  [The dining-room at Kenyon Fulton. It is a fine room with French windows leading into the garden. On the walls are departed Insoleys of the last two or three generations, stiff ladies and gentlemen of the Victorian era, military-looking fellows in the uniform of the early nineteenth century, and ungainly Georgian squires with their wives in powdered hair. Between the windows, standing well away from the wall, rather far back, is a round table laid out for breakfast. On the Sheraton sideboard is a cloth, a stand for keeping dishes warm, a large ham, and plates and forks and spoons. Against the wall opposite the sideboard are a row of chairs, and there are half a dozen chairs round the table. There are doors right and left. It is the morning after the events which occur in the Second Act, and when the curtain rises prayers have just finished. Claude is seated at the table with an immense prayer-book and a still larger Bible in front of him. The rest of the party are rising to their feet. They have been kneeling against various chairs. They consist of Mrs. Insoley, Miss Hall, and Miss Vernon. Well away from them, emphasising the fact that even the Almighty must recognise the difference between Mrs. Insoley. I didn’t see Grace’s maid, Claude. Claude. I dare say Grace couldn’t spare her. Mrs. Insoley. If Grace were more punctual she wouldn’t be obliged to deprive her maid of the pleasure and the duty of attending morning prayers. Miss Hall. I didn’t see your maid either, Miss Vernon. Miss Vernon. She’s a Roman Catholic. Mrs. Insoley. A Papist, Helen? Isn’t that very risky? Miss Vernon. Good gracious me, why? Mrs. Insoley. Aren’t you afraid she’ll corrupt the other servants? Miss Vernon. [With a smile.] She’s a highly respectable person of well over forty. Mrs. Insoley. She must be very flighty. I would as soon have an atheist. Miss Hall. I would never dream of having a Romish maid myself. Mrs. Insoley. Is there any likelihood of your having a maid at all, Louisa? Miss Hall. No, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. In that case I can’t quite see what is the use of your having an opinion on the subject. Claude. [Looking up from his letters, with a smile.] Miss Hall was only making a general reflection. Mrs. Insoley. I don’t like general reflections at the breakfast table. [During the next few speeches the Butler and the Footman come in with covered entrÉe dishes which they put on the sideboard, coffee and milk in silver pots, and tea. They go out. Claude retires to the window to read his letters. Mrs. Insoley. I suppose you have prayers at Foley, Helen? Miss Vernon. I’m afraid I don’t. It makes me feel rather shy to read them. Mrs. Insoley. I don’t see why it should. It doesn’t make me feel shy. Miss Hall. You read them so well, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. I never forget while I’m reading them that I’m a woman of birth and a woman of property. Miss Vernon. And then I always think the servants hate them. Mrs. Insoley. The more they hate them, the better it is for them. That is life, my dear Helen. It’s a very good thing to begin the day by making it distinctly understood that masters are masters and servants are servants. Miss Hall. And I think servants like that, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. It is not a matter of interest to me if they like it or not, Louisa. I have the authority of my maker for it, and that is quite enough for me. Henry Cobbett comes in. Cobbett. I’m sorry I’m late. Mrs. Insoley. When breakfast’s at ten o’clock I cannot imagine why people shouldn’t be punctual. Cobbett. Neither can I. [Going to the sideboard.] Let’s have a look at the food. Mrs. Insoley. See if there’s anything I’d like, Louisa. Cobbett. [Taking off the covers.] There’s fried sole—eggs and bacon. Mrs. Insoley. The staple of every middle-class hotel in the kingdom. Cobbett. And devilled kidneys. Mrs. Insoley. I’ll begin with fried sole, and then I’ll have eggs and bacon, Louisa. Claude. [Coming forward.] Oh, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can get you? Mrs. Insoley. [Chaffing her fellow-guest.] And then, if Mr. Cobbett has left any, perhaps I’ll see if I can eat a devilled kidney. Cobbett. [With a chuckle.] Mr. Cobbett thinks he’ll have to look nippy to get anything at all. Claude. [To Miss Vernon.] I wonder what I can tempt you with? Miss Vernon. I think I’ll have some fried sole. Claude. That’s