  The Scene is the same as in the preceding Act. It is evening, towards seven o’clock, but it is still perfectly light. Grace and Peggy Gann are in the room, both standing. Peggy is a pretty girl, quite young, but very pale, with black rings round her eyes. She is dressed like a housemaid in her going-out things. Grace is evidently much distressed. Peggy. You will try, mum, won’t you? [Peggy’s voice seems to call Grace back with a start from her own thoughts. Grace. I ought to have been told before. It was wicked to keep it from me. Peggy. I thought you knew, mum. I wasn’t to know that you ’adn’t been told anything. Grace. [With a friendly smile.] I’m not blaming you, Peggy.... Mr. Insoley’s out now, but I’ll talk to Peggy. You know what father is, mum. I’m afraid he won’t come. Grace. Oh, but I think it’s very important. Tell him that.... [Henry Cobbett comes in, and she stops when she sees him. Cobbett. Hulloa, am I in the way? Shall I go? Grace. [Passing her hand wearily across her forehead.] No. I’ve just finished.... Try and get your father to come, Peggy. Peggy. Well, I’ll do what I can, mum. [She goes out. Grace gives a little exclamation, partly of distress, partly of indignation. Cobbett. What’s the matter? You seem rather put out. Grace. That’s the daughter of one of the keepers. She came to me just now and asked me to beg Claude to Cobbett. [Flippantly.] Oh, yes, I know. She seems to be rather a flighty young person. Claude and your brother-in-law were talking about it after lunch in the smoking-room. Grace. Why didn’t you tell me? Cobbett. Well, it never struck me you didn’t know. Besides—you haven’t shown any great desire for my society the last day or two. Grace. [With a quick look at him.] I’ve had other guests to attend to. Cobbett. [Shrugging his shoulders.] And it seemed rather a sordid little story. I don’t think I can interest myself very much at this time of day in the gamekeeper’s daughter who kicks over the traces. Grace. [Sarcastically.] It’s so devilish mid-Victorian, isn’t it? Cobbett. [Surprised at her tone.] It’s not really bothering you, is it? Grace. [With a sudden vehement outburst.] Don’t you see that wretched girl has done no more than I have? Cobbett. [With a chuckle.] Great Scott, you haven’t produced an unexpected baby, have you? Grace. Oh, don’t, don’t. Cobbett. [Coolly.] In point of fact she’s done a great deal more than you have. She’s been found out. Grace. How can you be so odiously cynical? Cobbett. I notice people always call you odiously cynical when you talk plain horse-sense to them. Grace. Can’t you realise what I’m feeling? She had excuses. She was alone, and little more than a child; she had no education. How could she be expected to resist temptation? Cobbett. It’s an absolute delusion that the lower classes are less able to resist temptation than their betters. In the first place, they have a much more systematic moral education, and then they’re taught from early youth to look upon virtue as a valuable asset. Grace. [Going up to him suddenly.] Harry, would you mind very much if I stopped the whole thing? Cobbett. Of course I should mind. Grace. Oh, no, don’t say that because it’s the conventional thing to say. I want you to be frank with me. Cobbett. [Uneasily.] Why do you ask me now? Grace. [After a look at him, a little unwillingly.] I feel so horribly mean. Cobbett. Claude? Grace. [With a sort of appeal, as if she were excusing herself.] He’s so awfully good to me, Harry. Every present he gives me, every kind word is like a stab in my Cobbett. Are you beginning to care for Claude—differently? Grace. Oh, it’s no use pretending. I never loved him as he loved me. I couldn’t. I was bored by his love. Yes, all the time we’ve been married.... It’s only lately.... [She pauses abruptly. Cobbett gives her a sidelong glance. Cobbett. Oh! Grace. I don’t know what I feel or what to do. I’m so bewildered and wretched.... He bores me still—oh, horribly sometimes. And yet at moments I feel as though I were a good deal more than half in love with him. It’s too absurd. With Claude—after all these years. Something has changed me.... It’s the last thing that ought to have changed me towards him. [She flushes hotly, and again Cobbett looks at her, and a rather sulky expression comes into his face. Cobbett. It’s not a very pleasant position for me, is it? Grace. I shouldn’t have thought it ever had been a very pleasant position considering what a good friend Claude has been to you. Cobbett. If you look at it in that way, I dare say it would be better to put an end to the whole thing. Grace. You have been rather a blackguard, haven’t you? Cobbett. No. I don’t pretend