  Scene: The drawing-room at Kenyon-Fulton. It is a handsome apartment with large windows, reaching to the ground. On the walls are old masters whose darkness conceals their artistic insignificance. The furniture is fine and solid. Nothing is very new or smart. The chintzes have a rather pallid Victorian air. The room with its substantial magnificence represents the character of a family rather than the taste of an individual. It is night and one or two electric lamps are burning. Moore, an elderly impressive butler, comes in, followed by Gann. This is Claude Insoley’s gamekeeper, a short, sturdy man, grizzled, with wild stubborn hair and a fringe of beard round his chin. He wears his Sunday clothes of sombre broadcloth. Moore. You’re to wait here. [Gann, hat in hand, advances to the middle of the room. Moore. They’ve not got up from dinner yet, but he’ll come and see you at once. Gann. I’ll wait. Moore. He said I was to tell him the moment you come. What can he be wanting of you at this time of night? Gann. Maybe if he wished you to know he’d have told you. Moore. I don’t want to know what don’t concern me. Gann. Pity there ain’t more like you. Moore. It’s the missus’ birthday to-day. Gann. Didn’t he say you was to tell him the moment I come? Moore. I’ve only just took in the dessert. Give ’em a minute to sample the peaches. Gann. I thought them was your orders. Moore. You’re a nice civil-spoken one, you are. [With an effort Gann prevents himself from replying. It is as much as he can do to keep his hands off the sleek, obsequious butler. Moore after a glance at him goes out. The gamekeeper begins to walk up and down the room like a caged beast. In a moment he hears a sound and stops still. He turns his hat round and round in his hands. [Claude Insoley comes in. He is a man of thirty-five, rather dried-up, rather precise, neither good-looking nor plain, with a slightly dogmatic, authoritative manner. Claude. Good evening, Gann. Gann. Good evening, sir. [Claude hesitates for a moment; to conceal a slight embarrassment he lights a cigarette. Gann watches him steadily. Claude. I suppose you know what I’ve sent for you about. Gann. No, sir. Claude. I should have thought you might guess without Gann. Yes, sir. Claude. Bit thick, isn’t it? Gann. I don’t know what you mean, sir. Claude. Oh, that’s all rot, Gann. You know perfectly well what I mean. It’s a beastly matter for both of us, but it’s no good funking it.... You’ve been on the estate pretty well all your life, haven’t you? Gann. It’s fifty-four years come next Michaelmas that my father was took on, and I was earning wages here before you was born. Claude. My governor always said you were the best keeper he ever struck, and hang it all, I haven’t had anything to complain about either. Gann. Thank you, sir. Claude. Anyhow, we shan’t make it any better by beating about the bush. It appears that Peggy has got into Gann. Poor child. She’s not to blame. [Claude gives a slight shrug of the shoulders. Gann. I want ’er to forget all she’s gone through. It was a mistake she ever went to London, but she would go. Now I’ll keep ’er beside me. She’ll never leave me again till I’m put underground. Claude. That’s all very fine and large, but I’m afraid Peggy can’t stay on here, Gann. Gann. Why not? Claude. You know the rule of the estate as well as I do. When a girl gets into a mess she has to go. Gann. It’s a wicked rule! Claude. You never thought so before, and this isn’t the first time you’ve seen it applied, by a long chalk. Gann. The girl went away once and come to grief. She Claude. I’m afraid I can’t make an exception in your favour, Gann. Gann. [Desperately.] Where’s she to go to? Claude. Oh, I expect she’ll be able to get a job somewhere. Mrs. Insoley’ll do all she can. Gann. It’s no good, Squire. I can’t let ’er go. I want ’er. Claude. I don’t want to be unreasonable. I’ll give you a certain amount of time to make arrangements. Gann. Time’s no good to me. I haven’t the ’eart to send her away. Claude. I’m afraid it’s not a question of whether you like it or not. You must do as you’re told. Gann. I can’t part with her, and there’s an end of it. Claude. You’d better go and talk it over with your wife. Gann. I don’t want to talk it over with anyone. I’ve made up my mind. [Claude is silent for a moment. He looks at Gann thoughtfully. Claude. [Deliberately.] I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about it. Gann. [Startled.] What d’you mean by that, sir? Claude. If Peggy isn’t gone by that time, I am afraid I shall