the beauty of the country. One does relish one’s breakfast, doesn’t one? [He hands a plate to Miss Vernon, and sits down with another for himself. As he does this he takes the Times from under his arm and sits on it. Miss Vernon. [With a smile at his peculiarity.] Is there anything in the Times, Claude? Claude. I haven’t read it yet. Mrs. Insoley. In some ways you’re much more of a Bainbridge than an Insoley, Claude. My father used always to sit on the Times so that no one should read it before him. Claude. I must say I don’t like to have my paper messed about by a lot of people before I’ve had a chance of looking at it. Half the pleasure of reading the Times is reading it first. Besides, the Morning Post and the Mail are on the sideboard for anyone who wants them. Edith Lewis comes in. Edith. Oh, I know I’m dreadfully late. Everybody’s going to scold me. And I’m so sorry. Cobbett. [Imitating Mrs. Insoley.] When breakfast’s at ten o’clock I cannot imagine why people shouldn’t be punctual. Edith. [Smiling.] Isn’t Grace down yet? [To Claude, who rises to give her something to eat.] No, don’t bother. I’ll help myself. Mrs. Insoley. When I was mistress of this house breakfast was served punctually at eight o’clock every morning. Cobbett. [Flippantly.] It must have seemed just like supper. Did you have it the last thing before going to bed? Mrs. Insoley. I made no exceptions. The day after my cousin James broke his neck in the hunting-field and was brought to this very house on a stretcher, I came down as the clock struck. And a very hearty breakfast I ate too. Cobbett. Perhaps he didn’t leave you anything. Mrs. Insoley. [With a chuckle.] On the contrary, he left me all his debts. Enter Grace. Grace. Good morning. Mrs. Insoley. Good afternoon, Grace. Grace. Am I late? I think punctuality’s the most detestable of all the virtues. Mrs. Insoley. It’s a royal virtue, my dear. Grace. In that case, as a member of the middle classes, it’s not surprising that I don’t practise it. Claude. What can I get you, darling? Grace. Is there anything nice to eat? Mrs. Insoley. [With a grim smile.] That is a matter of opinion. Claude. There’s fried sole and eggs and bacon. Grace. Oh, I don’t think I’ll have anything. I’ll just have some tea and toast. Claude. My dear, you’re not off your feed, are you? Mrs. Insoley. Grace has probably been stuffing herself with bread and butter in her room. I have no patience with the new-fangled custom of giving people tea when they wake up. I never give it to my guests. Cobbett. Then don’t ask me to come and stay with you. Mrs. Insoley. [Delighted with the opportunity he has given her.] It may surprise you, but I have no intention of doing so. Cobbett. [Cheerfully.] There now. And I thought I’d made such an impression on you, Mrs. Insoley. Mrs. Insoley. That’s why I couldn’t risk asking you to stay with me. Perhaps at my age I am safe from your blandishments, but Louisa is extremely susceptible. Miss Hall. Oh, Mrs. Insoley, how can you! Why, Mr. Cobbett must be ten years younger than I am. Mrs. Insoley. I should put it at fifteen. Cobbett. Don’t dash my hopes to the ground, Miss Hall. I was flattering myself you didn’t look upon me altogether with indifference. [Archibald Insoley comes in from the garden. Archibald. Ah, I thought I’d find you still at breakfast. Claude. We’re a lazy lot. I suppose you’ve been up and about for the last two hours. Grace. [Looking at him.] Is anything the matter? Archibald. Yes. Claude. I thought you looked a bit odd. Archibald. A most awful thing has happened. I’ve only just heard of it. Claude. [Getting up from his chair.] What is it, old man? [By this time the breakfasters are disturbed; there is a certain embarrassment about them; they are suffering from the awkwardness people feel when they see some one Archibald. You’d better come along with me to the smoking-room. Grace. It’s too late to make a secret of it, Archibald. You’d better tell us all. Claude. Fire away, old man. Archibald. [After a moment’s hesitation.] Peggy Gann has killed herself. [Grace springs to her feet with a cry. Claude. [Looking at Grace.] My God. [Grace comes forward, horror on her face, and walks unsteadily to a chair. She sinks into it and stares in front of her. Claude. Why on earth did she do it? Grace. How horrible! Claude. [Going up to her, about to put his hand on her shoulder.] Grace. Grace. [With a shiver.] Don’t touch me. [He