W. Somerset Maugham

Scene: A drawing-room in O’Farrell’s house in John Street. It is very prettily but not extravagantly furnished. The O’Farrells are a young married couple of modest income.

It is between six and seven in the evening.

Peyton, a neat parlour-maid, opens the door and shows in Mr. Davenport Barlow.

Barlow is a short, self-important person of middle age. He is very bald, red in the face, and wears a small, neatly curled moustache; he is dressed in the height of fashion. His manner is fussy and pompous. He comes forward as though he expected to find some one in the room. Seeing that it is empty, he stops and looks at Peyton. He cannot make out why there is no one to receive him.

Barlow.

[In a tone of surprise.] Is Mrs. O’Farrell not here?

Peyton.

No, sir.

Barlow.

H’m.... Will you let her know I’ve come?

Peyton.

Mrs. O’Farrell is not at home, sir.

Barlow.

Not at home?... But....

Peyton.

Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you kindly sit down and make yourself comfortable? And I was to give you the Morning Post.

Barlow.

[Pompously.] I can’t imagine why Mrs. O’Farrell should think I haven’t read the Morning Post at six o’clock in the evening.

Peyton.

[Imperturbably.] And Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a whisky and soda, sir?

Barlow.

But when is Mrs. O’Farrell coming in?

Peyton.

I don’t know at all, sir.

Barlow.

But she telegraphed to me this afternoon, asking me to come and see her at once.

Peyton.

Yes, sir; I took the telegram to the post office myself.

Barlow.

It seems very extraordinary that she should have gone out. The matter was of considerable importance.

Peyton.

[Politely.] Yes, sir.

Barlow.

Very well, I’ll sit down and wait. But I can’t stay long. I’m dining at ... no matter.

Peyton.

Very good, sir.

[Peyton goes out. Barlow goes to a looking-glass, takes a little brush out of his pocket, and brushes his moustache. Peyton comes in again with a small tray on which are a decanter, a syphon, and a glass.

Barlow.

Oh, thank you. Did you say you had the Morning Post?

Peyton.Yes, sir. [She hands it to him.

Barlow.

Ah, thank you.

[Peyton goes out. Barlow helps himself to a whisky and soda, turns to the fashionable intelligence in the paper, and begins to read it with a little smile of self-satisfaction.

Barlow.

[Half to himself.] The Duchess of St. Erth returned to Wales yesterday. The Marchioness of Mereston has arrived at 89 Grosvenor Square. The Marchioness of Serlo and Lady Eleanor King leave for Paris this morning.

[Peyton comes in, followed by Mrs. Golightly. Mrs. Golightly is an extremely stout, good-natured lady of middle age. She is very active, but short of breath. She gives one a continual impression of having just run up a steep hill. She is Davenport Barlow’s sister.

Peyton.

Mrs. Golightly.

Barlow.

Isabel!

Mrs. Golightly.

Are you here, Davenport? Where’s Penelope?

Barlow.

[As if it were the most extraordinary thing in the world.] She’s out!

Mrs. Golightly.

[Astonished.] Out?

[She turns to Peyton with a look of inquiry.

Peyton.

Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you kindly sit down and make yourself comfortable, ma’am? And I was to bring you the Church Times.

Barlow.

But....

Peyton.

[Calmly.] And Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a strong cup of tea, ma’am?

Mrs. Golightly.

I’m surprised that Mrs. O’Farrell should have gone out, because she expected me.

Peyton.

[Handing Mrs. Golightly a paper.] Yes, ma’am.

Mrs. Golightly.

[Taking it.] What is this?

Peyton.

The Church Times, ma’am.

Mrs. Golightly.

[With a look of exasperation at Barlow.] Oh, thank you.... I think I will have a cup of tea, please.

Peyton.

Very good, ma’am.

[Exit.

Mrs. Golightly.

I wonder why on earth Penelope should insist on my reading the Church Times.

Barlow.

I’ve just had a telegram from her.

Mrs. Golightly.

So have I, asking me to come at once. [With a ray of light.] Perhaps we shall find some explanation in the Church Times.

Barlow.

Nonsense. What can the Church Times have to do with the Archduchess Anastasia?

Mrs. Golightly.

My dear Davenport, what are you talking about?