to be better than anybody else, but I’m quite certain I’m no worse. I’m a perfectly normal man in good health. It’s idiotic to abuse me because I’ve done what any other fellow would have done in my place. Grace. [Suddenly understanding.] Is that all it was to you? Cobbett. What d’you mean? Grace. Wasn’t I anything to you at all? Only a more or less attractive woman who happened to cross your path? If I was only that, why couldn’t you leave me alone? What harm did I ever do you? Oh, it was cruel of you. Cruel! Cobbett. [Quietly.] No man’s able to have an affair all by himself, you know. Grace. What d’you mean by that? Cobbett. Well, most fellows are very shy, and they’re dreadfully frightened of a rebuff. A man doesn’t take much risk until—well, until he finds there’s not much risk to take. Grace. D’you mean to say I gave you to understand.... Oh, how can you humiliate me like that? Cobbett. Isn’t there a certain amount of truth in it? Grace. [Looking as it were into her own soul.] Yes.... Oh, I’m so ashamed. Cobbett. The world would be a jolly sight easier place to live in if people weren’t such humbugs. Grace. [Hardly able to believe the truth that presents itself to her, yet eager to probe it.] D’you think it was only Cobbett. That’s the foundation of nine love affairs out of ten, you know. Grace. [Trying to justify herself in her own eyes.] I was so bored—so lonely. I never felt at home with the people I had to live with. They humiliated me. And you seemed the same sort of person as I was. I felt at my ease with you. At first I thought you cared for the things I cared for—music and books and pictures: it took me quite a time to discover that you didn’t know the difference between a fiddle and a jews’ harp.... I wonder why you troubled to take me in. Cobbett. I naturally talked about what I thought would please you. Grace. I remember at first I felt as if I were just stepping out of a prison into the fresh air. It seemed to me as if—oh, I don’t know how to put it—as if spring flowers were suddenly blossoming in my heart. Cobbett. I’m afraid you were asking more from me than I was able to give you. Grace. Oh, I don’t blame you. You’re quite right: it’s I Cobbett. [Moved by the pain which he sees she is suffering.] I hope you don’t think me an awful skunk, Grace. I’m sorry we’ve made such a hash of things. Grace. [Going on with her own thoughts.] It would be horrible if that wretched girl were punished while I go scot-free. I can’t let her be turned away like a leper. I should never rest in peace again. Cobbett. Claude’s not very fond of going back on his word. He seems to have delivered an ultimatum, and I expect he’ll stick to it. Grace. It means so much to me. I feel somehow that if I can only save that poor child it’ll make up in a way—oh, very little—for all the harm I’ve done.... D’you think I’m perfectly absurd? Cobbett. Life seems devilish complicated sometimes, doesn’t it? Grace. [With a smile.] Devilish. [The sound is heard of a carriage stopping outside. Cobbett. Hulloa, what’s that? Grace. It’s my mother-in-law. She’s been out for her drive. [With a glance at her watch.] Claude ought to be in soon. Cobbett. What are you going to do? Grace. I’m going to use every means in my power to persuade him to change his mind. Cobbett. You’re not going to do anything foolish, Grace? Grace. How d’you mean? [His meaning suddenly strikes her.] You don’t think I might have to.... Oh, that would be too much to ask me.... D’you think I might have to tell him? Cobbett. Whatever you do, Grace, I want you to know that Grace. [Shaking her head.] No, I should never ask you to marry me. Now we both know how things are between us—how they’ve always been.... Cobbett. I’m awfully sorry, Grace. Grace. There’s no need to be. I’m glad to know the truth. There was nothing that held us together before but my cowardice. I was so afraid of going back to that dreary loneliness. But you’ve given me courage. Cobbett. Is there nothing left of it at all? Grace. So far as I’m concerned nothing at all—but shame. [Edith Lewis comes in. Grace, recovering herself quickly, throws off her seriousness and greets the girl with a pleasant smile. Edith. We’ve had such a lovely drive. Grace. And d’you think the country’s as beautiful as ever? Edith. [Gaily.] Oh, I didn’t look at the country. I was much too excited. Mrs. Insoley has been telling me the dreadful pasts of all the families in the neighbourhood. It appears the further they go back the more shocking their behaviour has been. Cobbett. I notice that even the grossest immorality becomes respectable when it’s a hundred years old. Grace. [Ironically.] It’s very hard, isn’t it? Mrs. Grundy