stops and looks at her, puzzled and unhappy. Archibald. You’d better come along. Claude. [With his eyes on Grace.] I feel I ought to do something. I don’t know what to do. Archibald. I’m afraid there’s nothing much that can be done. Claude. I’d better go and see Gann, hadn’t I? Mrs. Insoley. Won’t you finish your breakfast before you go, Claude? Claude. Oh, I can’t eat anything more. [He goes out with Archibald. Miss Hall. What a dreadful thing. [Grace gets up and goes to the window. Mrs. Insoley. Where are you going, Grace? Grace. [Almost beside herself.] For heaven’s sake, leave me alone. [She stands with her back to the rest of the party, looking out of the window. There is a little awkward pause. Mrs. Insoley. Louisa, get me some of those devilled kidneys that Mr. Cobbett has been making so much fuss about. Cobbett. Let me. Mrs. Insoley. Louisa will get them. She likes to wait on me herself. Don’t you, Louisa? Miss Hall. Yes, Mrs. Insoley. [Miss Vernon pushes back her chair. Mrs. Insoley. Have you finished, Helen? Miss Vernon. Yes. Mrs. Insoley. You’ve eaten nothing. Miss Vernon. I couldn’t. [Miss Vernon looks as if she were going to speak to Grace, but she changes her mind and merely sits down in another chair. Every now and then she looks up at Grace. Mrs. Insoley. I cannot imagine why anyone should be upset because an abandoned hussy has been so wicked as to destroy herself. Cobbett. Well, it hasn’t taken my appetite away, at all events. Mrs. Insoley. If we were honest with ourselves, Mr. Cobbett, we should acknowledge that nobody’s death is important enough to interfere with one’s appetite. Miss Hall. Oh, Mrs. Insoley, how can you say such a thing? Mrs. Insoley. Louisa, I’ve been like a mother to you for ten years. Would you eat one potato less for your dinner if I were found dead in my bed to-morrow morning? Miss Hall. [Taking out her handkerchief.] Oh, yes, Mrs. Insoley. I really, really would. Mrs. Insoley. [Touched.] You are a good girl, Louisa, and you may have that black lace shawl of mine. If you mend it carefully, it’ll last you for years. Miss Hall. Oh, thank you, Mrs. Insoley. You are so kind to me. Edith. D’you think I ought to offer to go away to-day? I was going to stay till to-morrow. Cobbett. I was going to-day in any case. I’m due to stay with some people in Wiltshire. Mrs. Insoley. You seem to be in great demand. Cobbett. I have a very pleasant fund of small talk. Mrs. Insoley. I’m afraid this is not an occasion upon which you’ll find it of any use. [There is a moment’s pause. Edith. I’m going into the garden. Cobbett. Come on. I’m dying for a smoke. [She gets up and walks out through the French windows. Cobbett follows her. Mrs. Insoley. [Getting up from the table.] I think you should remember, my dear Grace, that suicide is not only very wicked, but very cowardly. I have no patience with the sentimentalities of the present day. Our fathers buried people who were sinful enough to destroy themselves at the cross-roads with a stake in their insides. And it served them right. [Grace does not answer. Mrs. Insoley, with a shrug of the shoulders, walks out of the room, followed by Miss Hall. As soon as Grace hears the door shut she turns round with an exclamation, half-smothered, of impatient anger. Grace. Oh, did you hear? They have the heart to chatter like that when that unhappy girl is lying dead. They haven’t a word of pity. It seems to mean nothing to them that she sacrificed herself. If she died, it was to save her father, so that he shouldn’t be thrown out of work in his old age. And they call her wicked and sinful. Miss Vernon. But is that anything new to you? Haven’t you noticed that people always rather resent the heroism Grace. I might have saved her life if I’d chosen, but I hadn’t the courage. Miss Vernon. [Afraid that she is going to blurt out a secret which had much better not be referred to.] Grace, don’t be stupid. Grace. Once I suspected what she was going to do, but she was too clever for me. I so wanted to believe it was all right. I wanted her to go away quietly. Miss Vernon. [Trying to calm her.] Lots of women have been in difficulties before, and they haven’t killed themselves. There must have been some kink in her nature. I suppose the instinct of life wasn’t so strong as it is with most of us, and—and she would have committed suicide for almost any reason. Grace. There was only one thing to say, and I didn’t