Scene: Morning room in a handsome flat—a showily furnished room—rather ostentatious and loud in its decoration and appointments. Large table in bay window r.upper corner. Fire-place r.Doors at back l.c. and two in l. wing. Small tables r.and L.. Easy chairs l. and R.

Breakfast is laid on large table—it is a gorgeously laid meal—silver and plate in profusion, and a great number of dishes—tea urn and coffee urn—a boiling kettle—flowers and ferns in vases and stands. One, a large wavy one, is at left edge of table close to Allen. The table in short is crowded and showy to the last degree. A magnificent footman in gorgeous livery is standing behind; and Mr. Piffin in solemn black waits close to Allen’s chair, a dish in his hand. Allen is discovered sitting l. of table, and eating his breakfast in a most melancholy fashion. He looks intensely miserable and awed. The terrible solemnity of the whole affair has depressed his spirits to their lowest ebb. He glances nervously now and then as the meal proceeds, from the footman to the valet, and vice versa, as they silently and with much ceremony walk about and wait on him. The fern by his side keeps getting in his way, tickling and irritating him, but he dare not move it. He eats in silence, and when he does speak, does so in a humble, deprecating, nervous manner. He is dressed in a loose morning costume. Music to open Act.

PIFF. (Standing by Allen’s l. elbow c. Peters r. of table R.) May I get you a little pÂtÉ de foie gras, sir?

ALLEN. (Looking round, and speaking in a hushed voice.) I beg pardon?

PIFF. A little pÂtÉ de foie gras, sir.

ALLEN. Patty who?

PIFF. Goose’s liver, sir. I think you will like it.

ALLEN. No, thanks; I never eats liver. It don’t agree with me. I will have a bit o’ the bacon though.

PIFF. No, sir; it is not dressed that way, sir. I would get used to it if I were you, sir. You will so often come across it. Peters, just pass your master the pÂtÉ de foie gras.

(Peters goes to do so. Allen who has turned again towards his breakfast is about to take up some gravy from his plate with his knife).

PIFF. (Checks him.) I wouldn’t lap up the gravy with my knife, sir. I don’t think. It’s never done now in good society, sir.

ALLEN. It—it’s the best part of it, you know, I alius thinks—the gravy

PIFF. Yes, it’s very tasty, sir. It’s unfortunate it’s so sloppy; and you see, sir, eating it in that way does not show off the figure to advantage. Peters, remove your master’s plate.

(Peters does so, placing it a few feet beyond Allen’s left hand. Allen watches it with jealous eyes. Peters then holds the pÂtÉ de foie gras to Allen. He slowly runs his eye up Peters with awe, and then looks at the pÂtÉ de foie gras, then using one hand attempts to take it. Peters, not moving a muscle, holds it tight. Allen seems surprised, and partly rising, attempts to take it with both hands.)

PIFF. (Coming to his rescue, cutting a piece, and putting it on his plate.) Allow me, sir. Peters, the brown bread and butter.

PET. (Looking for it.) It is not on the table, sir.

PIFF. No brown bread and butter; dear me, how remiss!

(Crosses l. and rings bell. Peters also crosses l.c. door, Allen looks cautiously round and sees they are not watching him, and stealthily reaches over and secures a knifeful of gravy. He is about having a second and has the knife close to his mouth, when he becomes aware that Piff has returned and is watching him. He tries to hide the knife out of sight. Peters has returned with bread and butter.)

PIFF. (Severely.) Peters, remove your master’s knife. Don’t you see that it is in his way?

(Peters does so, and then holds the bread and butter to Allen, who takes a thin slice, folds it up, and holds it in his left hand while taking the pÂtÉ on a fork in his right. He puts first the pÂtÉ and then the bread and butter into his mouth and swallows them.)

PIFF. I must apologize for serving you your breakfast in here, sir. Of course, you will not have it in the drawing-room as a rule.

ALLEN. No, a’ coorse not. No; us alius used to have it in the kitchen at home.

PIFF. Yes, sir. Must have been very convenient. But I think I’ll get you to put up with the breakfast parlour in future, sir—when the room’s ready. Have you quite finished, sir?

ALLEN. (Humbly suggesting.) I think I’d like a little more o’ that pie. (Looking longingly at pie the other side of table.) You see, I alius wur a hearty eater. (Said as apology).

PIFF. Yes, sir, I’m delighted to hear it, sir; but I wouldn’t eat any more breakfast, sir. You will find it is considered correct among bons vivants to eat a very sparse dejeuner. My late lamented master, the Count de Fizziani, never partook of anything but a cup of weak tea and a little dry toast, and he was one of the oldest families in Europe.

(Allen rises, Peters bows as he does so, and Allen returns the bow and comes dozen R.)

ALLEN. Ah, I shouldn’t ’a’ thought as anyone could ‘a’ lived long on that. (He bows).

PIFF. No necessity to bow, sir.

ALLEN. He did it. (Indicating Peters).

PIFF. He’s paid for it.

ALLEN. I allus seem to want a good feed myself in the morning. (Takes out an old clay pipe and prepares to fill it. Goes down r. and sits in chair. Peters is clearing away the breakfast things).

PIFF. Are you thinking of smoking, sir?

ALLEN. Yes; I allus has a whiff or two arter breakfast.

PIFF. It’s very soothing, sir. My late lamented master, the Count de Fizziani, used to follow precisely the same course. But I wouldn’t smoke a pipe, sir. Pipes are going out in good society. (Takes cigarette case from pocket and offers it to Allen. Takes pipe from Allen and puts it on corner of table R.c.) I have some cigarettes here, sir, which I think you will like, sir. These are much more comme il faut, sir. This case is a present from my late lamented master, the Count.

(Allen looks at them and gingerly takes one.)

ALLEN. Which end?

PIFF. (Lighting match.) Either end, sir. Allow me. (Showing matchbox.) Another little souvenir from my late master. He was always acknowledging, if I may say so, my value to him. That sort of thing is always done in good society now. (Lights cigarette.) It is a full flavored one, sir. (Piffin takes Allen’s pipe from table r.c., crossing with it to window r.)

ALLEN. (Watching him, anxiously.) Don’t hurt him.

PIFF. (Turning round.) I was just going to put it outside on the window-sill, sir.

ALLEN. No, don’t put him there. We used to sit up together of a night watching the sheep. I don’t like the thought of putting him outside the window, now I’m a gentleman. Drop him in the pocket of that old shooting coat o’ mine that thee won’t let me wear. They know each other. (Sits r.and smokes his cigarette. Piff. puts the pipe on table and returns r.c.)

PIFF. (Noticing that Allen is looking at his cigarette.) All right, sir? (r.)

ALLEN. Yes—yes, thank you, Mr. Puffin—

PIFF. Piffin, sir.

ALLEN. I wur looking to see if it wur alight, that’s all.

