LADY DEDMOND. Will you listen to Reginald? CLARE. I have. LADY DEDMOND. Haven't you any religious sense at all, Clare? CLARE. None, if it's religion to live as we do. LADY DEDMOND. It's terrible—this state of mind! It's really terrible!
SIR CHARLES. For God's sake don't laugh like that!
LADY DEDMOND. [With real feeling] For the sake of the simple right, Clare! CLARE. Right? Whatever else is right—our life is not. [She puts her hand on her heart] I swear before God that I've tried and tried. I swear before God, that if I believed we could ever again love each other only a little tiny bit, I'd go back. I swear before God that I don't want to hurt anybody. LADY DEDMOND. But you are hurting everybody. Do—do be reasonable! CLARE. [Losing control] Can't you see that I'm fighting for all my life to come—not to be buried alive—not to be slowly smothered. Look at me! I'm not wax—I'm flesh and blood. And you want to prison me for ever—body and soul.
SIR CHARLES. [Suddenly] By Jove! I don't know, I don't know! What! LADY DEDMOND. [To MALISE] If you have any decency left, sir, you will allow my son, at all events, to speak to his wife alone. [Beckoning to her husband] We'll wait below. SIR CHARLES. I—I want to speak. [To CLARE] My dear, if you feel like this, I can only say—as a—as a gentleman—— LADY DEDMOND. Charles! SIR CHARLES. Let me alone! I can only say that—damme, I don't know that I can say anything!
GEORGE. [Going up to CLARE, who has recovered all her self-control] Will you come outside and speak to me? CLARE. No.
GEORGE. [In a low voice] Clare! CLARE. Well! GEORGE. You try me pretty high, don't you, forcing me to come here, and speak before this fellow? Most men would think the worst, finding you like this. CLARE. You need not have come—or thought at all. GEORGE. Did you imagine I was going to let you vanish without an effort—— CLARE. To save me? GEORGE. For God's sake be just! I've come here to say certain things. If you force me to say them before him—on your head be it! Will you appoint somewhere else? CLARE. No. GEORGE. Why not? CLARE. I know all those "certain things." "You must come back. It is your duty. You have no money. Your friends won't help you. You can't earn your living. You are making a scandal." You might even say for the moment: "Your room shall be respected." GEORGE. Well, it's true and you've no answer. CLARE. Oh! [Suddenly] Our life's a lie. It's stupid; it's disgusting. I'm tired of it! Please leave me alone! GEORGE. You rather miss the point, I'm afraid. I didn't come here to tell you what you know perfectly well when you're sane. I came here to say this: Anyone in her senses could see the game your friend here is playing. It wouldn't take a baby in. If you think that a gentleman like that [His stare travels round the dishevelled room till it rests on MALISE] champions a pretty woman for nothing, you make a fairly bad mistake. CLARE. Take care.
GEORGE. I don't pretend to be subtle or that kind of thing; but I have ordinary common sense. I don't attempt to be superior to plain facts—— CLARE. [Under her breath] Facts! GEORGE. Oh! for goodness' sake drop that hifalutin' tone. It doesn't suit you. Look here! If you like to go abroad with one of your young sisters until the autumn, I'll let the flat and go to the Club. CLARE. Put the fire out with a penny hose. [Slowly] I am not coming back to you, George. The farce is over. GEORGE. [Taken aback for a moment by the finality of her tone, suddenly fronts MALISE] Then there is something between you and this fellow. MALISE. [Dangerously, but without moving] I beg your pardon! CLARE. There—is—nothing. GEORGE. [Looking from one to the other] At all events, I won't—I won't see a woman who once—[CLARE makes a sudden effacing movement with her hands] I won't see her go to certain ruin without lifting a finger. CLARE. That is noble. GEORGE. [With intensity] I don't know that you deserve anything of me. But on my honour, as a gentleman, I came here this morning for your sake, to warn you of what you're doing. [He turns suddenly on MALISE] And I tell this precious friend of yours plainly what I think of him, and that I'm not going to play into his hands.