say it. I couldn’t. Miss Vernon. My dear, for heaven’s sake pull yourself together. Grace. D’you know why Claude was so determined she should go? Because he couldn’t bear that I should come in contact with a woman who’d done wrong. Miss Vernon. [Looking down.] I had an idea that was at the back of his mind. Grace. [With sudden suspicion.] Why should you know what Claude feels better than I do? Miss Vernon. [Fearing she has given herself away.] It was a mere guess on my part. Grace. [With a keen look at her.] When I asked you the other day whether you’d been very much in love with Claude, you wouldn’t answer. Miss Vernon. [Smiling.] I really thought it was no business of yours. Grace. [Gravely.] Are you in love with him still? [Miss Vernon is about to break out indignantly, but quickly controls herself. Miss Vernon. Yes, I suppose I am. Grace. Much? Miss Vernon. Hoarsely.] Yes. [There is a pause. Grace. D’you know that my mother-in-law would give half her fortune to know—what you know? She’s been on the look-out to trip me up for years. It only wants a hint, and she can be trusted to make the most of it. Miss Vernon. My dear, I haven’t a notion what you’re talking about. Grace. [With a shrug of the shoulders.] How did you find out? [Miss Vernon looks at her for a moment, then looks away in embarrassment. Miss Vernon. I suspected before. In those circumstances hardly any men seem able to help a sort of proprietary air. He rather gave it away, you know.... And then yesterday I felt quite certain. Grace. I’m in your hands. What are you going to do? Miss Vernon. My dear, what can I do? Claude wouldn’t love me more because he loved you less. Grace. You must utterly despise me. Miss Vernon. No.... I feel awfully sorry for Claude. Grace. [Almost jealously.] Claude’s your first thought always. Miss Vernon. He’s been the whole world to me since I was a girl of sixteen. Grace. Is that why you never married? Miss Vernon. I suppose it is. Grace. I never dreamt that anyone could care for Claude like that. I suppose you see something in him that I’ve never seen.... He has a hundred different ways of getting on my nerves. Miss Vernon. You see, I’m not irritated by the mannerisms that irritate you. Grace. [Reflectively.] Real love accepts them, I suppose. Miss Vernon. It wants them even because it’s something individual to cling to.... And then it laughs at them a little, and the best love of all includes a sense of humour. Grace. It’s made me feel so strange to know that you love him, Helen. It’s given him something that he’s never had before. Miss Vernon. I don’t suppose any woman likes her husband less because she knows that another woman is eating her heart out for him. Grace. [Slowly.] I wonder if I’ve misjudged him all these years.... D’you think I found him shallow because there was no depth in me, and narrow because I was narrow myself. [Enter Claude Insoley. Grace turns to him quickly. Grace. Did you see Gann? Claude. [Touching the bell.] No, he wasn’t at the cottage. I’ve sent for him and told him to come here. Grace. They know where he is then? Claude. Yes, worse luck. He’s been soaking at the public-house since it opened. Miss Vernon. But when did it happen? Claude. Peggy, d’you mean? She did it last night. Grace. Last night? But why have we only just heard of it? Claude. [Deeply discouraged.] Because they don’t come to us any more when they’re in trouble. They keep it to themselves. [Moore answers the bell. Claude. Oh, Moore, when Gann comes let me know. I’ll come and see him at once. Moore. He’s here now, sir. Claude. Is he? I didn’t expect him yet. All right. Grace. Won’t you let him come here, Claude? I should like to speak to him too. Claude. I don’t think you’d better see him if he’s been drinking. He may be going to make himself rather objectionable. Grace. I must say to him what I’ve got on my heart, Claude. Claude. Very well. [To Moore.] Tell Gann to come here. Moore. Very good, sir. [Exit. Miss Vernon. I dare say you’d like me to leave you. Grace. You don’t mind, do you? [With a shake of the head and a smile Miss Vernon goes out. Claude looks a little uncertainly at his wife. He seeks for something to say. Claude. What a nice woman that is! I can’t imagine why Archibald doesn’t hurry up and marry her. Grace. Perhaps he’s not in love with her. Claude. Any man in his senses would be in love with her. [Grace does not answer, but she gives him a curious