PIFF. You will soon get to like them, sir. And whenever you are ready to dress, sir—

ALLEN. (Surprised.) Dress? Why, I be dressed, bain’t I?

PIFF. Oh, only for breakfast, you see, sir. I understood you were going out walking, sir.

ALLEN. Why can’t I walk in these?

PIFF. Oh, no, sir—all London would laugh at you.

ALLEN. Lord! I should never a’ thought as they’d take so much notice. (Rising. Piff. crosses to l. near down stage door.) Ah, well, I’ll dress. (Crossing l.) I don’t want to upset London if I can help it. I’ll dress. (Exit l. Bows to Piffin as Piffin does so to him).

PIFF. No necessity to bow, sir. (Aside.) Ah, I’ve got a big job on here!

(Exit Piffin, following Allen l. Piffin immediately returns, having forgotten the pipe, which he takes. He is recrossing l. as enter Dexter and Clara, c., preceded by Peters, who takes tray from table R.c. and exits up L.)

And I’ve got to live in the house with this.

(Dexter goes c., Clara r. at back.)

DEX. (Coming down.) Good-morning, Piffin, goodmorning. Having a quiet whiff?

PIFF. Thank you, sir. My stomach does not permit my indulging in the luxury of a cutty pipe.

DEX. Is Mr. Rollitt about?

PIFF. He has just this minute gone upstairs to dress, sir. I will let him know you are here, sir.

DEX. No hurry—no hurry at all, Piffin. We are before our time. You are not looking well, Piffin.

PIFF. Anxiety, sir. May be anxiety. You see Mr. Rollitt’s unacquaintance with the manners of the beaux esprits throws much responsibility on myself.

DEX. But you must be careful, Piffin. What would he do without you?

PIFF. (Smiling.) Well, I’m afraid he would be a little up a tree, sir, if I may be permitted a vulgarism. (Moving to door l.) I will go and acquaint him with your arrival, sir. (Takes plate from table l., puts pipe on it.) I’ll send him to you directly, sir. (Smells pipe.) Shag! (Exit l.l.)

DEX. Thank you, Mr. Piffin, thank you. (Turning round.) Always be affable with your inferiors—never know when you may want ‘em.

CLARA. (By window, looking out.) Do you come across many of that sort? (Comes down r. of table R.)

DEX. Ah, you beast—you vixen. I wonder you don’t cut yourself with that tongue of yours.

CLARA. (Turning round with a hard laugh. At fireplace R.) It must be pretty sharp if it goes through your skin.

DEX. Ah, you damned—

(Enter Allen l. He has on slippers and a smoking coat).

ALLEN. (Crossing.) Don’t ’ee look at us too closely. I bean’t properly dressed yet.

CLARA. (r.c. turns head away.) I don’t think we had better look at you at all under those circumstances, Mr. Rollitt. (Laughs.)

ALLEN. (Laughs.) Oh, I be covered up all right everywhere. I merely meant as I wasn’t up to fashion plate standard. (Crossing c.) And how be Colonel Dexter? (Shaking hands.)

DEX. (l.) Jolly, my boy—and how’s yourself?

ALLEN. (c.) Oh, I be spry enough. (Crossing before him and shaking hands with Clara, and keeping her hand.) I think us’ll have a pleasant day.

CLARA. (r. looking tenderly at him.) I’m sure we shall. (Crosses to sofa, stands at head of it.)

DEX. Well, you young folks will, I know, and the old folks will be happy looking on. (Sitting, and taking Clara’s hand in his and fondling it. Allen crosses r.) To see his little girl happy, that’s always happiness enough for old Jack Dexter.

CLARA. (Leaning over and kissing the top of his hand.) Silly old dad.

DEX. (Taking out his handkerchief and pretending to weep.) Ah, like her mother—like her mother.

ALLEN. (r. c., laughs nervously.) Her—her mother must ha’ been rare beautiful, mustn’t her?

DEX. (c. rising and taking Allen by the hand.) Thank you,—ah, Mr. Rollitt, you have never known the blessing of a wife—(Clara looks at him)—you do not understand the feelings of a widower. (Weeping.)

ALLEN. No—but—(laughing)—but—I hopes to one day; no—no—I don’t mean that—I—(confused)—Have thee had breakfast? (Clara sits on the soft L.)

DEX. Yes, thank you, Allen, my boy.

ALLEN. (Cheerfully.) Have another.

DEX. No thanks, not to-day.

ALLEN. What’s the matter? Off thee feed?

DEX. No, my lad, but we old folks ain’t like you young country ones—nothing at present thank you—(pauses)—to eat.

ALLEN. Have summat to drink. (Clara crosses l. Both men laugh, each in his own distinctive way. Dex. turns l. and catches Clara’s face.) There be some rare old whiskey in the library. Thee’ll find it on the sideboard—(Dex. goes up c.)—and it be more comfortable like in there than here. I’ll just go and finish making myself beautiful. (Crosses to l.)

CLARA. Don’t be too long. (Crossing and sitting L.c.)

ALLEN. (Laughing.) No, it oughtn’t to take me long to—(Dex. has his back to them, wine business at table r.c.)—do that, ought it? (Goes to l. door down stage. Laughs, and then low to Clara as he is going.) I am not likely to stop upstairs long when I know thee’s downstairs.

CLARA. Go away, go away.

(Exit Allen down stage l. Bus. She kisses her hand.)

DEX. And I suppose you will go and throw this chance away, like you have every other.

CLARA. Well, what if I do? (Rises, crosses it.)

DEX. What if you do? What are we to live on? (Goes to Clara l.)

CLARA. Gulls, I suppose—as we always have done.

DEX. Yes, and is it pleasant living? Is it pleasant to have to slave and trick for every dinner? Is it pleasant to be kicked—sooner or later—out of every society one goes into? (Coming close and speaking low.) Was it pleasant to be buried for two years in that God-forsaken hole by Exmoor, not daring to show our heads above ground for a moment? You’ve got a fine chance of being respectable now.

CLARA. Too late, I’m afraid, though.

DEX. (r. c.) Too late?

CLARA. Yes—you see, papa, dear, you haven’t exactly brought me up in that way, and I’m afraid I’m too old to learn now. I don’t think I should be quite at home as the wife of a piously brought up young man from the country. (Leans back—laughs.)

DEX. And so you’re going to let six thousand a year slip through your fingers. It’s wicked—it’s wicked.

CLARA. (Laughs—rises.) Well, it hasn’t slipped through my fingers just at present, it is sticking to them pretty freely. (Crosses to R.—Dex is c.—toys with ring.)

DEX. (Goes to table r.c.) And how long do you think he will stand you playing with him?

CLARA. Oh, a good long while yet. (Goes up.)