has no mercy. She’ll take even you to her bosom before you know where you are. [Enter Mrs. Insoley, followed by Miss Vernon and Miss Hall. Miss Hall is carrying Mrs. Insoley’s lap-dog. Grace. I hope you enjoyed your drive. Mrs. Insoley. I didn’t go for my enjoyment, Grace; I went to exercise the horses. Grace. [Smiling.] Meanwhile, I hear you took the opportunity of enlarging Edith’s young mind. Miss Vernon. [To Edith.] When you come to Foley you must Mrs. Insoley. [Pleasantly.] My dear Helen, I have the greatest affection for you, but I cannot allow a statement like that to go unchallenged. There is no evidence whatever of the truth of it. Miss Vernon. I don’t know how you can say that, Mrs. Insoley, considering that I have all my great-grandmother’s letters to the Regent. Mrs. Insoley. [With a chuckle.] Where are his letters to your great-grandmother? Miss Vernon. She gave them back at the time he returned hers, naturally. Mrs. Insoley. I can see her. If she had any letters she would have kept them. Any woman would. Miss Vernon. [Bridling a little.] I can’t imagine why you should suddenly throw doubts on a story that the whole county has believed for a hundred years. Every one knew all about Mary Vernon. Mrs. Insoley. [Chaffing her.] I am aware that your great-grandmother was an abandoned hussy, but that in itself is no proof that she ever had anything to do with the Regent. Miss Vernon. You can’t deny that he slept at Foley, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. Only one night. Miss Vernon. Well? Mrs. Insoley. It’s notorious that at that very time he was on terms of the greatest intimacy with Pamela Bainbridge. [To Edith Lewis.] I am not an Insoley, thank God; I am a Bainbridge. And whenever he came to this part of the country he stayed with us. Miss Vernon. I know you’ve always flattered yourself that there was something between them. Mrs. Insoley. [With complete self-assurance.] And well I may, considering that I still have a lock of hair which he gave my grandmother. Miss Vernon. Half the families in the country have a greasy Mrs. Insoley. [Bridling in her turn.] I think you’re extremely rude, Helen. In the presence of a man I can’t go into details, but I have proof of every word I say. You know what I mean, Louisa? Miss Hall. I believed the worst from the beginning, Mrs. Insoley. Miss Vernon. I have no doubt you firmly believe what you say, Mrs. Insoley; but if you don’t mind my saying so, one has only to look at the portrait of Pamela Bainbridge to know the whole thing’s absurd. Mrs. Insoley. [Frigidly.] We won’t argue the point, Helen; I know I’m right, and there’s an end of it.... Put the dog on that chair, Louisa. Miss Hall. That’s Mr. Cobbett’s chair, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. [Still a little out of temper.] Has Mr. Cobbett bought it? Cobbett. No, but Mr. Cobbett’s been sitting in it. Mrs. Insoley. And may no one use a chair that Mr. Cobbett has been sitting in? Cobbett. Certainly. But it so happens that Mr. Cobbett is just going to sit in it again. Mrs. Insoley. [With a grim smile.] Mr. Cobbett has legs. Cobbett. Only two, and if a merciful Providence had intended him to stand on them it would undoubtedly have provided him with four. Mrs. Insoley. Mr. Cobbett seems to be better acquainted with the designs of Providence than I should have expected.... Louisa, give me the dog. He shall sit on my lap. Cobbett. [Chaffing her.] Ah, if you’d only told me that was the alternative, of course I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment. Mrs. Insoley. I think you are very vulgar, sir.... I’m surprised that you should laugh at such an inane joke, Grace. Grace. You forget that I have a naturally vulgar nature. Mrs. Insoley. I try to, but you take great pains to remind me. [Claude comes in with Archibald. Claude. Well, did you enjoy your drive, mother? Mrs. Insoley. I didn’t go for my enjoyment, Claude; I went to exercise the horses. Archibald. We’ve been to a parish meeting. Claude. [Rather peevishly.] It’s getting almost impossible to do anything for these Somersetshire people. They’re such an obstinate, pig-headed lot. Mrs. Insoley. I prophesied it forty years ago. When they first introduced all this nonsense about education, I said it was a serious matter. Archibald. [With a twinkle in his eye.] Like all good prophets you apparently took care to be rather vague about it, mother. Mrs. Insoley. Considering you weren’t born I don’t see what you can know about it, Archibald. I said this would happen. I said they would make the lower classes so independent that no one would be able to do anything with them. I went for a walk in the