glance. Moore opens the door to show Gann in. Gann is dishevelled and untidy, his face haggard and drawn. He is not exactly drunk, but he is stupefied, partly with liquor and partly with grief. He carries his gun. He comes in, his cap on his head, and stands clumsily near the door. Claude. Take off your cap, Gann. [Gann looks at him unsteadily and slowly takes off his cap. Gann. Did you want to speak to me, Squire? Claude. I’ve just been round to your cottage, Gann. I saw Peggy.... I want to tell you how awfully sorry I am for what’s happened. I can never forgive myself. [Gann steps forward with a lurch and faces Claude. Gann. What d’you want me for? Couldn’t you let me be? D’you still want me to go? Claude. No. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Gann. Give us time and we’ll clear. We don’t want long. Give us time to bury the girl. That’s all we want. [Grace gives an exclamation of horror. Claude. I hope you’ll stay. I want to do everything I can to make up for your loss. I want you to know that I blame myself most awfully. Gann. Will that bring ’er back to life, d’you think? Claude. I’d give anything for this horrible accident not to have happened. [With a look at Grace.] I’m afraid it’s my fault. Gann. She killed ’erself so as I shouldn’t be turned off. That’s why she killed ’erself. You’re a hard master—you always was. She thought it was the only way to save me from the work’us. Claude. [Very awkwardly.] In future I’ll try to be different. I didn’t think I was hard. I thought I was only just. Grace. It was a cruel rule. Claude. I thought I was only doing my duty. Gann. She was a good girl, after all, Squire, a good girl. Claude. I’m sure she was. Gann. It’s easy enough for you people to keep straight. You don’t ’ave temptations like we ’ave. Claude. No, that’s true enough. I suppose it’s not really very hard for us to be moderately decent. Grace. [In a choking voice.] Where is the child now, Gann? Gann. [Violently.] D’you want that too? Ain’t you satisfied yet? Has the child got to go before I stay? Grace. No, no. I only wanted to know if there was anything I could do. I wanted to help you. Gann. I don’t want your ’elp. I only want you to let me work and earn my wages. Claude. That you shall do, I promise you. Gann. Can I go now? I’ve got a deal to do this morning. Claude. Yes.... Will you shake hands with me before you go? Gann. What good’ll that do you? [Claude gives a gesture of discouragement. Claude. I can only repeat that I’m most awfully sorry. I’m afraid there’s absolutely nothing I can do to make up for your great loss.... You can go now. [Gann turns to go, while Claude and Grace watch him silently. Suddenly he comes back and thrusts his gun into Claude’s hand. Gann. Look ’ere, Squire, you take my gun. I ain’t fit to keep it. Claude. [Sharply.] What the devil d’you mean? Gann. Last night when the liquor was in me I swore I’d blow your brains out and swing for it. Don’t let me ’ave the gun. I’m not fit to keep it yet. If I get on the drink again I’ll kill you. Claude. What the dickens d’you mean by speaking to me like that! Of course you must have your gun. I can’t allow you to neglect your work. Grace. [Almost in a whisper.] Claude, take care. Claude. [Looking at the lock.] Why isn’t it loaded? Gann. They took the cartridges out. I was about mad, and I don’t know what I said. If I’d come across you then—you wouldn’t be standing where you are now. Claude. I suppose you take eights? [Grace and Gann both look at him. Grace gives a start when she realises what he is going to do. Gann. That’s right. [Claude nods and goes to the door. He hesitates, with a look at Grace. Grace. I shall be all right. [He goes out. In a moment he comes back with two cartridges. He puts them in the gun, and hands it back to the gamekeeper. Claude. Here you are. I don’t think I’m afraid. I’ll take my chance of your wanting to shoot me. [Gann takes the gun, and his hands close round it convulsively. He half raises it. Claude goes to the door through which he has just come, and closes it. Then, almost mastered by the temptation, Gann pulls himself together and advances a step towards his master. Grace gives a stifled cry. Claude turns round and faces the man. Claude. That’ll do, Gann. I don’t think I have anything more to say to you. You can go. [Gann struggles to command himself. His fingers itch to shoot, but Claude’s unconcern prevents him. Gann. By God! [He