DEX. (Puts hat on table r.c.) That’s just where you’re making a mistake then. He’s not a fool. He’ll want an answer, “Yes,” or “No,” soon, and what are you going to say then?

CLARA. (Looking out of window.) No. (Looking into fireplace r.)

DEX. (After a pause—violently.) Luke Cranbourne’s at the bottom of this. What devil’s game is it that’s going on between you and him? (Loudly.)

CLARA. I do wish you wouldn’t drink when you’re coming out anywhere, it always makes you so noisy. (At glass.)

DEX. (Violently.) Take care, Clara—you seem to forget I’m your father.

CLARA. (Coldly.) The relationship was none of my seeking. Whatever responsibility attaches to the unfortunate—(moves near Dex.)—occurrence is not mine.

DEX. (l. making movement as if to strike her.) Clara.

CLARA. (Facing him with quiet contempt—a pause.) Put down your hands, father. That period of my life is over. (Crosses. Dex. steps back, then throws himself into chair, leans his head on his arms, and bursts into tears r.c.)

DEX. (Crying.) My own child hates me.

CLARA. (Crossing and laying a hand on his shoulder gently.) I don’t mean to be hard, father, but you can’t expect much love and duty from me. Curses and blows were all you ever gave me as a child, and ever since I became a woman you have merely hawked me about as your decoy.

DEX. ( Whimpering.) I only want you to do what’s for your own good.

CLARA. (Turns away L.) Yes, but you must allow me to be the judge of that—and come—you haven’t had much cause to grumble up to now. You’ve been able to be drunk every night for the last three months.

DEX. (Rises c.) I ain’t been drunk. (Takes hat off table r. c.)

CLARA. Not for you perhaps—(goes l. a little)—drunk in the ordinary sense of the word—and I will get you something to-day if I can.

DEX. (Drying his eyes.) God bless you, Clara, you’re a good girl. Do you think you’ll be able to get a twenty?

CLARA. You must leave it to me. I’ll get you as much as I can.

ALLEN. (Off l.) Thank you, Mr. Puffin.

PIFF. (Off l.) Piffin, Piffin, sir.

CLARA. (Moving away towards door—upper l.) Come into the next room now. Here’s Allen coming back.

DEX. (As he follows her out.) Say you want to help a poor woman who’s very ill, and has been ordered nourishing food and—(gags.)

(Exeunt Clara and Dex. upper l.)

(Enter Allen and Piff. l. Allen is completely dressed in the height of walking costume, and is evidently very uncomfortable. Enter Peters c. Pet. puts photo case on table r. c. Exits down c. Allen has on hat and coat, and Piff. is carrying his umbrella and gloves. Allen should be got up in a slightly exaggerated masher style. He is smoking a cigarette.)

ALLEN. I carn’t breathe, Mr. Puffin.

PIFF. Oh, you will soon get used to that, sir. And would you please to remember my name is Piffin, sir? (Taking his hand.) Why, surely these are nines, sir, I think we could get them down to eight and a half, and if I were you, sir, I would show a little more cuff, sir, it’s always done in good society, sir; besides, it makes the hand look smaller; a little cuff, sir, goes a long way in good society.

ALLEN. Thank you, Mr. Piffin. (Shakes his hand.)

PIFF. Thank you, sir, but I don’t think you ought to shake hands with me, sir. And when you do shake hands with your friends, sir—allow me (takes Allen’s hand) shake high, sir. (Shakes his hand high.) You’ll see it’s always done in good society, sir. Lord Carmichael’s man told me he met you yesterday, sir.

ALLEN. I—I don’t know him, do I?

PIFF. Oh, no, sir, but he knows you, sir, and he was rather complaining of your walk, sir?

ALLEN. Why, what’s it got to do with him?

PIFF. Well, sir, knowing as I’m your coach, sir, he meant it as a friendly hint. You have rather a countrified walk, if you will forgive me for saying so—a more nÉgligÉ style is adopted by the savoir vivre now, sir, and a more insouciant manner of carrying the umbrella. You walk too much in this way, sir. (Taking up umbrella, gags, and imitates.)

ALLEN. Lord love us, do I walk like that?

PIFF. Just like that, sir. You see yourself, sir, what a very undestinguÉ appearance it presents. The present fashionable style is more like this, sir. (Performing an exaggerated Piccadilly dawdle.) See, sir—body a little forward—knees stiff—and a slight wobble, sir—very slight. (Handing Allen the umbrella.) Perhaps, sir, you would take the umbrella and try it, sir.

(Allen attempts the business.)

PIFF. (Criticising Allen’s practice. Allen crosses to R.) A little more bend, sir—a little wobble, sir—umbrella held lightly between the first and second fingers, sir, (Allen goes l.) and if you could manage—allow me, sir—. (takes umbrella, shows him, and returns it) to swing it right round now and then, sir, it adds great aplomb.

ALLEN. Great what?

PIFF. French, sir.

ALLEN. (Swings umbrella round awkwardly.) Like that?

PIFF. Not quite like that, sir. A little more airily, sir.

ALLEN. (Swinging it.) Does it ever put anybody’s eye out behind?

PIFF. I don’t think that point is considered of much importance in good society, sir—that is much better, sir. (Goes r.Allen l.) If you would practice like that a little every day, sir, you would soon pick it up, sir. A little more bend, sir, and—er—don’t forget the wobble.

(Exit l. down stage.)

(Allen goes on practicing to himself, making as much fun as possible, consistent with comedy, out of the bus. As he is in the middle of it, enter Mrs. R.and Deb. door c., the door being opened for them by Peters. They stand c. staring aghast at Allen, who continues, unconscious of their presence.)

ALLEN. (Gags.) Soon pick it up! Strikes me someone’ll have to pick me up. It puts me in mind of one of our old turkey cocks.

(Mrs. R. and Deb. come down stage a little.)

ALLEN. (Bus. in r. corner of stage. Peters withdraws, grinning.)

DEB. (After a long pause, clapping her hands.) I know what it is, aunt. It’s our Allen.

ALLEN. (Seeing them.) Mother! (Comes down r.c. Deb. l. c.)

MRS. R. My boy! (They rush into each other’s arms c. and Mrs. R. gives him a huge hug—gets r.of Allen, Deb. l. Then he and Deb. have an embrace, and then he and Mrs. R. for the second time.)

ALLEN. (In the middle of Mrs. R. second hug.) Hold hard!

MRS. R. (Alarmed.) What’s the matter, lad?

ALLEN. Summat’s gone.

MRS. R. What?

ALLEN. I don’t know; summat behind. (Drawing back r. and looking down at himself.) Mother, you’ve spoilt me.

MRS. R. Ah, they used to tell me I allus did that, lad. (Laughs.)

DEB. (After gazing in silent admiration at Allen.) Oh, aunt, isn’t it lovely? Look at its hat!