[Peyton enters to announce Professor Golightly and immediately afterwards goes out. Golightly is a tall, spare man with grey hair, well groomed and alert. He is neatly dressed, quite tidy, and might just as well be a lawyer or a doctor as a professor of mathematics. He is clean-shaven.

Peyton.

Professor Golightly.

Golightly.

Hulloa, Davenport! [To his wife.] My dear, you’re the last person I expected to find here. I thought there was a meeting of the Missionary Society at the Albert Hall.

[Peyton comes in with a tray on which are tea-things, a glass of barley-water, and a copy of the “AthenÆum.”

Mrs. Golightly.

Oh, thank you.

Peyton.

[To Golightly.] Mrs. O’Farrell said, will you have a glass of barley-water, sir?

Golightly.

Barley-water!

Peyton.

And I was to bring you the AthenÆum. We couldn’t get this week’s, sir, but this is last week’s, and Mrs. O’Farrell hopes it will do as well.

Golightly.

[With a faint smile.] It’s very kind of you to have taken so much trouble.

Peyton.

Thank you, sir.

[Exit.

Golightly.

What on earth does Penelope want me to do with last week’s AthenÆum and a glass of barley-water?

Barlow.

Well, presumably she wants you to drink the one and to read the other.

Golightly.

[To his wife.] My dear, I think it’s very hard that you should have brought up our only child on the idea that my favourite form of refreshment is barley-water.

Barlow.

It looks as if Penelope expected you, too.

Golightly.

I’ve just had a wire from her.

Barlow.

Have you? I wonder why on earth she wired to you.

Mrs. Golightly.

It’s so extraordinary that she shouldn’t be here. It makes me feel very nervous.

Golightly.

Well, frankly, I couldn’t make head or tail of it, so I jumped into a motor cab and came round from the club at once.

[Peyton comes in, followed by Beadsworth. He is a middle-aged solicitor, with a benign manner.

Peyton.

Mr. Beadsworth.

Golightly.

Well, I’m hanged.

Barlow.

My dear Charles, I wish you wouldn’t be slangy. It’s gone out in our set.

Beadsworth.

[Shaking hands with Mrs. Golightly.] I’ve just had a telegram from Penelope asking me to come at once. [Turning to Peyton.] Will you let Mrs. O’Farrell know I’m here?

Golightly.

She’s out.

Peyton.

Mrs. O’Farrell said, would you make yourself comfortable, sir, and we’ve got the Law Times if you’d like to read it, and will you have a glass of port, sir?

[Beadsworth looks round at the others in bewilderment.

Golightly.

By all means have a glass of port, and I’ll swop it for my barley-water.

Beadsworth.

[To Peyton.] Thank you.

Peyton.

[Handing him the paper.] Very good, sir.

[Exit.

Beadsworth.

What does she want me to do with the Law Times?

Golightly.

I asked the same question when Peyton handed me last week’s AthenÆum, and Davenport, with the perspicacity that distinguishes him, answered: read it.

Beadsworth.

Can you tell me what Penelope wants? Her telegram suggested that she wished to see me not as an old friend, but in my official capacity as the family solicitor.

Golightly.

I haven’t an idea. I thought her telegram most mysterious.

Mrs. Golightly.

I wish she’d come in. I’m beginning to be dreadfully uneasy.

Barlow.

[Rather pompously.] I think I can put your minds at rest. I am in a position to explain the whole matter to you. The telegram she sent me makes it perfectly clear. I daresay you know that the Archduchess Anastasia is a patient of Dickie’s. And a very nice patient for him to have. I’ve never met her, though I happen to know several members of her family, and she’s a very cultivated, pleasant woman. I’ve always said to Dickie that that is the sort of practice he ought to get. The middle classes do a doctor no good.

Golightly.

My dear Davenport, do go on with your story.

Barlow.

Well, it appears that the Archduchess Anastasia has signified her desire to know Penelope. Very charming and graceful action on her part, and just like her. Of course she’s extremely grateful to Dickie for all he’s done. He’s worked a miraculous cure, and I daresay she’s heard that Penelope is my niece. It’s a maxim you can always go on: royalty knows everything. And the long and the short of it is that she’s coming to lunch here. Of course Penelope knows nothing about these matters, and in a state of great excitement she’s sent for me. It’s the best thing she could do. I can tell her everything. I’ve lived in that set all my life. It’s nothing to be particularly proud about—mere accident of birth—I happen to be a gentleman. A certain family. Well, there it is, you see.