have to send you away. Gann. You wouldn’t do that, sir? You couldn’t do it, Squire, not after all these years. Claude. We’ll soon see about that, my friend. Gann. You can’t dismiss me for that. I’ll have the law of you. I’ll sue you for wrongful dismissal. Claude. You can do what you damned well like; but if Peggy hasn’t gone by to-morrow night I shall turn you off the estate on Tuesday. Gann. [Hoarsely.] You wouldn’t do it! You couldn’t do it. [There is a sound of talking and laughter, and of a general movement as the dining-room door is opened. Claude. They’re just coming in. You’d better hook it. [Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis come in, followed by Grace. For a moment Gann stands awkwardly, and then leaves the room. Miss Vernon is a slight, faded, rather gaunt woman of thirty-five. Her deliberate manner, her composure, suggest a woman of means and a woman who knows her own mind. Edith Lewis is a pretty girl of twenty. Grace is thirty. She is a beautiful creature with an eager, earnest face and fine eyes. She has a restless manner, and her frequent laughter strikes you as forced. She is always falling from one emotion to another. She uses a slightly satirical note when she speaks to her husband. Edith. [Going to the window.] Oh, what a lovely night! Do let’s go out. [To Grace.] May we? Grace. Of course, if you want to. Edith. I’m perfectly sick with envy every time I look out of the window. Those lovely old trees! Grace. I wonder if you’d be sick with envy if you looked at nothing else for forty-six weeks in the year? Edith. I adore the country. Grace. People who habitually live in London generally do. Miss Vernon. Aren’t you fond of the country? Grace. [Vehemently.] I hate it! I hate it with all my heart and soul. Claude. My dear Grace, what are you saying? Grace. It bores me. It bores me stiff. Those endless trees, and those dreary meadows, and those ploughed fields. Oh! Edith. I don’t think I could ever get tired of the view from your dining-room. Grace. Not if you saw it for three meals a day for ten years? Oh, my dear, you don’t know what that view is like at an early breakfast on a winter’s morning. You sit there looking at it, with icy fingers, wondering if your nose is red, while your husband reads morning prayers, because his father read morning prayers before him; and the sky looks as if it were going to sink down and crush you. Claude. You can’t expect sunshine all the year round, can you? Grace. [Smiling.] True, O King! Edith. Well, I’m a Cockney, and I feel inclined to fall down on my very knees and worship those big trees in your park. Oh, what a night! Miss Vernon. In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees And they did make no noise.... [Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis go out. Grace is left alone with her husband. Grace. What on earth was Gann doing here? Claude. I had something to say to him. Grace. May I know what? Claude. It would only bore you. Grace. That wouldn’t be a new experience. Claude. I say, you’re looking jolly to-night, darling. Grace. It’s kind of you to say so. Claude. Were you pleased with the necklace I gave you this morning? Grace. [Smiling.] Surely I said so at the time. Claude. I was rather hoping you’d wear it to-night. Grace. It wouldn’t have gone with my frock. Claude. You might have put it on all the same. Grace. You see, your example hasn’t been lost on me. I’ve learnt to put propriety before sentiment. Claude. [Rather shyly.] I should have thought, if you cared for me, you wouldn’t have minded. Grace. Are you reproaching me? Claude. No! Grace. Only? Claude. Hang it all, I can’t help wishing sometimes you’d seem as if—you were fond of me, don’t you know. Grace. If you’ll point out anything you particularly object to in my behaviour, I’ll try to change it. Claude. My dear, I don’t want much, do I? Grace. I don’t know why you should choose this particular time to make a scene. Claude. Hang it all, I’m not making a scene! Grace. I beg your pardon, I forgot that only women make scenes. Claude. I only wanted to tell you that I’m just about as fond of you as I can stick. Grace. [Suddenly touched.] After ten years of holy matrimony? Claude. It seems about ten days to me. Grace. Good God, to me it seems a lifetime. Claude. I say, Grace, what d’you mean by that? Grace. [Recovering herself.] Oughtn’t you to go back to the dining-room? Your brother and Mr. Cobbett will be boring one another. [Claude looks at her for a moment, then rises and goes out. Grace clenches her