MRS. R. (Critically examining his clothes.) Ah—and there’s some good stuff there, too. (Moving away.)

DEB. (Going near and sniffing.) Oh, oh! Doesn’t it smell nice—and—oh, look at its collar! (Allen pleased—begins to plume himself—Deb. begins to laugh.)

ALLEN. What’s the matter with the collar—what are you laughing at? (Trying to look at his own collar. Debt’s laugh only grows, and Allen’s indignation begins to rise.)

ALLEN. What’s the matter—what are you laughing at? (Deb. laughing more and more, goes to walk round him. Turning round, so as to face her—his collar prevents him turning his head, and he has to walk round.) What are you up to?

DEB. I want to see it all round.

ALLEN. (Very indignantly.) Well then, you can’t do it. I ain’t a show. What are you laughing at? There’s nothing to laugh at. (Mrs. R. laughs first time.) It’s your ignorance, because you don’t understand things. What are you laughing at?

(Mrs. R., who has hitherto sat R. looking on, now also begins to laugh, and she and Deb. go on laughing more and more, Allen growing more and more indignant.)

ALLEN. I am surprised at you, mother. Deb. allus was a—(the two women only laugh louder, and Allen in spite of himself begins to laugh too; afterwards he joins in heartily and all three laugh, after which they have another hug. Bus.)

MRS. R. (Exhausted.) Well, lad, and how dost thee like being a gentleman? (Sits r., Deb. sits l.)

ALLEN. (c. doubtfully.) Well, it’s got its drawbacks, mother. There’s more work about it than you’d think for, you know,—but I think I shall be all right, I’ve got a good man learning me. He wur teaching me to walk this morning. That wus the Park stroll I wur practicing when you come in; see, mother? (Imitates stroll.)

MRS. R. Ah, well, us made a good man of ’ee down in Devon. I hopes they don’t spoil ’ee, lad, in turning thee into a gentleman.

ALLEN. Ah, no, mother. It’s only a polishing up the outside. I’m old Exmoor oak—(puts his hat and umbrella on table r. c.)—I hope, right through, and they can’t hurt that. When did ’ee come up? (Sits r. c.)

MRS. R. Only yesterday, and us went to Mrs. Clouter’s and slept, and then us come on here this morning.

ALLEN. And how long can you stop?

MRS. R. Well, us must start off to-morrow, some time.

ALLEN. To-morrow! Oh, nonsense, mother.

MRS. R. Nonsense! Why, bless the lad, thee wouldn’t have me away on Saturday. Why, who’d pay the wages, and see to everything?

ALLEN. Why, there’s Rogers there, ain’t there?

MRS. R. Ah, why thee might just as well leave the key of the stable in charge o’ the old bay mare, as trust him to look arter anything, except his own inside.

ALLEN. (After a pause.) Mother! (Rises, goes to Mrs. R. r.) What do ye want to go back at all for, and work and worry yourself to death? Let me take a little house up here in London for thee and Deb, and then we can all be together.

MRS. R. (Aghast.) And leave the farm?

DEB. (Turning round.) Oh, Allen!

ALLEN. Why not? You’ve worked hard enough, mother—give the farm up and enjoy yourself.

MRS. R. Enjoy myself! Away from Woodbarrow

Farm! Why, lad, thy father wur born there and brought me home there—and he died there, and thee wur born there—and there be the pigs and the poultry! (Begins to cry.)

ALLEN. (Tenderly patting her.) All right, mother, all right. Us’ll keep it on.

MRS. R. (Wiping her eyes.) And thee might want to come back to it theeself some day, lad.

ALLEN. (Laughing.) Why, thee don’t think I’m going to run through two hundred thousand, do ye, mother? We Devonshire lads win fortunes, not lose ‘em. (Crossing c.)

MRS. R. Ah, no, lad. But thee knows the saying “Roses blossom for a day, But stout old ivy’s green al-way.” Thee ain’t likely to lose the money, if thee can help it, lad, but us all be in God’s hands, and I’ll be easier in my mind if the farm’s there for thee to come home to. If anything happens, thee knows the way across the Moor, and thee knows how the latch goes, and me and the lass will be inside to welcome thee.

ALLEN. (Goes l. takes Deb.‘s hand.) Ah, I know you will, mother, both of you.

MRS. R. (Music—piano.) Leastways I shall—and the lass until her gets married, I suppose. (Deb. goes up a little; gets r.)

ALLEN. (Surprised.) Until her gets married? (Deb. goes to Mrs. R. r.; tries to stop her speaking.)

MRS. R. (Sharply.) Ah, the lads ain’t all fools.

ALLEN. (Evidently troubled.) I never seemed to think o’ Deb’s getting married, somehow.

MRS. R. Well, other folks have.

ALLEN. I can’t fancy the old farm wi’out Deb. Lord, how lonesome it would be.

DEB. (Who has been trying to stop Mrs. R., has come down and stands by her aunt, l.) Oh, it’s only aunt’s fun. (Goes to Allen, l. c.) I’m not going to get married. Sure the pigs and cows are worrit enough wi’ their foolish ways. I don’t want any husband.

ALLEN. Ah, thee will some day, o’ course, and when thee does we must make thee comfortable, lass. (Taking her hand.) Thee shalt ha’ the best farm in all the country, and the best dairy, and the best stock.

DEB. (Little c.) Thank thee, Allen dear. (Turns up stage.)

MRS. R. (Rising; music dies away.) Well, lass, I suppose us had better have a clean down and summat to eat, and then see about our bit o’ shopping.

ALLEN. Lord help us! (Starting.) If I ain’t forgot all about ‘em.

MRS. R. All about whom?

ALLEN. Why, Clara—Miss Dexter and her father—they be in the library waiting for me.

DEB. Oh, don’t let us keep you from them. (A little spitefully.)

ALLEN. Oh, I shan’t go out this morning, now. (Gets hat and umbrella from table r.c.) I shall get them to stop here instead, and us can have a nice quiet day all together. (Going towards door, lower l.) Come on, mother. (Crosses to c.) I’ve got a room fitted up a’purpose for thee and Deb, with a roost just outside the window with a cock and three hens in it, and he crows all night.

(Exeunt Allen, Deb., and Mrs. R. down stage.)

(Enter Baron von Schorr (1) and the Hon. Tom. Gus-sett (2), ushered in by Peters c. (3). Enter Luke c., and Dexter u. l. (4), afterwards Clara (5.) Baron goes down l., Gussett r., Luke r. c., Dexter l. c.)

DEX. (l.) Rollitt’s going out. You can’t see him. It’s no good your coming here to try and fleece him this morning. I tell you he’s going out.

LUKE. (Coming down r.c.) Ah, we’ll wait and say good-bye to him, Jack.