Golightly.

But do you mean to say that Penelope wired all that to you? It must have cost her a perfect fortune.

Barlow.

She put it a little more briefly, of course, but that was the gist of it.

Beadsworth.

I can’t imagine why she should send for me because a royalty is coming to luncheon with her. It was very inconvenient to get away. I had a dozen people waiting to see me, and I was obliged to slip out by the back door in order to avoid them.

Golightly.

But what are the exact words of the wire she sent you, Davenport?

Barlow.

You can see it if you like. [Taking it from his pocket and reading.] “Come at once. Archduchess Anastasia. Penelope.”

Golightly.

But d’you mean to say that you made up all that story out of those three words?

Barlow.

Penelope knew I had a certain amount of intelligence. She didn’t want to waste her money, so she just put what was essential, and left me to gather the rest.

Mrs. Golightly.

But my telegram says nothing about the Archduchess Anastasia.

Barlow.

What did Penelope say to you?

Mrs. Golightly.

[Taking out the telegram.] “Come at once! Grave scandal! Central African Mission. Penelope.”

Barlow.

But that’s absurd. You know how stupid the Post Office is. They must have made a mistake. I know that the Pomeranian Royal Family is very odd, but there are limits, and I can’t imagine the Archduchess Anastasia being mixed up in a scandal with a Central African missionary.

Beadsworth.

Well, my wire merely said: “Come at once; six and eightpence. Penelope.”

Barlow.

Six and eightpence! Why six and eightpence?

Beadsworth.

I don’t know. That is why I lost no time in coming.

Golightly.

[With a twinkle.] My impression is that the Archduchess Anastasia, instead of paying Dickie’s bill for miraculously curing her, has eloped with a missionary, and Penelope, by aid of the law [with a gesture towards Beadsworth], wants to recover the money.

Barlow.

It’s nonsense! You’re so unpractical, Charles.

Mrs. Golightly.

[To her husband.] But you had a telegram too, dear.

Golightly.

“Come at once. Decimal 7035. Penelope.”

Barlow.

How very odd.

[The door is softly opened and Penelope slips in; for a moment the others do not see her, and she stands smiling at them. Golightly catches sight of her. All the others turn.]

Golightly.

Penelope.

The Others.

Penelope.

Penelope.

[Coming forward and kissing Mrs. Golightly.] Good evening, mamma!

Barlow.

[Eagerly.] Well?

Penelope.

Well, papa. [She puts her face up for him to kiss.]

Mrs. Golightly.

[Anxiously.] Now, Penelope.

Penelope.

Oh, Mr. Beadsworth, how nice of you to come. [She shakes hands with him.] Kiss me, Uncle Davenport. [She calmly puts up her face. With some irritation he kisses her.]

Penelope.

Thank you.... Was your whisky and soda quite right? [Looking round.] And the port? Father, you haven’t touched the barley-water. You ungrateful old thing!

Mrs. Golightly.

[Exasperated.] My dear, for goodness’ sake explain.

Barlow.

Where have you been all this time?

Penelope.

I—I’ve been sitting in the consulting-room. [With a roguish smile.] I watched you all come in.

Mrs. Golightly.

[Rather injured.] Peyton said you were out.

Barlow.

Really, Penelope, I think your behaviour is outrageous.

Penelope.

You see, I thought if I saw you one after the other as you came in, I should have to make four scenes instead of one. It would have been very exhausting and not nearly so effective.

Golightly.

Are you going to make a scene?

Penelope.

[With the greatest satisfaction.] I’m going to make a dreadful scene in a minute.

Mrs. Golightly.

Now, my dear, before you go any further, for goodness’ sake tell us what you meant by your telegrams.

Penelope.

Well, you see, I wanted you all to come immediately, and I thought the best thing was to trail your ruling passions under your noses.

Mrs. Golightly.

Do you understand what she means, Charles?

Penelope.

My dear mother, it’s the simplest thing in the world. You spend your life in converting the heathen—from a distance—and I knew if I mentioned the Central African Mission you’d fly here on the wings of the wind.

Mrs. Golightly.