turns round to go, and flings the gun violently from him. Claude. [Peremptorily.] Gann, take your gun. [The man stops, looks at his master, and then, cowed, picks it up. He lurches heavily out of the room. There is a pause. Grace draws a long breath. Grace. I’m glad you did that, Claude. Claude. [Thinking she refers to his attempts at apology.] It was very difficult to know what to say to him. Grace. I didn’t mean that. I meant, I’m glad you made him take the gun. Claude. Oh! Hang it all, you didn’t think I was likely to be frightened of one of my own servants, did you? Grace. [In a low voice.] I was rather afraid he was going to shoot you. Claude. So was I. But I felt pretty sure he saw two of me, and I thought he’d probably shoot at the wrong one. Grace. You’re very plucky. Claude. Rot! [He hesitates for a moment.] Grace, I’m afraid you think I’ve been an awful skunk. Grace. [With a quick look at him.] We none of us knew anything like this was going to happen. Claude. Will you forgive me? Grace. [Startled.] I? Claude. I’ve been feeling such an awful cad. If I’d only done what you wanted me to, this wouldn’t have happened. Grace. That’s not your fault. I didn’t say—what I should have said to make you change your mind. Claude. It rather put my back up that you should be so set on letting Peggy stay. But it struck me afterwards, of course you couldn’t feel the same about it as I did. I think if one’s awfully straight, one’s full of charity, don’t you know. Grace. My dear Claude, you talk as if I were a girl of eighteen. Claude. I don’t suppose you remember, but when Archibald told us, I wanted to say something to you.... Grace. Yes, your first thought was for me, wasn’t it? Claude. [Going on.] And I came near you. And—and you sort of shuddered, and said: “For God’s sake, don’t touch me!” Grace. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be unkind. Claude. No, I know you didn’t. It just came out unawares. And—oh, Grace, I couldn’t bear to think you—you couldn’t stick me, don’t you know.... I suppose I’m a damned fool, but I haven’t made you hate and loathe me, have I? Grace. I’m not worth so much troubling about, Claude. Claude. I can’t help it. You’ve just somehow got in my blood and bones, and if it didn’t sound such drivel, I’d say you meant everything in the world to me. Only you just laugh at me when I say things like that. Grace. [Explaining to herself rather than to him.] It’s very hard for all of us to say what we mean. The words we use are so frayed. One ought to guess at—at the soul within them. Claude. I’ve been trying to think about Gann and his daughter, but I can’t really think of anything but you. Grace. You know, Claude, no one’s so wonderful as you think me. I’m no longer so young as all that, and you’re the only person who ever thought me very pretty. Claude. I don’t mind. Sometimes, so that my love should mean more to you, don’t you know, I’ve wanted you to get older quickly, and I’ve wanted you to be plain. Grace. [With a little hysterical laugh.] Oh, my dear, what a horrible prospect. Claude. Don’t laugh at me now, Grace. Grace. [With tears in her voice.] I’m not laughing at you. God knows I’m not laughing at you. Claude. I’m such an ass at explaining myself. What I want to make you understand is that I don’t love you for anything that other people could love you for. I love you because you’re you, don’t you know. Because you’re so awfully good and straight. And you know I respect you so awfully. Grace. [In a hoarse voice.] I’m not good, Claude. Claude. If I didn’t believe it, I should think the world a pretty rotten place. Grace. I haven’t been the sort of wife you wanted. I felt that always. Claude. You’ve been the only woman in the world for me. Always. Grace. [Deeply moved.] Not many women can say that, can they? One ought to be very grateful. Claude. D’you remember the first time I ever saw you? Grace. [Looking away from him.] I wonder you didn’t marry Helen Vernon years before you came across me. Claude. Hang it all, why on earth should I have done that! Grace. Your mother was very anxious that you should. Claude. I was just as little in love with Helen Vernon as she was in love with me. Grace. I can’t help seeing that she would have made you a much better wife than I have. She would have understood you. I don’t think I ever understood you. I’ve been a wretched failure, Claude. Claude. Darling, how can you talk such