BARON. (l. c.) Ah, greedy Jack,—greedy Jack—you want de bird all to yourself. Nein—nein, zhare and zhare alike. Herr Cranbourne have a ving, Tom Gussett, he have de oder ving. You and your fair daughter have de legs, and I vill have de breast.

CLARA. No, you shall have the bones after we’ve done with them. Make ’em into a stew—keep a German baron for a week. (Others laugh.)

BARON. Ah, Trickey, you here. (Motioning towards Clara and her father.) Ah, de early birds—de early birds.

CLARA. Yes, we have to be. (Rises, and goes r.imitating him.) De worms get up so early nowadays. (Enter Allen lower l. Baron goes to meet him. Guss. puts him away and he turns up c. Speaks to Dex.)

ALLEN. Hullo! Unexpected pleasure!

(Luke comes forward and greets Allen c.)

GUSS. (r.) Haven’t seen you for an age, dear boy.

ALLEN. No. (Goes to Luke r.) I’ve been keeping pretty respectable of late—I—I mean, you know, I haven’t been going out much.

LUKE. (l.) Tom and I are going over to Paris for the Vincennes meeting, and we’ve come to see if you will join.

GUSS. (l. of Allen r.) Yes, do come; then we can show you about Paris a bit, you know.

LUKE. Ah, yes, and we shall be able to get you into one or two things in the betting line if you are with us. We can introduce you to some friends of ours.

ALLEN. Ah, it be very kind of thee, I’m sure.

(They go on talking r.)

BARON. (Aside to the Dexters, back of Clara.) I say, Jack, my boy, how long have you been Colonel? I did not know you vas a militaire.

CLARA. Papa joined the Salvation Army about the same time that you were raised to the German Peerage. Don’t talk so loud, my dear Baron.

BARON. Gut, gut.

(Luke sits down stage r. with back to audience, looking at betting book.)

GUSS. (To Allen r.) Of course we shall take care of your interests as if it was for ourselves.

BARON. (Comes and puts arm in Allen’s.) Of course they vill take care ob your interests for themselves. Come here. (Goes l.) You know I have been tinking about you so much ob late. Ja!

ALLEN. Ah, very kind of thee, I’m sure.

BARON. (l.) Ja, I say to myself, my fren Rollitt—I always call you my fren—my fren Rollitt, I say, he is a gut fellow—he has money—all he vants is family. (Guss. goes to Dex. l. c.) He must marry family. (Dex. goes c. and tries to hear conversation—Baron notices it and crosses to r.with Allen.) Now, Miss Dexter, she is a nice girl—ach, such a nice girl—but she has no family.

ALLEN. No—not yet. (Luke gets near fireplace R.)

BARON. (r. Seeing it after a while.) Ah, nein, nein—I do not mean vat you mean—I mean family de oder vay—backvards—dead uns.

ALLEN. Oh!

BARON. Ja. Now, dere is my niece, look at her family! Look at her ancestors—all barons—German barons! And she is such a nice girl—so beaudiful—so plump—ach, I will indroduce her to you. She vill mash you—so much. She—

(Enter Mrs. R., Deb. behind her, lower l. door. Seeing the room full she stands by door hesitatingly.)

GUSS. (Coming down and interrupting, with a sneering laugh.) Your nurse, Rollitt, I think. (Comes c. Luke goes to fireplace R.)

ALLEN. (Turns and sees them, and then goes towards them.) Yes, Mr. Gussett—the best nurse a man can have—my mother.

(Guss. confused, but soon recovers himself and laughs it off. Col. D., Luke, and Clara come forward to greet Mrs. R. and Deb. l. c., and the customary ceremony, etc., is gone through—all speaking together.)

CLARA. (Smiling pleasantly, shakes hands with Mrs. R.) Good-morning, Mrs. Rollitt. You are looking so well and jolly. How are you, my dear? (To Deb. Between these two the greeting is really strained and awkward, although outwardly pleasant enough. Clara kisses Deb., but Deb. seems to shrink—she turns away. Clara notices this, and follows Deb. as she turns away up c., with a meaning look. While it has been going on the greeting between Mrs. R. and Luke has taken place—Mrs. R. down l.)

ALLEN. (Finishing his introduction of Mrs. R. and Baron.) The Baron von Schnorr—Mrs. Rollitt, my mother.

BARON. Your mudder—Oh, impossible. (Goes l. c.)

MRS. R. (Huffy.) I beg your pardon, Mr. Snort.

BARON. Ach, ja, you are laughing at me—not your mudder.

(Clara walks round at back, drops down r. near Luke.)

MRS. R. (Very indignant.) Yes—his mother. Don’t you cast any of your nasty foreign insinuations upon me. I’m his lawful married mother, and his father was his father, and a better man never lived, as anyone in Exmoor—

ALLEN. (Soothing her.) It’s all right, mother, the Baron only means it complimentary. Thee’st supposed to look too young to be anybody’s mother. He has to take (Clara sits r.) thee for my sister. (Laughing—goes up l. c. with Dex.)

BARON. Ja—I take you for his sister. Ach, you English ladies, you never seem to get more old—you only get more round, more—more jolly.

MRS. R. (Still indignant.) Ah—foolishness. (Ruffling her dress and sitting very stiff l. on sofa.)

BARON. (Sitting on sofa beside her.) It must be de climate keep you so moist. (Drawing closer.) I knew a man, he lives in your Manchester, and—(goes on talking to Mrs. R. but is not heard.)

(Allen goes up and joins Col. Dex. up l. c. and Clara. After a little while Col. Dex. appropriates him, leaving Clara a little to r.of them unnoticed. Guss. continues talking to Deb. Deb. evidently bored and anxious to get away. Guss. trying to be very agreeable. At this point when all the others are occupied, Luke r. beckons Clara to him and she crosses. Their conversation is in eager undertone and they watch to see that no one is noticing them.)

LUKE. Have you got him to join yet?

CLARA. No—he kicks against it.

LUKE. If his name isn’t down in the list of directors before Monday I shall be arrested.

CLARA. Can’t you get away?

LUKE. No, I’m watched night and day. If he joins, the company will float and it will be all right.

CLARA. I shall be seeing him alone this morning. I will try again.

LUKE. And keep to plain gold and diamonds for presents. Those fallal things (touching her bracelet) are no good. Don’t fetch ten per cent, of their value.

DEB. (Part of the conversation between herself and Guss. Abstractedly, her attention being fixed on Luke and Clara.) Ha, ha! that was very funny.

(Guss. r. with Deb. looks at her in amazement.)

LUKE. (Down r.) There’s that milkmaid watching us—don’t look around, answer as though I had been proposing to you—that will account for our talking together. (In a louder but still undertone.) Is there no hope for me?

CLARA. (Down r.—smiling.) None, Luke—please don’t refer to the subject again. I like you—respect you—will be a sister to you—but love—

LUKE. (Grinning.) Yes, it’s that Rollitt that you love. (Deb., followed by Guss., has moved away to window.)