In point of fact I came in an omnibus. But do you mean to tell me that there has been no scandal in connection with the Central African Mission?

Penelope.

[Smiling.] I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint you, mother.

Golightly.

And what in heaven’s name made you wire decimal 7035 to me?

Penelope.

Oh, that’s our telephone number, and I just put decimal instead of Gerrard.

Golightly.

I thought the figures were strangely familiar.

Penelope.

And there you are, you see.

Barlow.

[Chuckling.] I think it’s a capital idea. And she just flung the words six and eightpence at you, Beadsworth, and knew she’d fetch the lawyer.

Penelope.

[To Beadsworth.] You’re not cross with me, are you?

[He shakes his head, smiling.

Barlow.

And now, my dear, that you’ve disposed of them, tell me all about the Archduchess Anastasia.

Penelope.

[Looking at him blankly.] The Archduchess Anastasia? But I invented her.

Barlow.

What d’you mean, you invented her? I know her well, I’ve known her for years. I know her whole family.

Penelope.

[Rather embarrassed, but trying not to laugh.] Well, you see—I wanted you to come, too. And....

Barlow.

I don’t understand what you mean at all, Penelope. You mention one of my most intimate friends, and then you tell me you invented her.

Penelope.

I’m awfully sorry. I really didn’t know there was such a person, and I thought I’d made her up out of my own head.... [With a chuckle.] I think it was rather clever of me to hit upon some one you know so well.

Barlow.

I don’t know why you should think the mere mention of the Archduchess’s name would make me come here.

Penelope.

Well, you see, I know that you go out a great deal, and you know such crowds of people. I felt quite sure that if there were an Archduchess Anastasia you’d know her, and [with a wave of the hand] well, there it is you see.

[Barlow fumes silently, but does not answer.

Mrs. Golightly.

Now, Penelope, tell us what you really do want.

Penelope.

[In matter-of-fact tones.] I want to divorce Dickie.

Mrs. Golightly.

What!

Golightly.

My dear child.

Barlow.

Good gracious!

[These three speeches are said simultaneously.

Penelope.

[Ruefully.] I intended to make such a scene, and now you’ve made me blurt it all out in three words.

Mrs. Golightly.

But I don’t understand.

Penelope.

I’ll say it again, shall I? I want to divorce Dickie.

Beadsworth.

You don’t really mean it, do you?

Penelope.

[Indignantly.] Of course I mean it. I’m never going to speak to him again. That’s to say, I shall have a scene with him first. I’m quite determined to have a scene with somebody.

Golightly.

And where is Dickie now?

Penelope.

He’s on his way home with the usual story. [With a sudden break in her voice.] Oh, if you only knew how utterably miserable I am.

Mrs. Golightly.

My darling, is it really serious?

Penelope.

[Desperately.] Oh, what can I do to make you all understand?

Golightly.

The best way would be to begin at the beginning, and tell us all about it coherently.

Barlow.

[Pompously.] My dear Charles, this is not the kind of matter in which you can be of any use. You’re a mathematician, and you’re not expected to know anything about practical affairs.

Golightly.

[Faintly ironic.] I apologise profusely.

Mrs. Golightly.

[To Penelope, to ask her to speak.] Darling?

Penelope.

Well, the first thing is that I simply dote upon Dickie. I’ve never loved any one else, and I never shall.

Beadsworth.

That’s a very satisfactory confession after four years of matrimony.

Penelope.

Five years, three months, and two days. And every day I’ve loved Dickie more.

Beadsworth.

I’ve never seen a more devoted couple.

Penelope.

We’ve never had a quarrel. We’ve never even been cross with one another. It’s been a honeymoon that’s never come to an end.

Mrs. Golightly.

Well?

Penelope.

And now I’ve discovered that he’s been lying to me for the last month. He’s been coming home dreadfully late, and when I’ve asked him where he’s been, he’s said that he had to see a patient who was very ill—such an interesting case—and it worried him so much that he was obliged to go to his club and have a rubber to settle his nerves. And the interesting case and the rubber of bridge are Ada Fergusson.

Barlow.

[Pompously.] But who is Ada Fergusson? I’ve never heard of her.

Penelope.

Ada Fergusson’s a great friend of mine. And I hate her. I always knew she was a cat. For the last four weeks Dickie’s been spending every afternoon with her from four till seven.