hands, and an expression of utter wretchedness crosses her face. She passes her hand across her eyes with an impatient gesture, as if she were trying to shake herself free from some torturing thought. Moore comes in with coffee on a salver. Grace. Put it down on the table. Moore. Yes, madam. Grace. Miss Vernon’s in the garden with Miss Lewis. Will you tell them that coffee is here? Moore. Very good, ma’am. [He goes out of one of the French windows into the garden. In a moment Miss Vernon comes in. Grace. Isn’t Edith coming? Miss Vernon. I sent her to get a wrap. We want to go down to the lake. Grace. Will you have some coffee? Miss Vernon. Thank you.... I was trying to remember how long it is since I was here last. Grace. [Pouring out the coffee.] It was before I was married. Miss Vernon. I’m devoted to Kenyon, I’m so glad you asked me to come and spend Whitsun here. Grace. My mother-in-law wrote and told us that you weren’t engaged. Miss Vernon. [With a smile.] That sounds rather chilly. Grace. Does it? Miss Vernon. [Abruptly.] May I call you Grace? Grace. [Looking up, faintly surprised.] Certainly. If you wish it. Miss Vernon. My name is Helen. Grace. Is it? [Miss Vernon gives a slight smile of amusement, then gets up and stands before the fire-place with her hands behind her back. Miss Vernon. I wonder why you dislike me so much? Grace. I don’t know why you should think I do. Miss Vernon. You don’t take much trouble to hide it, do you? Grace. I’m sorry. In future I’ll be more careful. Miss Vernon. [Rather wistfully.] I wanted to be great friends with you. Grace. I’m afraid I don’t make friends very easily. Miss Vernon. We live so near one another. It seems rather silly that we should only just be on speaking terms. [A very short pause. Grace. They wanted Claude to marry you, didn’t they? And he married me instead. Miss Vernon. When I saw you at your wedding, I couldn’t help feeling I’d have done just the same in his place. Grace. [With a twinkle in her eye.] And now they want you to marry his brother Archibald. Miss Vernon. [Smiling.] So I understand. Grace. Are you going to? Miss Vernon. He hasn’t asked me yet. Grace. Five thousand acres in a ring fence. It seems a pity to let it go out of the family. Miss Vernon. It’s such a nuisance that a plainish woman of six-and-thirty has to be taken along with it. Grace. Did you ever care for Claude? Miss Vernon. If I did or not, I’m very anxious to care for his wife. Grace. Why? Miss Vernon. Well, partly because I’m afraid you’re not very happy. Grace. [Startled.] I? [Almost defiantly.] I should have thought I had everything that a woman can want to make her happy. I’ve got a husband who adores me. We’re rich. We’re—[with a sudden break in her voice]—happy! I wish to God he had married you! It’s clear enough now that he made a mistake. Miss Vernon. [With a chuckle.] I don’t think it’s occurred to him, you know. Grace. How many times d’you suppose his mother has said to Claude: Things would be very different now if you’d had the sense to marry Helen Vernon. Miss Vernon. Yes, in that case I must say it’s not to be wondered at if you don’t like me very much. Grace. Like you! I hate you with all my heart and soul! Miss Vernon. Good gracious me, you don’t say so? Grace. [With a sudden flash of humour.] You don’t mind my telling you, do you? Miss Vernon. Not a bit, but I should very much like to know why? Grace. Because I’ve got an envious disposition and I envy you. Miss Vernon. A solitary old maid like me? Grace. You’ve got everything that I haven’t got. D’you suppose I’ve lived ten years in my husband’s family without realising the gulf that separates Miss Vernon of Foley from the very middle-class young woman that Claude Insoley was such a damned fool as Miss Vernon. Money isn’t everything. Grace. Oh, don’t talk such nonsense! How would you like to be dependent on somebody else for every penny you had? If I want to get Claude a Christmas present I have to buy it out of his money.... It wouldn’t be so maddening if I only had forty pounds a year of my own, but I haven’t a penny, not a penny! And I have to keep accounts. After all, it’s his money. If he wants accounts why shouldn’t he have them? I have to write down the cost of every packet of hair-pins. [With a sudden chuckle.] And the worst of it is, I never could add. Miss Vernon. That, of course, must increase the difficulty of keeping accounts. Grace. I’ve been an utter failure from the beginning. They despised me because I was a nobody and not even a rich nobody; but I was a