  After the second THE THIRD MRS. TANQUERAY.Scene.—The dining-room of Aubrey Tanqueray’s country house, Highercombe, in Surrey. A lean butler is standing at the sideboard. Aubrey and Cayley Drummle enter and go up to warm themselves at the fire, which burns feebly. The time is an evening in March, five years after the events of Mr. Pinero’s play, and Cayley looks quite five years stouter. Aubrey does not. Cayley. It’s quite shocking, Aubrey, that you should have been married nearly a year, and that I should not yet have had the pleasure of making Mrs. Tanqueray’s acquaintance. I am dying to know her. Aubrey. My fault, my dear Cayley. Cayley. Entirely. Your weddings are always so furtive. [Pokes the fire resolutely, in the hope of producing something approaching a cheerful blaze. Aubrey. Well, you’ll see her to-night. I hoped she would be able to dine at home, but she had promised to address a Temperance meeting in the village. [Cayley looks dubious.] However, she’ll be back at ten. Meanwhile, you’ll have to be contented with a bachelor dinner. [They go to the table and sit down. Cayley. [Unfolding serviette.] Experience has taught me, my dear Aubrey, that bachelor dinners are apt to be particularly well worth eating. No doubt it is to make up for the absence of more charming society. Aubrey. [Doubtfully.] I hope it will prove so in this case. Cayley. I feel sure of it. I remember your cook of old. Aubrey. I’m afraid it won’t be that cook. Cayley. [In horror.] You haven’t parted with him? Aubrey. Yes. He left soon after my marriage. There was some small error in his accounts, which Mrs. Tanqueray discovered. So, of course, we had to dismiss him. Cayley. [Eagerly.] Do you happen to have his address? Aubrey. I dare say Mrs. Tanqueray has, if you wish to know it. [Footman hands soup. Cayley. I shall be eternally indebted to her. Aubrey. Why? Cayley. I shall engage him at once. [Begins to eat his soup, frowns, and then puts down his spoon.] But I’m afraid you’ll want him back yourself. Aubrey. No. My wife is most particular about the character of her servants. Cayley. Ah! I’m more particular about the character of my soup. [His hand goes out instinctively towards his sherry-glass. As he is about to raise it he sees that it is empty, and refrains. Aubrey. Cayley, you ought to marry. Then you’d realise that there are more important things in the world than soup. Cayley. Of course there are, my dear fellow. There’s the fish and the joint. [Fish of an unattractive kind is handed to him. He takes some. Aubrey. Sybarite! [Cayley looks at his fish dubiously, then leaves it untasted. Cayley. You are quite wrong. A simple cut of beef or mutton, well-cooked, is quite enough for me. Butler. [To Cayley.] Lemonade, Sir? Cayley. Eh, what? No, thank you. Aubrey. Ah, Cayley. What will you drink? [Cayley’s face brightens visibly.] I’m afraid I can’t offer you any wine. [It falls again.] My wife never allows alcohol at her table. But there are various sorts of mineral waters. You don’t mind? Cayley. [Grimly.] Not at all, my dear fellow, not at all. Which brand of mineral water do you consider most—ah—stimulating? Aubrey. [Laughing mirthlessly.] I’m afraid, Cayley, you’re not a convert to Temperance principles yet. That shows you have never heard my wife speak. Cayley. [Emphatically.] Never! Temperance meetings are not in my line. [Footman removes his plate. Aubrey. Perhaps some of the other movements in which she is interested would appeal to you more. [With a touch of happy pride.] As you may know, my wife is a vice-president of the Anti-Vaccination Society, and of the Woman’s Home Rule Union. Indeed, she is in great request on all public platforms. Cayley. [With simulated enthusiasm.] I feel sure of that, my dear Aubrey. [Footman hands Cayley some rice-pudding. Cayley puts up his eye-glass, and eyes it curiously.] What is this? Footman. Rice-pudding, Sir. [Cayley drops spoon hastily. Aubrey. [Politely.] You’re eating nothing, Cayley. Cayley. [With some concern.] Aubrey, have I slept through the joint? I have no recollection of eating it. If, in a moment of abstraction, I refused it, may I change my mind? Aubrey. [Sternly.] My wife never has meat at her table on Fridays. Cayley. [Peevishly.] My dear fellow, I wish you’d thought of mentioning it before I came down. Then I might have had a more substantial luncheon. Where’s that rice-pudding? [Helps himself. There is a rather constrained silence. Aubrey. It’s really very good of you to have come down to see us, Cayley. Cayley. [Pulling himself together.] Very good of you to say so, my dear chap. [Tackles his rice-pudding manfully. Aubrey. My wife and I can so seldom get any man to drop in to dinner nowadays. Cayley. [Giving