CLARA. Mr. Cranbourne, you have no right—

LUKE. (Who has been watching Deb.) Chuck it up, it’s all right, she’s gone to the window.

CLARA. I don’t suppose we’ve deceived her very much, she’s a sharp little minx. Get these men away.

(Clara takes up book, and standing, toys with it up r. front of r.c. table.)

BARON. (Finishing.) She never leave her bed for eighteen years—she take dree dozes—den she get up and go for a dree mile walk.

MRS. R. (Rising.) Lor! It must have been quite a change for her.

BARON. (Rising.) Ja. It vas a miragle. (Turning and seeing Luke beside him.) Ha, my dear boy, ready?

LUKE. (Crosses to Baron.) Ready and off.

ALLEN. (Coming down c. followed by Dex.) Oh, are you three going?

(Baron goes c.)

LUKE. Yes, I know you’ll be glad to be rid of us. (Laughing.)

ALLEN. Well, I have (looking at watch) one or two little things to do this morning.

(Baron goes up c.)

DEX. Well, look here, Allen, I’m just going to have a quiet weed in the smoking room till you’re ready. See?

ALLEN. Oh, it be a billiard room now, thee know.

LUKE. Oh. have you had a table put up?

CLARA. (Who has just crossed over and joined the group l. to Mrs. R. who is just about quitting the room by door l. lower.) Do you allow your little boy to play billiards, Mrs. Rollitt? I don’t think I should if I had charge of him. (Playfully.)

MRS. R. Oh, the more he’s up to every sort o’ game that’s played the better for him, to my thinking.

(Exit Mrs. R. l.)

ALLEN. (Laughing.) Oh, it keeps me at home out of mischief, like. (Moves to upper door L.) Come and have a look at it. (Goes up c.)

BARON. (As they go.) Ach, billiards iz a beaudiful game. (Aside to Luke.) But you cannot vin much at id, id take so dam long.

(Exeunt all but Guss. and Deb. [l.]—all talking as they go. Guss. and Deb. near fireplace.)

DEB. (r.) Well, I’m afraid, Mr. Gussett, I must really go now. (Goes down stage. Guss. goes l. c. and stops her.)

GUSS. (Getting between her and the door l. to which she is backing.) Oh, no, don’t go. Do you know, I shall really think you are trying to avoid me.

DEB. (Retreating behind table—Guss. takes a step.) Oh, not at all.

GUSS. (c. gets l. of r. c. table.) Ah, so pleasant to hear you say so. You know, Miss Deacon, I so want you to like me.

DEB. Yes, well—I do very much, only I can’t stop to do it now, because you see aunt wants me. (Moves c. up stage. Guss. stops her. Bus. of Deb. trying to get away and of Guss. cutting her off and trying to get near her; is kept up throughout the scene.)

GUSS. Ah, but your aunt sees so much of you and I can see so little.

DEB. (Laughing, walks l. c. up stage. Guss. at head of sofa.) I’m afraid there’s not very much more of me to see. I must go really, because we have got to do some shopping this morning.

GUSS. Ah, let me come with you?

DEB. Oh, no, I won’t tax your kindness. I know you men hate shopping, and we are going into drapers’ and dressmakers’ and all sorts of dreadful places, (c.)

GUSS. Ah, they will not be dreadful if you are there, Miss Deacon.

DEB. And aunt always takes such a long time shopping. (Goes up c.) Never can make up her mind, and I’m worse still, and—(makes movement, Guss. moves behind settle and stops her down l.)

GUSS. Ah, the longer you take, the better I shall like it. I shall enjoy coming, I assure you.

DEB. (Getting more and more cross, comes r.c.) Well you know I really don’t think you will; and really, Mr. Gussett—(turns r.a little.)

GUSS. (Interrupting.) Ah, I know better. No, I quite insist upon coming.

DEB. (With calm, suppressed temper.) Ah, all right, Mr. Gussett, you shall. (Crossing l. meets Mrs. R. just entering l.) Aunt, I want you. (Turning her round again.)

MRS. R. (l.) Why, whatever’s the—

DEB. I’ll tell you, come along.

(Exeunt Mrs. R. and Deb. l.)

GUSS. (r. turns and arranges his moustache in glass over chimney). Might do worse, Gussy, my boy. (Turns round again.) She’s not a bad little thing, lick her into shape a bit.

(Enter Luke, upper l.)

LUKE. (Crossing to table and taking up his hat.) Coming?

GUSS. No, dear boy. (Laughing.) Got a little job on.

LUKE. Oh, on the war-path?

GUSS. Yes—well, I may as well keep it in hand—Chawbacon will make her good for a thousand or two, I expect—if nothing better turns up.

LUKE. Ah—wish you luck—she’ll be a good match for you, I think, Gussy.

(Exit Luke c.)

(Enter Mrs. R. and Deb. lower door l. Both are wearing old-fashioned big country shawls, and big bonnets. Deb. evidently has on one of her aunt’s. Their dress altogether is as extravagant as comedy will permit, and has evidently been hastily put on. Deb. also carries a big country hand-basket covered with a cloth, the neck of a bottle sticking prominently out, and a huge gamp. Deb. smothering her laughter).

DEB. (Crossing r.c.) We are quite ready, Mr. Gussett

MRS. R. Yes, we are quite ready.

GUSS. (Who has regarded them with a horrified stare.) Ah, yes, if you will wait a minute I think I will call a cab.

DEB. Oh, we’d rather walk, thank you—you would rather walk, wouldn’t you, aunt?

MRS. R. Oh, I’ve made up my mind for a walk.

DEB. Yes, we would both rather walk. Will you give your arm to aunty, Mr. Gussett? (Guss. crosses to c.) And be very careful of her at the crossings, because she’s rather nervous, and so am I.

DEB. (r.c. handing the basket to Guss.) You won’t mind carrying the basket, will you, Mr. Gussett, because it’s so heavy? (He takes it bewildered and helpless.)

(As Guss., Deb. and Mrs. R. reach door c., enter Allen and Clara l. upper e.)

ALLEN. Hulloa! Where be thee off to?

DEB. Down Regent street, and up—Piccadilly, I think you call it. Good-bye.

(Exeunt Mrs. R., Deb. and Guss. c.)

CLARA. (Comes l. laughing.) I should like to be there to see the Hon. Tom Gussett at the crossings.

ALLEN. (Half amused, half cross.) Ah, her be a madcap, her be, that girl. What makes thee so anxious that I should join the company?

CLARA. (Sitting l. on sofa, Allen stands by her, behind sofa, leaning over.) Why, don’t you see, poor papa could be secretary if you joined. They would let you nominate him, and we should be so glad to be earning something—(very low)—and we are so poor. (Laying her hand on him.) Do join, Allen, for my sake.