strapping, healthy sort of young woman and they consoled themselves by thinking I’d have children—a milch cow was what they wanted—and I haven’t even had children.... [Miss Vernon, not knowing what to say, makes a little gesture of perplexity and helplessness. There is a brief pause. Grace. Oh! I’m about fed up with all the humiliations I’ve had to endure. [Edith Lewis comes in with a wrap which she gives to Miss Vernon. Edith. Will this do? Miss Vernon. Thanks so much. You’re a perfect angel. Grace. You mustn’t stay out more than a few minutes. The men will be here in a moment, and I want to play poker. When my mother-in-law comes we shall have to mind our p’s and q’s. Edith. You don’t like Mrs. Insoley? Grace. Mrs. Insoley doesn’t like me. Miss Vernon. Nonsense! She’s very fond of you indeed. Grace. I could wish she had some pleasanter way of showing it than finding fault with everything I do, everything I say, and everything I wear. Edith. She’s coming to-morrow, isn’t she? Grace. Yes. [With a quizzical smile.] She’ll thoroughly disapprove of you. When I introduce you to her: This is Miss Lewis—she’ll look at you for a moment as if you were a kitchen-maid applying for a situation and say: Lewis. Edith. Why? Grace. Because, like myself, you’re not county. Edith. Oh! Grace. It’s all very fine to say: Oh! but you don’t know what that means. In London, if you’re pretty and amusing and don’t give yourself airs, people are quite ready to be nice to you; but in a place like this, you can have every virtue under the sun, and if you’re not county you’re of no importance in this world, and you’ll certainly be very uncomfortable in the next. Miss Vernon. [Smiling.] I think you’re extremely hard on us. If you have the advantage of.... Grace. [Seizing the opportunity which Miss Vernon’s hesitation gives her.] Middle-class origins? Miss Vernon. You needn’t grudge us the perfectly harmless delusion that there is a difference between a family that has lived in the same place for three or four centuries, with traditions of good breeding and service to the country—and one that has no roots in the soil. Grace. I seem to hear Claude’s very words. Miss Vernon. [Good-humouredly.] Of course we have our faults. Grace. You’re the first member of your class that I’ve ever heard acknowledge it. Miss Vernon. [Meditatively.] I wonder if you’d despise us so much if you had a string of drunken, fox-hunting squires behind you. Grace. Oh, my dear, when I was first married I used to lie awake at night wishing for them with all my heart. When the neighbours came to call on me I could see them obviously lying in wait for the aitches they were Miss Vernon. How lucky I was abroad for so long! You might have disfigured me for life. Grace. I’ve often thought that if the Archangel Gabriel came down in Somersetshire, they’d look him out in the “Landed Gentry” before they asked him to a shooting-party. Miss Vernon. I don’t think you ought to judge us all on Mrs. Insoley. She’s a type that’s dying out. Edith. I don’t want to seem inquisitive, but if you don’t like Mrs. Insoley why on earth d’you have her to stay here? Grace. Simple-minded child! Because even in a county family money’s the only thing in the world that really matters, and we’re penniless, while Mrs. Insoley—[with a quick, defiant look at Miss Vernon]—Mrs. Insoley stinks of it.... Do I shock you? Miss Vernon. [With a smile.] No, because I see you’re trying to. Grace. Claude has nothing but the house and land and his principles. And if we’re able to have the hounds and the shooting and a couple of cars, it’s because Mrs. Insoley pays for it. Miss Vernon. [Explaining to Edith Lewis.] Mrs. Insoley was an heiress. Grace. She was a Bainbridge, and you’ll hear her thank God for it frequently. [Archibald Insoley and Henry Cobbett come in. Archibald is a pleasant, good-looking man of thirty-four, with a humorous way about him, and a kindly expression. He holds the family living of Kenyon-Fulton, but there is nothing in him of the sanctimoniousness of the cloth. Cobbett is an agreeable youth of four-and-twenty. They are followed by Claude Insoley. Cobbett. [Seeing Edith Lewis at the window.] Are you going out? Edith. We were—but we won’t. Grace. I’ve been preparing Miss Lewis for your mother’s arrival. Edith. I’m beginning to tremble in my shoes. Archibald. Our mother is what is usually described as a woman of character. With the best intentions in the world and the highest principles she succeeds in making life almost intolerable to every one connected with