up his struggle with rice-pudding in despair.] I suppose so. Aubrey. In fact, we see very little society now. Cayley. [Sententiously.] Society only likes people who feed it, my dear Aubrey. You ought to have kept that cook. Aubrey. [Meditatively.] So my daughter said. Cayley. Ellean? Is she with you now? Aubrey. No. She is in Ireland. After making that remark she went back to her convent. Cayley. [Heartily.] Sensible girl! I like Ellean. Aubrey. She and my wife did not get on, somehow. It was very unfortunate, as it was mainly on Ellean’s account that I thought it right to marry again. Cayley. [With polite incredulity.] Indeed? Aubrey. Yes. You see, it is so difficult for a girl of Ellean’s retiring disposition to meet people and make friends when she has no mother to chaperon her. And if she meets no one, how is she to get married? Dessert, Cayley? Cayley. [After surveying a rather unattractive assortment of apples and walnuts.] No, thanks. As you were saying——? Aubrey. So I thought if I could meet with a really suitable person, someone with whom she would be in sympathy, someone she would look upon as a sort of second mother—— Cayley. [Correcting him.] Third, Aubrey. Aubrey. [Ignoring the interruption] ——it would make home more comfortable for her. Cayley. [Laughing.] I like your idea of comfort, Aubrey! But I should have thought you could have adopted some less extreme measure for providing Ellean with a chaperon? You have neighbours. Mrs. Cortelyon, for instance? Aubrey. [Stiffly.] Mrs. Cortelyon’s chaperonage was not very successful on the last occasion. Cayley. No, no; to be sure. Young Ardale. I was forgetting. Aubrey. Unhappily the whole scheme was a failure. Ellean conceived a violent aversion for Mrs. Tanqueray almost directly we came home, and a week later—I remember it was directly after dinner—she announced her intention of leaving the house for ever. Cayley. [The thought of his dinner still rankling.] Poor girl! No doubt she’s happier in her convent. [Butler enters with coffee. Cayley takes some. Aubrey. I am sorry I can’t ask you to smoke, Cayley, but my wife has a particular objection to tobacco. She is a member of the Anti-tobacco League, and often speaks at its meetings. Cayley. [Annoyed.] Really, my dear fellow, if I may neither eat, drink, nor smoke, I don’t quite see why you asked me down. Aubrey. [Penitently.] I suppose I ought to have thought of that. The fact is, I have got so used to these little deprivations that now I hardly notice them. Of course, it’s different with you. Cayley.
I should think it was! Aubrey. [Relenting.] If you very much want to smoke, I dare say it might be managed. If we have this window wide open, and you sit by it, a cigarette might not be noticed. Cayley. [Shortly.] Thanks. [Takes out cigarette, and lights it, as soon as Aubrey has made the elaborate arrangements indicated above. Aubrey. [Politely.] I hope you won’t find it cold. Cayley. [Grimly.] England in March is always cold. [Sneezes violently.] But, perhaps, if you ring for my overcoat, I may manage to survive the evening. Aubrey. Certainly. What is it like? Cayley. I’ve no idea. It’s an ordinary sort of coat. Your man will know it if you ring for him. Aubrey. [Hesitating.] I’d rather fetch it for you myself, if you don’t mind. I should not like Parkes to see that you were smoking. It would set such a bad example. Cayley. [Throwing his cigarette on to the lawn in a rage, and closing the window with a shiver.] Don’t trouble. I’ll smoke in the train. By-the-way, what time is my train? Aubrey. Your train? Cayley. Yes. I must get back to town, my dear fellow. Aubrey. Nonsense! You said you’d stay a week. Cayley. Did I? Then I didn’t know what I was saying. I must get back to-nig Aubrey. But you brought a bag. Cayley. Only to dress, Aubrey. By the way, will you tell your man to pack it? Aubrey. You can’t go to-night. The last train leaves at 9.30. It’s 9.15 now. Cayley. [Jumping up.] Then I must start at once. Send my bag after me. Aubrey. You’ve not a chance of catching it. Cayley. [Solemnly.] My dear old friend, I shall return to town to-night if I have to walk! Aubrey. [Detaining him.] But my wife? You haven’t even made her acquaintanc Cayley. Not half so strange as I have thought her dinner. [Shaking himself free.] No, Aubrey, this is really good-bye. I like you very much, and it cuts me to the heart to have to drop your acquaintance; but nothing in the world would induce me to face another dinner such as I have had to-night! Aubrey. Cayley! Cayley. [Making for the door.] And nothing in the world would induce me to be introduced to the third Mrs. Tanqueray. [Exit hurriedly. Curtain. |
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