rot? Grace. She might have had children. You wanted them so much, Claude, and I haven’t given you any. Claude. That’s been hard luck on both of us, darling. Grace. [With deep feeling.] It might have made all the difference. Claude. If I wanted children it was chiefly because I thought you’d be happier. You wouldn’t have minded the dull life down here then. And you might have cared a bit more for me because I was their father. Grace. It all comes back to me, doesn’t it? I’m in all your thoughts always. Claude. D’you mind? Grace. I’m so ashamed. [Archibald comes in from the hall. Archibald. Oh, Claude, I met the coroner’s officer on my way along here. He wants to see you. Claude. All right. I’ll come. Is he in the hall? Archibald. [With a nod.] I told him you knew nothing more than I’d said. But I’m afraid they’ll call you at the inquest. Claude. The only thing’s to grin and bear it. [They go out. Grace sinks into a chair at the writing-table and buries her face in her hands. In a moment Henry Cobbett enters. She starts up when she hears his footstep on the gravel. He has his hat in his hand and his coat over his arm. Cobbett. I’m just starting. I was looking for you to say good-bye. Grace. Is it time for you to go already? I didn’t know it was late. Cobbett. Thanks awfully for putting me up. It’s been perfectly topping. Grace. It was nice of you to come. I hope you’ll run down again one of these days. Cobbett. [In a lower tone.] I suppose you never want to set eyes on me again. Grace. Never. Cobbett. You’re not awfully unhappy, are you? Grace. [With something between a sob and a chuckle.] Awfully. Cobbett. I’m dreadfully sorry. Grace. That doesn’t do me much good, does it? Cobbett. If there’s anything I can do, I’d like awfully to do it if you’d let me. Grace. No, whatever happens no one can help me but myself. Cobbett. I shouldn’t have played the fool if I’d thought you were going to take things so much to heart. Grace. [Ironically.] That’s the nuisance of women, isn’t it? They will make an affair of what’s really only an episode. Cobbett. You have a way of saying things that makes one feel an awful bounder. After all, one can’t help falling in love, and one’s not a blackguard because one falls out of it. Grace. D’you remember asking me yesterday if I was beginning to care for Claude differently? Cobbett. Yes. Grace. I love him as I never thought it was possible to love. I don’t know why I love him. It’s come to me suddenly. I—oh, I can’t tell you what it is. It’s like hunger in my soul. And I’m frightened. Cobbett. I should have thought that made everything all right. Grace. It’s come too late. I’m—soiled. Afterwards—you know what I mean, when you and I—the first thing I felt was surprise because I found myself no different. I thought when a woman had done that everything would seem altered. But I felt just the same as before. It’s only now. It’s like the stain of blood—don’t you remember—not all the perfumes of Arabia.... Cobbett. [Worried and moved.] You know, it’s absurd to take it like that. Grace. [With increasing agitation.] Oh, what have I done! If I’d only had the strength to resist! It’s now that I see it all, the utter degradation of it, the hateful ugliness. Oh, I loathe myself. How can I take my heart to Claude when there’s you standing between us? Cobbett. I’m awfully sorry, Grace. Grace. I’d give anything in the world if I hadn’t done what I have done. I might be so happy now. I haven’t a chance. The fates are against me. What’s the good of loving Claude now—I’m not fit to be his wife. [She is beside herself. Cobbett, not knowing what to do, stands looking at her. The sound is heard of a motor-horn blowing. Cobbett. [With a slight start.] What’s that? Grace. It’s Rooney. He’s afraid you’ll miss the train. You’d better hurry up. Cobbett. I can’t leave you like this. Grace. [Ironically.] I shouldn’t like you to miss your train. Cobbett. I suppose you hate and loathe me. Grace. I’d wish you were dead, only it wouldn’t do me much good, would it? Cobbett. [Reflectively.] The fact is, only the wicked should sin.... When the virtuous do things they shouldn’t they do make such an awful hash of it. [Moore comes in followed by the Footman. Grace. What is it? Moore. I was going to clear away, madam. Grace. Oh, yes, I forgot. [Holding out her hand to Cobbett.] You’ll have to look sharp. END OF THE THIRD ACT |
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