her. Claude. You won’t forget to send the carriage for her to-morrow, Grace? Grace. I won’t.... Last time we sent the car by mistake, and she sent it back again. Miss Vernon. Good heavens, why did she do that? Grace. Mrs. Insoley never has driven in a motor-car, and Mrs. Insoley never will drive in a motor-car. Claude. [Not unamiably.] I don’t think you ought to make fun of my mother, Grace. Grace. I wouldn’t if I could make anything else of her. [As she says this she sits down at the piano and rattles her fingers over the keys. Grace. Will you sing us a song, Mr. Cobbett? Cobbett. No, thank you. Grace. I want to be amused. Archibald. How desperately you say that! Grace. [To Cobbett.] What will you sing? Cobbett. I’m afraid I don’t know anything that will fit the occasion. Grace. I seem to have heard you warble a graceful little ditty about a top note. Cobbett. Thank you very much, but I’m not fond of making a fool of myself. Grace. Part of a gentleman’s education should be how to make himself ridiculous with dignity. Claude. [To Cobbett.] You make more fuss about singing than a young lady at a tea-party. Grace. [Looking at him with smiling lips but with hard eyes.] Let us have no more maidenly coyness. [She begins to play, and Cobbett, shrugging his shoulders, begins with rather bad grace to sing the song, “I can’t reach that top note.” While they are in the middle of it the door opens, and the Butler announces Mrs. Insoley and her companion. Mrs. Insoley is a little old lady of some corpulence, shabbily dressed in rusty black. She looks rather like a charwoman in her Sunday best. Miss Hall, her companion, is a self-effacing silent person of uncertain age. She is always very anxious to make herself useful. Moore. Mrs. Insoley, Miss Hall. Claude. Mother! [The singing abruptly ceases. There is general consternation. Mrs. Insoley stops still for Mrs. Insoley. Is this a lunatic asylum that I have come into? Grace. We didn’t expect you till to-morrow. Mrs. Insoley. So I imagined by the fact that I found no conveyance at the station. I had to take a fly, and it cost me four-and-sixpence. Claude. But why didn’t you let us know you’d changed your plans, mother? Mrs. Insoley. I did let you know. I wrote to Grace yesterday. She must have got my letter this morning. Grace. Oh, how stupid of me! I recognised your writing, and as it was my birthday I thought I wouldn’t open it till to-morrow. Claude. Grace! Grace. I’m dreadfully sorry. Mrs. Insoley. It was only by the mercy of Providence that I didn’t have to walk. Grace. There are always flies at the station. Mrs. Insoley. Providence might very well have caused them to be all engaged. Grace. I don’t know why you should think Providence has nothing better to do than to play practical jokes on us. Mrs. Insoley. [Looking round.] And may I inquire why you have turned the house in which your father died into a bear garden? Claude. It’s Grace’s birthday, and we thought there would be no harm in our having a little fun. Mrs. Insoley. [Putting up her face-À-main and staring at the company.] I’m old-fashioned enough and well-bred enough to like people to be introduced to me. Grace. Nowadays every one’s so disreputable that we think it safer not to make introductions.... This is Miss Lewis. Edith. How d’you do? Mrs. Insoley. Lewis! Grace. [With a little smile of amusement.] I think you know Miss Vernon of Foley. Mrs. Insoley. [Very affably.] Of course I know Miss Vernon of Foley. My dear Helen, you’re looking very handsome. It wants a woman of birth to wear the outrageous costumes of the present day. Miss Vernon. [Shaking hands with her.] It’s so nice of you to say so. Grace. I forget if you know Mr. Cobbett. Cobbett. How do you do? [He bows slightly as Mrs. Insoley looks at him through her glasses. Mrs. Insoley. Cobbett! Cobbett. [With some asperity.] Cobbett! Mrs. Insoley. [Turning to Miss Hall.] We used to have a milkman called Cobbett, Louisa. Miss Hall. Our milkman is called Wilkinson now. Mrs. Insoley. [Very graciously.] You were singing a song when I came in. What was it called? Cobbett. [Rather sulkily.] “I can’t reach that top note.” Mrs. Insoley. I wondered why you were trying.... Why are you hiding behind that sofa, Archibald? Do you not intend to kiss your mother? Archibald. I’m delighted to see you, my dear mother. [He kisses her on the forehead. Mrs. Insoley. I’m rather surprised to see a clergyman at a dinner-party on a Sunday night. Archibald. I find two sermons a day excellent for the appetite. And the Bible tells us that