village this morning and nobody took any notice of me. Isn’t that so, Louisa? Miss Hall. No, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. What do you mean by no, Louisa? Miss Hall. [Hastily.] I beg your pardon. I mean yes, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. A few old men touched their hats, and one old woman curtsied, but that was all. Claude. [With a little nod.] Of course it’s not important in itself, but it’s the sign of a change. The long and short of it is that they don’t look up to their betters as they used to. Grace. [Ironically.] Perhaps they’ve ceased to realise that we are their betters. Claude. It’s not too late to teach them their mistake. Personally I mean to be master in my own house. Grace. [Abruptly.] Peggy Gann came to see me this afternoon, Claude. Claude. Did she? [There is a very short pause. Cobbett sees what is going to happen and gets up. Cobbett. [To Edith Lewis.] Wouldn’t you like to come for a stroll in the garden? Edith Lewis. Yes. Grace. I’ve asked her to fetch her father. [Cobbett and Edith Lewis go out. Claude. [Without waiting for the movement.] I’m sorry you did that, Grace. I’ve got nothing to say to him. Grace. [To Mrs. Insoley.] Do you know that Claude has threatened to dismiss Gann if Peggy hasn’t gone by ten o’clock to-night? Mrs. Insoley. For once in his life Claude has acted with spirit. He gave Gann twenty-four hours to think it over. My father would have given him fifteen minutes. Grace. Why was it all kept from me? It seems that everybody knew but me. Claude. Hang it all, Grace, I wanted to tell you last night and you wouldn’t let me. Grace. [Startled.] Oh! Was it that? I didn’t know.... Claude, I want you to be very kind and forgive that wretched girl. I want you to tell Gann that she needn’t go. Claude. [Quite firmly.] My dear, I can’t do that. I’ve made up my mind and I must stick to it. Grace. Why? Claude. Hang it all, what would happen to the discipline of the estate if I were always shilly-shallying? Every one in the place knows that when I say a thing I mean it. It’s an enormous advantage to all concerned. Grace. [With a coaxing smile.] It wouldn’t do any harm if you made an exception just this once. Claude. It’s a matter of upholding my authority. Gann refused to do what I told him, and I had to threaten him with immediate dismissal. I couldn’t eat my words now without looking a perfect fool. Grace. Don’t you think it’s awfully unjust to send a girl away because she’s got into trouble? Claude. It’s a rule of the estate. I didn’t make it. Grace. [Turning to Miss Vernon.] Helen, you’re a woman. You must see how cruel it is. Can’t you say something to help me? Miss Vernon. I don’t know what else one’s to do. After all, we have the same rule at Foley. Claude. They have it on half the large estates in the kingdom. It’s absolutely essential if one has any regard for decency. Miss Vernon. I don’t suppose it would be so common, and it certainly wouldn’t have lasted so long, if there hadn’t been some good in it. Grace. [Violently.] Oh, it’s maddening. Always, always, there’s that stone wall in front of me. Whatever is, is good. However cruel and unjust a custom is, no one must touch it because it’s a custom. If a law is infamous, does it become any less infamous because people have suffered from it for a dozen generations? Mrs. Insoley. Perhaps you’re not very competent to judge matters of this sort, my dear. Archibald. I’m afraid your sympathy is rather wasted in this particular case. Peggy Gann isn’t a very deserving young woman. Grace. If she were, there’d be no need for me to plead for her. Mrs. Insoley. On those lines the more of a hussy a girl is the more she’s deserving of sympathy. Grace. [To Archibald.] You had nothing against her till this happened. Archibald. Nothing very definite. She was always rather cheeky, and she never came to Sunday-school very regularly. Grace. Is that all? Mrs. Insoley. My own belief is that the Ganns are really Dissenters. Grace. [Impatiently.] Good heavens, they positively revel in going to church. Mrs. Insoley. That may be or it may not. But they give me the impression of chapel people. Archibald. Heaven knows, I don’t want to seem hard and unsympathetic, but after all, you’re not going to keep people moral if you pamper those who aren’t. Grace. And what d’you think’ll happen to her if you make her leave here? Archibald. We’ll do our best for her. It’s not a pleasant position for any of us, Grace. I’ve been wretched about the whole thing, and I’m sure Claude has too. Claude. Of course I have. But hang it all, in our position we can’t afford to think of sentiment. Especially now that they’re