Golightly.

[Raising his eyebrows.] But do you always ask your husband where he’s been when he comes in?

Penelope.

[Impatiently.] My dear papa, what has that got to do with it? We all know that you’re an old dear, and the greatest mathematician in the world, but you know nothing about life at all.

Golightly.

I apologise again.

Mrs. Golightly.

Give him a sheet of paper and a pencil, Penelope, and he’ll amuse himself by doing sums while we talk the matter out.

Penelope.

[Pushing writing materials over to him.] There you are, papa.

Beadsworth.

But how did you find out?

Penelope.

[Impatiently.] Oh, what does it matter how I found out! I’ve got all sorts of proofs.

Mrs. Golightly.

You could knock me down with a feather.

Golightly.

[With a smile.] My dear!

Barlow.

I am not in the least surprised.

Penelope.

Uncle Davenport!

Barlow.

I have expected it all along. You will remember, Isabel, that I was against the marriage from the beginning. I said, one doesn’t marry a doctor. One sometimes meets them in society when they’ve had their angles rubbed off a little and perhaps have been knighted, but one never meets their wives. We suppose they do marry, but they don’t marry any one we know. I may be old-fashioned, but I stick to my opinion that there are only three possible professions for a gentleman, the law, the army, and the church.

Penelope.

My dear Uncle Davenport, you’re talking nonsense.

Barlow.

[Huffily.] You ask me for my opinion, and I give it you. I regret that you should think it nonsense.

Beadsworth.

And what are you proposing to do now?

Penelope.

[With great determination.] I’m never going to live with Dickie again. As soon as I’ve seen him I shall leave this house for ever.

Beadsworth.

You’re proposing to have a few words with him?

Penelope.

Several. I’m going to tell him that I despise him, and that I hate him; I’m going to throw my wedding ring in his face, and then I shall sweep out of the room.

Beadsworth.

Have you really made up your mind that you won’t forgive him?

Penelope.

Nothing would induce me ever to speak to him again if it weren’t that I want to tell him exactly what I think of him.

Barlow.

Besides, you’ve got your family to think of. Of course you must leave him. You see, that is what I say, you’re not safe with people of no birth. I look upon all this as a blessing in disguise.

Beadsworth.

Do you wish to bring an action for judicial separation?

Penelope.

My dear Mr. Beadsworth, what are you talking about! I’m going to divorce him. I’m going to make an awful scandal.

Beadsworth.

Well, I suppose we could arrange that at a pinch with the help of the newspapers. Has he ever been cruel to you?

Penelope.

Good heavens, no! That’s what makes me so angry. The last month he’s been more perfectly charming and delightful than ever. Oh, I wish I could do something really unpleasant to Ada Fergusson. Something with boiling oil in it.

Mrs. Golightly.

I am shocked, frankly shocked. I would never have thought that Dickie could be so wicked.

Barlow.

Family life in England is going to the dogs. That is the long and short of it.

[Suddenly Penelope catches sight of what Golightly has been diligently writing. She gives the paper a startled look and then turns round.

Penelope.

Mother, a dreadful thing has happened. Papa has suddenly become a drivelling lunatic.

Mrs. Golightly.

My dear, what are you saying?

Penelope.

He’s been adding two and two together all over that piece of paper, and he makes it five every time.

Mrs. Golightly.

Charles!

Penelope.

Look.

Barlow.

Two and two are five. Two and two are five.

Beadsworth.

Two and two are five. Two and two are five.

Barlow.

I knew this would happen. I’ve been expecting it for years.

Mrs. Golightly.

Charles, pull yourself together.

Penelope.

Papa, you don’t really think that two and two are five?

Golightly.

On the contrary, I’m convinced that two and two are four.

Penelope.

Then why on earth have you made it five?

Golightly.

Do you know why you buy Pears’ soap?

Penelope.

I expect you’ve been working too hard, father dear. Why don’t you go and lie down for half an hour? And when Dickie comes in he’ll give you a tonic.

Golightly.

You buy Pears’ soap because you’re told on fifty thousand hoardings that it’s matchless for the complexion.

Penelope.

That’s not funny, papa, that’s silly.

Golightly.

You’ve only got to say a thing often enough, and all the world will believe it. And when the world believes it, it’s very hard to say if it’s true or not.