corn makes the young men cheerful. Grace. [Smiling.] Aren’t you dreadfully hungry? Wouldn’t you like something to eat? Mrs. Insoley. No, I shall go straight to my room. It always upsets me to drive in a hired carriage. Grace. I’ll just go and see that everything’s nice and comfortable. Mrs. Insoley. Pray don’t put yourself to any trouble on my account. It would distress me. [Grace goes out. Edith. [Aside to Miss Vernon.] Don’t you think we might go down to the lake? Miss Vernon. By all means.... There’s nothing I can get you, Mrs. Insoley? Mrs. Insoley. [Graciously.] Nothing, my dear Helen. [Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis go out, and a moment later Cobbett slips out also. Mrs. Insoley. Claude, will you take Miss Hall into the dining-room and give her a sandwich and a glass of port? Claude. Certainly. Miss Hall. I don’t think I want anything, thank you, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. Nonsense, Louisa! Allow me to know what is good for you. You’ll see that she drinks the port, Claude. [As they go out.] I want to talk to Archibald. Archibald. My dear mother, I throw myself at your feet. Mrs. Insoley. [With a chuckle.] I very much doubt if you could. You’re growing much too fat. It’s quite time they made you something. Archibald. [Smiling.] The landed gentry hasn’t its old power. Promotion in the Church nowadays is given with new-fangled ideas about merit and scholarship and heaven knows what. Mrs. Insoley. I hope you never eat potatoes or bread? Archibald. I fly from them as I would from temptation. Mrs. Insoley. Nor soup? Archibald. It is as the scarlet woman to me. Mrs. Insoley. And I trust you never touch green peas. Archibald. Ah, there you have me. Even the saints had their weaknesses. I confess that when green peas are in season I always put on flesh. Mrs. Insoley. You want some one to keep a firm hand on you. You must marry. Archibald. I saw you approaching that topic by leaps and bounds, mother. Mrs. Insoley. It’s a clergyman’s duty to marry. Archibald. [Chaffing her.] St. Paul says.... Mrs. Insoley. [Interrupting.] I know what St. Paul’s views were, Archibald, and I disagree with them. Archibald. [Dryly.] I have every reason to believe he was of excellent family, mother. Mrs. Insoley. [Giving him a quick look.] We all know that it was a great disappointment to Helen Vernon when—you know what I mean. Archibald. I can’t help thinking she showed bad taste in surviving the blow. Mrs. Insoley. It was a great disappointment to me. I had set my heart on joining Foley to Kenyon-Fulton.... It wouldn’t be too late even now if you had the sense to appreciate Helen Vernon’s affection for you. Archibald. My dear mother, I can’t persuade myself for a moment that Helen Vernon has any affection for me. Mrs. Insoley. A woman of her age is prepared to have affection for any one who asks her to marry him. Archibald. Even if he’s a poor country parson? Mrs. Insoley. You’re a great deal more than a country parson, Archibald. It is unlikely that Grace will have any children, so unless—something happens to allow Claude to marry again.... Archibald. What d’you mean by that, mother? Mrs. Insoley. Grace is not immortal. Archibald. On the other hand, she has excellent health. Mrs. Insoley. There may be other ways of disposing of her. Archibald. What ways? Mrs. Insoley. [Looking at him calmly.] Since when have you laboured under the delusion that I am the sort of woman to submit to cross-examination, Archibald? [The entrance of Grace interrupts the conversation. Grace. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. I think you’ll find everything all right. Mrs. Insoley. In that case I shall go to my room. Archibald, tell Louisa that I am ready to go to my room. Archibald. Certainly. [He goes out, leaving Grace alone with Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. Who is the young lady you have staying with you, Grace? Grace. Edith Lewis. She’s a friend of mine. Mrs. Insoley. Ah! And who is this Mr. Cobbett? Grace. He’s a friend of mine too. Mrs. Insoley. I didn’t imagine that you would invite total strangers to stay with you. Grace. I don’t know that there’s any other way of describing them. Mrs. Insoley. I dare say that is a sufficient description in itself. [Miss Hall comes back with Claude and Archibald. Mrs. Insoley. I’m going to my room, Louisa. I shall be ready for you to read to me in a quarter of an hour. Miss Hall. Very good, Mrs. Insoley. [To Grace.] I suppose you don’t have prayers on Sunday night? Grace. No, we read