CLARE. [Shakes her head at him—then to GEORGE] Will you go, please? GEORGE. I will go when you do. MALISE. A man of the world should know better than that. GEORGE. Are you coming? MALISE. That is inconceivable. GEORGE. I'm not speaking to you, sir. MALISE. You are right. Your words and mine will never kiss each other. GEORGE. Will you come? [CLARE shakes her head] GEORGE. [With fury] D'you mean to stay in this pigsty with that rhapsodical swine? MALISE. [Transformed] By God, if you don't go, I'll kill you. GEORGE. [As suddenly calm] That remains to be seen. MALISE. [With most deadly quietness] Yes, I will kill you.
CLARE. [With a swift movement, grasping the stick] Please.
CLARE. Now will you go! [There is silence] GEORGE. [Staring at her hat] You mad little fool! Understand this; if you've not returned home by three o'clock I'll divorce you, and you may roll in the gutter with this high-souled friend of yours. And mind this, you sir—I won't spare you—by God! Your pocket shall suffer. That's the only thing that touches fellows like you.
CLARE. Horrible!
MALISE. Nothing could be better. CLARE. I don't know what to do! I don't know what to do! MALISE. Thank the stars for your good fortune. CLARE. He means to have revenge on you! And it's all my fault. MALISE. Let him. Let him go for his divorce. Get rid of him. Have done with him—somehow.
CLARE. If I must bring you harm—let me pay you back! I can't bear it otherwise! Make some use of me, if you don't mind! MALISE. My God!
MALISE. You poor——
MALISE. [Very quietly] No, no! This is not the house of a "gentleman." CLARE. [Letting her head fall, and almost in a whisper] I'm sorry. MALISE. I understand. CLARE. I don't feel. And without—I can't, can't. MALISE. [Bitterly] Quite right. You've had enough of that.
MALISE. Not going?
MALISE. You don't trust me? CLARE. I do! But I can't take when I'm not giving. MALISE. I beg—I beg you! What does it matter? Use me! Get free somehow. CLARE. Mr. Malise, I know what I ought to be to you, if I let you in for all this. I know what you want—or will want. Of course—why not? MALISE. I give you my solemn word—— CLARE. No! if I can't be that to you—it's not real. And I can't. It isn't to be manufactured, is it? MALISE. It is not. CLARE. To make use of you in such a way! No.
MALISE. Where are you going?
MALISE. Not back to him? [CLARE shakes her head] Thank God! But where? To your people again? CLARE. No. MALISE. Nothing—desperate? CLARE. Oh! no. MALISE. Then what—tell me—come! CLARE. I don't know. Women manage somehow. MALISE. But you—poor dainty thing! CLARE. It's all right! Don't be unhappy! Please! MALISE. [Seizing her arm] D'you imagine they'll let you off, out there—you with your face? Come, trust me trust me! You must! CLARE. [Holding out her hand] Good-bye! MALISE. [Not taking that hand] This great damned world, and—you! Listen! [The sound of the traffic far down below is audible in the stillness] Into that! alone—helpless—without money. The men who work with you; the men you make friends of—d'you think they'll let you be? The men in the streets, staring at you, stopping you—pudgy, bull-necked brutes; devils with hard eyes; senile swine; and the "chivalrous" men, like me, who don't mean you harm, but can't help seeing you're made for love! Or suppose you don't take covert but struggle on in the open. Society! The respectable! The pious! Even those who love you! Will they let you be? Hue and cry! The hunt was joined the moment you broke away! It will never let up! Covert to covert—till they've run you down, and you're back in the cart, and God pity you! CLARE. Well, I'll die running! MALISE. No, no! Let me shelter you! Let me! CLARE. [Shaking her head and smiling] I'm going to seek my fortune. Wish me luck! MALISE. I can't let you go. CLARE. You must.
MALISE. Good luck, then! Good luck!
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