Penelope.

What has that got to do with two and two?

Golightly.

I thought if I wrote “two and two are five” often enough I might come to think it true.

Penelope.

But if you wrote it a million times it wouldn’t be any truer.

Golightly.

That is the conclusion I’m regretfully forced to.

Penelope.

Well?

Golightly.

The whole of life is merely a matter of adding two and two together and getting the right answer.

Barlow.

My dear Charles, if you’re going to discuss life I think there’s no need for me to stay. I’ve told you for twenty years that you’re a scholar and a recluse. I have lived in the world, and I’m a practical man. If Penelope wants to consult me, I am at her service; if not....

Penelope.

Hold your tongue, Uncle Davenport.

Barlow.

Really, Penelope.

Golightly.

During the last five years I’ve seen you adding two and two together and making them about seventy-nine.

Mrs. Golightly.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charles. Dickie’s behaviour is abominable, and there are no excuses for him. It’s a mere matter of common morality.

Golightly.

My dear, I have no objection to you talking common morality if you’ll let me talk common sense.

Mrs. Golightly.

My dear Charles, they’re the same thing.

Penelope.

If you think you can make me forgive Dickie by telling me that you were a wicked old thing yourself in your youth, I may as well tell you at once that it won’t wash.

Mrs. Golightly.

[Outraged.] What are you talking about, my dear?

Penelope.

Well, I’ve noticed that when a woman discovers that her husband has been unfaithful, her male relations invariably try to console her by telling her how shockingly they’ve treated their own wives.

Golightly.

My dear, I was going to confess nothing of the sort. I never confess.

Penelope.

Of course, if it were the other way about, and mamma had kicked over the traces a little....

Mrs. Golightly.

Darling, can you see me performing an acrobatic feat of that character?

Penelope.

Go on, papa.

Golightly.

I think you’ve treated Dickie shamefully.

Penelope.

[Astounded.] I?

Golightly.

If your mother had behaved to me as you’ve behaved to Dickie, I should certainly have taken to drink.

Penelope.

But I’ve been a perfect angel. I’ve simply worshipped the ground he walked on. I’ve loved him as no man was ever loved before.

Golightly.

No man could stand it.

Penelope.

Papa, what do you mean?

Golightly.

My dear, you’ve loved him morning, noon, and night. You’ve loved him when he talked, and you’ve loved him when he was silent. You’ve loved him walking, you’ve loved him eating, you’ve loved him sleeping. He’s never been able to escape from your love.

Penelope.

But I couldn’t help it.

Golightly.

You need not have shown it.

Penelope.

And do you mean to say that justifies him in philandering with Ada Fergusson?

Golightly.

It excuses him.

Penelope.

What beasts men must be!

Golightly.

No; but strange as it may seem to you, they’re human beings. When you were a child you doted on strawberry ices.

Penelope.

I dote on them still.

Golightly.

Would you like to eat strawberry ice for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner every day for a month?

Penelope.

Good heavens! the thought fills me with horror.

Golightly.

Poor Dickie has lived on strawberry ice for five years. It’s been his only means of sustenance.

Penelope.

[With consternation.] Oh!

Golightly.

You’ve never let him go out without coming into the hall to put on his hat and kiss him good-bye; he’s never come into the house without you running down to help him off with his coat and kiss him welcome. When he sat down after breakfast in the morning to read his paper and smoke his pipe, I’ve seen you sit down on the arm of his chair and put your arm round his neck.

Barlow.

[Outraged.] Penelope!

Penelope.

Do you think it was very awful?

Barlow.

My dear child!

Penelope.

[To Beadsworth.] Did Mrs. Beadsworth never sit on the arm of your chair when you were smoking your pipe?

Beadsworth.

I must confess I’m thankful my wife occupied those moments in attending to her household duties.

Penelope.

You are a lot of horrid old things. I ask you to come here to sympathise with me, and you’re perfectly brutal to me.

Barlow.

My dear Penelope, there are limits.

Penelope.

Well, I don’t care; I’m going to divorce him.

Golightly.

Let’s do another little simple addition, shall we? Perhaps two and two will make four a second time.

Penelope.

I don’t know that I much like being a mathematician’s daughter.

Golightly.