our pedigree instead. You’ll find the “Landed Gentry” in your bedroom. Mrs. Insoley. [Icily.] In my young days it was thought more important for a young lady to be well-born than to be clever. Grace. [Chuckling.] The result has been disastrous for the present generation. Mrs. Insoley. Good night. Grace. [Shaking hands cordially with Miss Hall.] Be sure Mrs. Insoley. Of course Louisa will find everything she wants. She wants nothing. Come, Louisa. [Mrs. Insoley and Miss Hall go out. Archibald. I think I’ll be toddling back to my rectory. Claude. Oh, all right. Archibald. Good night, Grace. Grace. Good night. Claude. [To Archibald.] I talked to Gann about that matter. Archibald. I’m afraid he’s going to make rather a nuisance of himself. Claude. I took a good firm line, you know. Archibald. That’s right. It’s the only way with those sort of fellows. Good night, old man. Claude. Good night. [Archibald goes out. Claude. You were asking about Gann just now, Grace? Grace. I was. Claude. At first I thought I’d better not tell you anything about it, but I’ve been thinking it over.... Grace. [Interrupting.] It was quite unnecessary. I’m not at all curious. Claude. I think perhaps it would be better if I told you what I’d done. Grace. I’m sure that whatever you’ve done is right, Claude. [Smiling.] That’s why you’re so detestable. Claude. That’s all very fine and large, but I think I’d like to have your approval. Grace. We agreed very early in our married life that your acts were such as must necessarily meet with my approval. Claude. What’s the matter with you, Grace? Grace. With me? Nothing. Claude. You’ve been so funny lately. I haven’t been able to make you out at all. Grace. I should have thought you had more important things to do than to bother about me. Claude. I’ve got nothing in the world to do more important than to bother about you, Grace. [She looks at him for an instant, with a catch in her breath. Grace. Don’t worry me to-night, Claude; my head’s aching so that I feel I could scream. Claude. [With the tenderest concern.] My poor child, why didn’t you tell me? I’m so sorry I’ve been bothering you. Is it very bad? Grace. What a beast I am! How can you like me when I’m so absolutely horrid to you? Claude. My darling, I don’t blame you for having a headache. Grace. I’m sorry I was beastly to you just now. Claude. What nonsense! [He tries to take her in his arms, but she draws herself away. Grace. Please don’t, Claude. Claude. Why don’t you go to bed, darling? Grace. [With a cry of something like fright.] Oh, no! Claude. Bed’s the best place for everybody at this hour. Grace. I want to amuse myself. Go and fetch the others, they’re down by the lake. And we’ll all play poker. [He is just going to make an observation, but she bursts in vehemently. Grace. For God’s sake do as I ask you. [He looks at her. With a shrug of the shoulders he goes out into the garden. Grace gives a deep sigh. In a moment Henry Cobbett enters. Grace looks at him silently as he advances into the room. Cobbett. I’ve been waiting for the chance of speaking to you by yourself. Grace. Have you? Cobbett. Why did you make me sing that idiotic song just now? Grace. [Her eyes cold and hostile.] Because I chose. Cobbett. You made me look a perfect fool. Grace. That’s what I wanted to make you look. Cobbett. [Surprised.] Did you? Why? Grace. I have no explanation to offer. Cobbett. You know, I’m hanged if I can make you out. You’re never the same for two minutes together. Grace. [Frigidly.] I suppose it is disconcerting. Claude complains of it too. Cobbett. Oh, hang Claude. Grace. You’re growing more and more like him every day, Harry. Cobbett. I don’t quite know what you mean by that. Grace. It seems hardly worth while to have—made a long journey to find oneself exactly where one started. Cobbett. I never know what people are driving at when they talk metaphorically. Grace. [Looking at him deliberately.] I thought I loved you, Harry. Cobbett. You’ve said it often enough. Grace. [Slowly.] I wonder if I just said it to persuade myself. My heart’s empty! Empty! I know now that it wasn’t love I felt for you. Cobbett. It’s rather late in the day to have found that out, isn’t it? Grace. [Bitterly.] Yes, that’s just it. It’s late in the day for everything.... Here they are. [A sound of talking is heard as Edith Lewis approaches with Helen Vernon and Claude. Claude. [At the window.] I found them on their way back. Grace. [To Cobbett, with a little bitter laugh.] We’re going to play poker. END OF THE FIRST ACT |
|