attacking us all round we’ve got to show them that we can keep a firm hand on the reins. Archibald. Do us the justice to see that we’re really trying to do what’s right. It may be very wrong that we should be in our particular positions, and we may be quite unworthy of them. But we didn’t make society, and we’re not responsible for its inequalities. We find ourselves in a certain station, and we have to act accordingly. Claude. The long and the short of it is that it’s our duty to look after those whom Providence has placed in our charge. And it’s our duty to punish as well as to reward. Grace. Oh, how hard you are! One would think you’d never done anything in your life that you regret. [With increasing violence.] Oh, you virtuous people, I hate you. You’re never content till you see the sinner actually frizzling. As if hell were needed when every sin brings its own punishment! And you never make excuses. You don’t know how many temptations we resist for the one we fall to. Miss Vernon. Grace! What are you saying! [Grace, almost beside herself, looks at her with haggard eyes. Suddenly she gives a start, and stares at Miss Vernon with horror. She has realised that Miss Vernon knows the relations that have existed between her and Henry Cobbett. There is a pause. The Butler comes in. Moore. Gann and his daughter are here, sir. Claude. Oh, yes, I’ll come at once. Moore. Very good, sir. [He goes out. Mrs. Insoley. Why shouldn’t he come here, Claude? Grace. Yes, let him come by all means. And then you can see for yourselves. Archibald. I’ll tell Moore, shall I? [He goes to the door as he says this and calls.] Moore. Tell Gann to come here. Miss Vernon. [Rising.] I think I’ll leave you. This isn’t any business of mine. [To Miss Hall.] Will you come with me? Miss Hall. Do you want me, Mrs. Insoley? Mrs. Insoley. No. You’ve had no exercise to-day, Louisa. You’d better walk three times round the garden. Miss Hall. I’m not very well to-day, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. Oh, nonsense! You’re in the best of health. And you can take the dog with you. Miss Hall. Very well, Mrs. Insoley. [Miss Vernon and Miss Hall go out. Mrs. Insoley. Louisa’s very troublesome sometimes. She fancies she’s not feeling well. But she’s twenty-five years younger than I am, and I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life. [Moore opens the door for Gann, who comes into the room, cap in hand, and stands at the door awkwardly. He is in his working clothes. Claude. Good afternoon, Gann. Gann. Good afternoon, sir. Peggy said you wished to see me, sir. Grace. I asked her to bring you here, Gann. I thought it would be better if you spoke to Mr. Insoley. Gann. I’ve got nothing to say to Mr. Insoley, ma’am. Claude. I was hoping to find you in a more reasonable state of mind, Gann. You know, you can only hurt yourself by being pig-headed and stubborn. Gann. I didn’t know as how I was, sir. Claude. [To Grace.] You see, the man doesn’t give me a chance. Gann. [Making an effort on himself.] Please, Squire, I come to know if I’m really to go to-morrow? I know you said you’d send me away, Squire. But I couldn’t bring myself to believe you meant it. Claude. I’m willing to listen to anything you’ve got to say. I want to be quite fair to you. Gann. If I could only make you see as what you ask ain’t possible, I’m sure you’d let us stay. There’s nowhere Peggy can go to. Claude. Hang it all, Mrs. Insoley’ll do all she can for her. You may be quite sure that Peggy shan’t want for money. Gann. It isn’t money the girl wants. If I send ’er away she’ll just go to the bad altogether. Claude. You see, it’s a matter of principle, Gann. It would be devilish unjust to make an exception in your favour. Gann. [Stepping forward with surly indignation and facing Claude.] I love the girl and I can’t bear to part with ’er. She’s a good girl in her ’eart, only she’s had a misfortune. Claude. That’s all very fine and large, Gann. But if she’d been a good girl, hang it all, she’d have had power to resist temptation. Grace. [Terrified.] Claude, you don’t know what you’re saying. Claude. I don’t want to rub it in and all that sort of thing, but my own feeling is that if she came rather a cropper, it was because she was—if you don’t mind my saying so—because she was that way inclined. I don’t think anyone can accuse me of being a hard man, but I’m afraid I haven’t much pity for women who.... Grace. [Interrupting.] Claude, don’t go on—for God’s sake. Gann. That’s your last word, Squire? If the girl don’t go, I must? Claude. I’m afraid so. Gann. I’ve served you faithful, man and boy, for forty years. And I was born in that there cottage I live in now. If you turn us out where are we to go to? I’m getting on in years, and I shan’t find it easy to get another job. It’ll mean the work’us. Claude. I’m very sorry. I can’t do anything for you. You’ve had your chance and you’ve refused to take it. [Gann turns his cap round nervously. His face is distorted with agony. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come, only an inarticulate groan. He turns on his heel. Claude. In consideration of your long service I’ll give you fifty pounds so that you can tide over the next few months. Gann. [Violently.] You can keep your dirty money. [He goes out. Grace goes up to Claude desperately. Grace. Oh, Claude, you can’t do it. You’ll break the man’s heart. Haven’t you any pity? Haven’t you any forgiveness? Claude. It’s no good, Grace. I must stick to what I’ve said. Grace. It’s not often I’ve begged you to do anything for me. Claude. Well, hang it all, this is the first time I’ve ever refused. Grace. [Bitterly.] I suppose because I’ve never asked you for anything before that wasn’t absolutely trifling. Mrs. Insoley. Why are you making such a point of it, Grace? Grace. Is it very strange that I should feel sorry for anyone who’s in distress? Claude. I’ll do anything in the world to please you, darling, but in this case you must trust to my better judgment. Grace. How can you be so hard? Claude. Come, Grace, don’t be angry with me. It’s bad enough as it is. Mrs. Insoley. I have no patience with you, Claude. When your father made up his mind to do anything it was done, and it would never have occurred to me to oppose him. Archibald. [With a twinkle in his eye.] You forget, mother, that was because you generally made up my father’s mind some time before he did. Grace. [To Mrs. Insoley and Archibald.] Will you leave me alone with Claude. I must talk to him alone. Archibald. Come, mother. Let me take you for a stroll three times round the garden. [Mrs. Insoley and Archibald go out. Grace. I couldn’t say it before them. They’d never understand. They’d only sneer. But can’t you see, Claude, that it’s out of the question to drive Gann away so callously? He loves the place just as much as you love it.... In my heart I seem to feel suddenly all that his shabby little cottage means to him—the woods and coverts and the meadows and the trees. His life is bound up with Kenyon. His roots are in the earth as if he were a growing thing. Can’t you see what it must mean to him to leave it? Claude. He only goes because he’s headstrong and obstinate. He’s the Somersetshire peasant all over. You do your best for them and you get no gratitude. You try to reason with them, but you can’t get a single idea into their thick heads. Grace. You can’t punish him because he’s stupid and dull. You’re throwing him upon the world in his old age. It means starvation. Claude. You must know that I’m only doing it because I think it’s my duty. Grace. [Impatiently.] Oh, men always talk of their duty when they want to be odiously cruel. Claude. Grace, how can you be so unkind to me? Grace. Oh, Claude, if you love me at all, give in to me this time. You don’t know what it means to me. I’ve often been horrible to you, but I’m going to be different. I want to love you. I want to be more to you than I’ve ever been. Claude, I implore you to do what I ask you—just because I ask it, because you love me. Claude. [Withdrawing himself a little.] I could not love you, dear, so much, loved I not honour.... Grace. [Interrupting passionately.] Oh, no, don’t, Claude; for God’s sake be sincere and natural. Can’t you forget that you’re a landed proprietor and a J.P. and all the rest of it, and remember that you’re only a man, as weak and as—as frail as the rest of us? You hope to be forgiven yourself, and you’re utterly pitiless. Claude. My darling, it’s just as much for your sake that I’m firm. Grace. [Impatiently.] Oh, how can you make phrases! What on earth have I got to do with it? Claude. Hang it all, don’t you see that it’s because of you that I can’t give way? It’s beastly having to say it. It makes me feel such an ass. Grace. [Beginning to be frightened.] What have I got to do with it? Claude. Until I knew you I don’t suppose I had a higher opinion of women than most men, but you taught me what a—what a stunning fine thing a good woman is. Grace. [Hoarsely.] It’s perfectly absurd. It’s—it’s unreasonable. I’ve not been.... Only the other day you said I was cold. And just now you told me I was unkind. Claude. I dare say that’s all my fault. I expect I bore you sometimes. After all, I know you’re worth about six of me. I can’t expect you to love me as I love you. Grace. D’you mean to say that if I