ALLEN. (Yielding—back of sofa.) Ah, thee don’t know how hard thee makes it for me to say no.

CLARA. Then don’t say it—it would make me so happy. (Looking up at him.)

ALLEN. It would?

CLARA. (Laying her hand as if unwittingly on his.)

And I should think you—(drooping her head.) Ah! I’d better not say what I should think you.

ALLEN. Ah, well, lass, if you wish it, I will then.

CLARA. You will really?

ALLEN. Yes—if it will make thee happy I will. And now let’s talk about yourself. (Sits l. next to Clara.) Thee is the company I most wants to join. How have thee been getting on?

CLARA. (Looking down.) Oh, dear!

ALLEN. What does “Oh dear” mean?

CLARA. “Oh, dear” means very bad. Debts. (With assumed bewilderment.) Awful!

ALLEN. (Smiling.) What sort of debts?

CLARA. Oh, all sorts—tradespeople, you know, and all that, and then I thought I could win a little by betting—(Allen rises)—and put it all right—and I’ve been and lost. Oh dear!

ALLEN. (Vexed, goes c.) I should ha’ thought there wur enough fools among us men trying to win money that way.

CLARA. I am naughty, I know—but papa leaves everything to me, and I get so frightened when I see the debts mounting up and nothing to meet them, and I’ve no one to advise me. (Crosses l.)

ALLEN. (After a pause, rises, goes to Clara—kindly.) I didn’t mean to speak unkind, lass. I’m full of old-fashioned notions about women, I suppose. I like ’em to be women—not mere men in petticoats. How much does thee owe?

CLARA. Oh, heaps! (Handing him pocket-book.) Look. (Allen crosses to R. and sits at table.) And I haven’t any money. (Rising and looking over his shoulder R., as he examines the book.) Do you think they’ll put me in prison?

ALLEN. (Turns—laughing.) Thee ought to be taken in charge by somebody, that’s certain. (Allen rises, puts some notes from his pocket-book into hers, and hands it back to her.) I owe your father a little over one or two bets. I can take it off that and give him the rest, like. (Crosses to l.)

CLARA. (Takes book and lays it on the table—the notes drop out on to the table.) You are good, Allen, really. (Puts book on table R.—half to herself.) I wish sometimes that you weren’t—that you were more like other men I have met. (Turning away r.)

ALLEN. Why, would thee like me better?

CLARA. No, but I should like myself better.

ALLEN. What do thee mean, lass?

CLARA. Nothing. I’m not used to your sort of men. (Goes to fireplace, then up R., throwing off her seriousness and turning towards him.) You are like the knight, Allen, out of some old legend that comes and slays the dragon and sets the frightened princess free from all her trouble. (Laughing.)

ALLEN. (Goes to table r. Clara r.c. at top of table.) When art thee going to gie me the right to be thy knight always?

CLARA..(Sits at table playfully.) Ah, the gallant knights are apt to turn into grim jailers—(comes l. of r. table)—when they get the princess into their own castles.

ALLEN. Can’t thee believe me, Clara? Trust me, lass—I’m only a rough country chap to be asking a beautiful lady like thee to be my wife. But if I can’t gie thee anything very showy on the outside, it will make me the more eager alius to keep a loving heart for thee within.

CLARA. Oh, no. (Sits in chair l. of table.) A lover on his knees is so much nicer than a lover on your arm. You are so nice, Allen, as you are, you can’t think. I really couldn’t bring myself to risk a change.

ALLEN. (c.) It would be a change for thee, Clara—(leans on table at back of Clara, puts hand on Clara’s chair)—from a rough and troubled road to one where every stone wur smoothed away from your path—-where every thorn wur held back as you passed—where, instead of care for the day and dread for the morrow, thee would feel that a strong arm wur round thee—that a loving hand wur working out thy life for thee. Cannot thee risk the change, Clara?

CLARA. (Rises, Allen takes her right hand, turns away R.) Ah, I suppose there are such lives for some women. It must be very good when you are tired. (Facing round to L.c.) And you, Allen—women do not always seem so charming after marriage as they did before. It might be a risk for you.

ALLEN. To have the sweetest, noblest woman in the world to be my wife? I’ll risk that. (Laughs, comes c.)

CLARA. (Turning away again to R., Allen l.c.) Ah, you boys, you think all women are angels.

ALLEN. So they are—a good woman is an angel.

CLARA. (At Are, facing round and looking at him.) How do you know I am good? (Very low and serious. Allen drops down c. A pause. He looks in surprise and inquiry at her, not knowing what to answer.)

CLARA. Hadn’t you better make sure, Allen? (Laughing.) What do you know of my past—of even my present—of whence I came—what I am? (Laughs.) Suppose, Allen, suppose I were only an adventuress. (Takes a step.) A woman with the blood of sharpers and thieves in her veins—whose nursery was the gambling house—whose school was the CafÉ and the Boulevards—a woman who earned her daily bread by shamelessness and cunning—a woman whose past would ever follow like a shadow the footsteps of her life—whose future must ever be a darker shadow still. Ah, Allen, take care. Cupid ties a bandage over men’s eyes. Hymen, when it is too late, plucks it off. Hadn’t you better lift a corner off the handkerchief, Allen, while we are yet upon the step without, lest beside your hearth, when the door has shut us in, you cast it loose, to find I am a stain upon your name—a shadow in your home—a blight upon your life? (Laughing.) Allen, take care—take care. (Crosses to l. Allen moves up a trifle.)

ALLEN. (Recovering from the bewilderment with which he has heard her.) Ah, it’s well for thee that it is thee, and not anyone else that talks like this about ’ee.

CLARA. Ah, but Allen, try and find out a little more about me; it’s just a whim of mine—I want to feel sure that you know me—just to please me.

ALLEN. If I couldn’t trust thee—(takes her hand)—lass, I shouldn’t love thee.

CLARA. (Crosses to R.c. Allen follows.) Ah, you are a dear good fellow, Allen, and I won’t tease you any more. And you will join the company, won’t you? And then you shall get me that dear little diamond bracelet that we looked at—do you remember it?—and you shall put it on yourself. (Allen by her side r. All this is said with every trick of fascination at her command, and now she playfully holds up her arm, from which the loose sleeve falls back, close to his face.) On that. (He drops on his knees and kisses her arm).

(Enter Deb. c.)

CLARA. (Snatches her arm away.) Deborah! (Allen rises.)

ALLEN. (Turning and seeing her, goes to fireplace R.) Hullo, thee’s back soon.

DEB. Yes, aunt met Mrs. Clouter just outside, so I pleaded a headache and left them. (Throwing off bonnet and shawl on chair and coming down.) Don’t you think Col. Dexter would like a game of billiards, Allen?

ALLEN. No, he’s all right—he’s smoking. (Crosses l.)

DEB. Oh, I’m sure he’d like a game (Clara motions Allen away), and I want to have a chat with Miss Dexter. We shan’t see each other after this morning for goodness knows how long.

ALLEN. (Moving away l.) Ah, I understand now. (Goes up stage l.) I’ll go, and you can tell each other about your new frocks.

(Exit Allen l., Clara goes c., Deb. l.c. and Clara look at each other.)

DEB. (After a pause.) I came back to see you, Miss Dexter, before you left.

CLARA. (Coldly.) It was very good of you.

DEB. I want to know whether you are playing the fool with Allen, or whether you mean to marry him.

CLARA. I have heard of that sort of question being put to a gentleman under certain circumstances. (Crosses to L.)

DEB. It is put to the person who is supposed to be acting dishonorably—I put it to you.

CLARA. I am afraid I have been mixing things up. I was under the impression that it was the stout lady, your aunt, that was Mr. Rollitt’s mother.

DEB. You are very smart, Miss Dexter, and I am not, but this is no game—it is earnest.

CLARA. Then I would suggest to you that your cousin is quite capable of taking care of himself.

DEB. Yes, against a man; but not against the woman he loves and trusts. It is his love that enables you to deceive him.

CLARA. (Crossing to R.—sits on chair near table r.) You seem to have made up your mind, my dear child, that I am deceiving him.

DEB. (l.c.) I know that he has asked you to become his wife, and I know that although you have let him think it is all right, you have never given him a real answer. I know that you accept his attentions, his invitations, his presents. (Noticing the book and notes on the table, points to them.) And all the while you are having whispered interviews and secret meetings with another man.

CLARA. (Coolly counting notes.) If you are thinking of the conversation you were trying to listen to just now—

DEB. That is only the latest of many such I have noticed. They began three months ago, down in Devonshire. I come to London and find the same thing going on.

CLARA. (Sneering.)’ You really ought to have been a detective, the force might have been some use then.

DEB. I’m not blind. (Goes c.) Allen is. But that is not all. These things might be explained by themselves—suspicious though they are—but just now, going downstairs, I picked up a purse. (Pausing and looking at Clara, who, however, makes no sign.) It is your purse. (Throws it into Clara’s lap.) I opened it to see whom it belonged to—and inside it is a wedding ring. Is your name Dexter or Cranbourne?

CLARA. (Rising.) I really must decline to answer any questions of yours. You are so exceedingly rude. (Crosses up behind table R.c.)

DEB. You need not answer me. Answer Allen. Tell him that you will be his wife—or that you cannot. (Clara takes no notice.) Do you refuse? (Crossing l.)

CLARA. I refuse to be dictated to.

DEB. Then I shall communicate my suspicions to Allen.

CLARA. (Turning fiercely.) Do so. Tell him—(walks round table to back of Deb. c.)—that you believe that I am the wife of another man, and am playing a shameful part with him merely to sponge on him. That I am fondling him with the one hand only the better to pick his pocket with the other. Tell him that you believe he is surrounded by a gang of adventurers and thieves, of which I am the willing decoy. Tell him your suspicions, and I will tell him that they are the poisonous concoctions of a jealous woman—of a woman who loves him herself—(laughs)—and seeks to win him from her more favored rival, by lies and trickery. (Goes dozen r.)

DEB. (Quietly.) You shall answer him for all that, or he shall know the reason why you dare not. (Crosses L., and calls.) Allen! Allen!

(Enter Allen l. up stage).

DEB. (l. c.) Allen, is Miss Dexter engaged to be married to you or not?

ALLEN. (l.) Well. (Laughs.) Blest if I could tell ‘ee that, Deb. That be the very thing I ha’ been trying to find out myself. Bain’t it, Clara? Only her be such a tease. (All said laughingly.)

DEB. (Sharply.) You mean you have never been able to get a plain answer, yes or no?

ALLEN. Gently, lass. Thee be mistaking this for some business of thine.

DEB. Allen, we’ve been like brother and sister all our lives, and your happiness is my happiness. I have my reasons—very strong reasons—for asking you to ask Miss Dexter now, before me, whether she will be your wife.

ALLEN. I can’t say I thank thee, Deb, for interfering in a matter that don’t concern thee. (To Clara, crossing to her.) I hope, Clara, you don’t think as I have any hand in this, but as things stand now, it will perhaps be best (advancing) if I do ask thee. Will thee be my wife?

CLARA. (Crosses down. Very quietly and deliberately.) Yes! (Stepping forward and, putting her hand in Allen’s, c. A pause. She then, glancing first at Deb., draws Allen slowly to her, and they kiss. They cross r.)

ALLEN. I think now, Deb, that Miss Dexter has a right to know thy “reasons.”

DEB. They were mistaken ones, Allen. Please forgive me, both of you.

(Exit Deb. l.)

ALLEN. (Bewildered—looks after Deb.) What does it all mean?

CLARA. I will tell you some time. Never mind now.

ALLEN. Ah, well, us oughtn’t to be angry with her, anyhow, for what her’s done. (Takes Clara’s hand in his.) Ought us? (Draws her to him and kisses her forehead).

CLARA. (Disengaging herself gently.) I am going to tell papa. I am so happy. (Crosses l., looking back to him laughingly.)

(Exit Clara l. up stage).

ALLEN. (c. after a pause.) Everything I want in the whole wide world, and three months ago—(Breaks off and pauses his hand over his eyes.) I wonder if I shall wake up in a minute in the old farm and find that the £200,000 and Clara have only been dreams. (Rousing himself.) Ah, no, it be real enough. (Looks round.) Ah, they call Fortune a fickle jade, but her’s been a firm friend to me. I’ll drink thee a bumper, Fortune lass. (Turns to table r., On which are wine and glasses, and pours out a glassful.) I don’t know how much a bumper is, but I expects it’s about a glassful, and thee shall ha’ it. (Takes glass in his right hand, and raises it.) Here’s thy jolly good health, my lass. To Lady Fortune!

(Enter Peters c. upper door, with card on salver.)

ALLEN. (Lowers glass untouched.) What’s the matter?

PETERS. (Coming forward and presenting salver.) A gentleman to see you, sir.

ALLEN. (Takes card, but does not look at it.) He’ll have to be quick about it then. Send un up. (Footman seems to hesitate. Sharply.) Send un up. Send un up.

(Exit Peters c.)

Another of my swell friends, I suppose; they seem to be swarming this—(r. c. glances at card, his hand holding the glass sinks lower and lower, he gazes round bewilderingly.)

(Enter Richard Hanningford c.)

(Reads card in amazed tone.) Richard Hanningford, I saw him lying dead before my own eyes three months ago! Hann. (At door, raising hat.) I beg your pardon! (The glass in Allen’s hand overturns).