weren’t—what you think me, you wouldn’t insist on that poor girl going away? Claude. I don’t suppose I should feel quite the same about it. Grace. [Trying to keep back her sobs.] It’s so unreasonable. Claude. Even if it weren’t for the rule of the estate, I couldn’t let her live in the same place as you. I can’t help it. It’s just a sort of instinct. It simply disgusts me to think that you may meet that—that woman when you walk about, and her kid. Grace. Oh, Claude, you don’t know what you’re saying. Claude. When I heard she’d been here and you’d been talking to her, I felt almost sick. Grace. [Breaking down.] Oh, I can’t bear it. Claude. Come, darling, don’t let’s quarrel any more. It hurts me so awfully. Grace. [To herself.] Oh, I can’t. I can’t. Claude. Say you forgive me, darling. Grace. I?... If I weren’t what you.... Oh, it’s too much to ask anyone. Claude, I beseech you to give way. [He shakes his head. She falls back in despair, realising that there is no way to move him. Grace. Oh, what a punishment! [The sound of a gong is heard. Claude looks at his watch. Claude. By Jove, I had no idea it was so late. There’s the dressing gong. You must hurry up. Grace. [Looking at him vaguely.] What is it? Claude. Time to dress for dinner, darling. You won’t be late, will you? You know how mother hates to be kept waiting. Grace. [Dully.] No, I won’t be late. [He takes her hand and presses it, then hurries out. She has given him her hand inertly, Moore. Peggy Gann wishes to know if you want to see her again, madam. Grace. [With a start.] Has she been waiting all this time? Moore. Yes’m. She didn’t know as Gann had left. He never come back to the servants’ hall. Grace. Tell her to come here. Moore. Very good, madam. [He goes out. In a moment he opens the door for Peggy Gann. Grace. Oh, Peggy, how ill you look! I’ve been able to do nothing for you. Peggy. [With a cry of distress.] Oh, mum, I was hoping. You said you’d do your best for me. Grace. My dear, I’m so dreadfully sorry for you. Peggy. It’s so ’ard on me, mum, and so ’ard on father. Wasn’t there something more you could do, mum? Grace. [With a little gasp of anguish.] I did all I could. I couldn’t do anything more. I couldn’t really.... [Almost to herself.] It’s too much to ask anyone. Peggy. I’ve got to go then, and there’s an end of it. You won’t let father be turned away, will you, mum? That’s all I care about now. It ’ud just break his ’eart. Grace. [With a ray of hope.] D’you think he’ll let you go? I think it’s the best thing after all, Peggy. I’ve done—I’ve done all I could. Peggy. No, he won’t hear of it. But I shall go all the same—somewhere he can’t find me. Grace. [Anxious now to make the best of it.] I dare say it won’t be for very long, Peggy. Have you as much money as you want? I should like to do something for you. Peggy. I shan’t want anything, thank you, mum. And thank you for all you’ve done. And if anything come to ’appen to me, you’d see as the baby wasn’t sent to the workhouse, wouldn’t you, mum? Grace. How d’you mean? I don’t understand. Peggy. I’m not going to take the baby with me, mum. It would only be a hindrance. Grace. [With a sigh of relief.] Oh, I was so afraid you meant.... Peggy. Is there anything else you want me for, mum? Grace. No, Peggy. Peggy. Then I’ll say good evening, mum. Grace. Good evening, Peggy. [She watches Peggy go out, then she gives a little moan of despair. Grace. No, I couldn’t, I couldn’t. Edith Lewis comes in gaily. Edith Lewis. There you are! I thought you were in your room. Your maid said you hadn’t come up yet. Grace. [Wearily.] I was just going. Edith Lewis. [With a smile.] I’ve got something dreadfully important to ask you. Grace. [Forcing a smile.] What is it? Edith Lewis. Well, I want to know if you’re going to wear the grey satin you wore on Saturday. You see, I only brought three dinner dresses down with me, and one of them’s a grey, only it’s much more slaty than yours, and it’ll look so cold beside it. So I shan’t put it on if you’re going to wear yours. Grace. [Dully.] No, I won’t wear my grey satin. Edith Lewis. What are you going to wear? Grace. I don’t know. Edith Lewis. But you must know. Grace. Does it matter? Edith Lewis. I don’t want to clash with you. Grace. [Clenching her hands to prevent herself from screaming.] I won’t put on anything that’ll interfere with your grey. Edith Lewis. Thank you. Now I can be quite happy. I say, we shall be so late. [She runs off. Grace gives a little answering laugh to hers; and as Edith Lewis goes out, it lengthens into a mirthless, low, hysterical peal, broken with sobs. END OF THE SECOND ACT |
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