Don’t you think, instead of divorcing your husband, it would be better to win back his affection?

Penelope.

I don’t want his affection.

Golightly.

[Smiling.] Are you sure you wouldn’t if you could get it?

Penelope.

[With tears in her voice.] Papa, d’you think I ever could win back his love? You say I’ve lost it through my own fault. Oh, I don’t know what to do without him. I’ve been so wretched since I knew. I’ve tried to put a cheerful face on it, but if you knew what I feel in my heart.... Oh, the brutes, why didn’t they hide it from me?

Barlow.

My dear Penelope, I expected you to have more spirit. He’s a person of no family. I should have thought you were well rid of him.

Penelope.

Uncle Davenport, if you say a word against him, I will immediately have an attack of hysterics.

Barlow.

What you expect your father to be able to tell you I can’t imagine.

Golightly.

[Smiling.] Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings, Davenport....

Barlow.

I shouldn’t have thought one could describe you as either. But, in any case, I can stay no longer.

Penelope.

Oh, no, don’t go yet, Uncle Davenport.

Barlow.

It appears that my advice is not wanted, and I promised to look in on dear Lady Hollington before dinner.

Penelope.

Do telephone to her that you can’t come. You’ll find a telephone in my sitting-room.

Barlow.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] I’m too indulgent. People don’t rate me at my proper value.

Penelope.

Papa, say you’ll get Dickie back for me. I want him. I want him.

Golightly.

My dear, it’s very simple. It merely requires a great deal of tact, a great deal of courage, and a great deal of self-control.

Penelope.

[Ironically.] Nothing else?

Golightly.

A good deal. You must never let yourself out of hand; you must keep guard on your tongue and your eyes and your smiles—and your temper.

Penelope.

I think you said it was very simple.

Golightly.

Is Ada Fergusson pretty?

Penelope.

No, she’s perfectly hideous.

Golightly.

Is she? That makes it more serious.

Penelope.

Why?

Golightly.

If a man falls in love with a pretty woman, he falls out of it. But if he falls in love with a plain one, he’ll be in love with her all his life.

Penelope.

You take a load off my mind. Ada Fergusson’s extremely attractive.

Golightly.

Then you’ll get him back.

Penelope.

Tell me exactly what to do, and I’ll do it.

Golightly.

Give him his head.

Penelope.

Is that all?

Golightly.

It means a good deal. When he comes in, don’t make a scene, but be charming to him. For once, don’t ask him where he’s been. When he leaves you, don’t ask him where he’s going, nor at what time he’ll be back. Don’t let him know that you have the least suspicion that anything has happened. On the contrary, take every opportunity of throwing him into Ada Fergusson’s society.

Mrs. Golightly.

Charles, you’re asking Penelope to connive at immorality.

Golightly.

When every difficulty disappears, Dickie will find half the savour of the intrigue gone. Half your battle is won. Leave the rest to time and Ada Fergusson. Let Ada Fergusson sit on the arm of his chair when he wants to read his paper. Let him account to Ada Fergusson for all his movements. Under such circumstances a woman is always on tenterhooks, and consequently she’s always exacting. Whenever there’s a pause in the conversation, Ada Fergusson will say, Do you care for me as much as ever you did? That speech is the rope around love’s throat. Whenever he wants to go away, Ada Fergusson will implore him to stay five minutes longer. Those five minutes that a man stays against his will are the nails in love’s coffin. Each time he leaves her Ada Fergusson will say, At what time will you be back? That question is the earth shovelled into love’s grave.

Penelope.

Where did you learn all this, father?

Golightly.

[With a deprecating shrug.] It’s a mere matter of adding two and two together, my darling.

Penelope.

I had no idea that mathematics were so interesting—nor so immoral.

Golightly.

What do you think of it?

Penelope.

But if Dickie falls out of love with Ada Fergusson there’s no reason why he should fall in love again with me.

Golightly.

You must make him.

Penelope.

I wish I knew how.

Golightly.

It only requires a little more tact, a little more courage, and a little more self-control.

Penelope.

But if I acquire so many virtues I shan’t be a woman, but a monster, and how can he love me then?

Beadsworth.

[From the window.] There’s a car stopping at the door.

Penelope.

Listen.... I can hear a key being turned. It must be Dickie.

Beadsworth.

What are you going to do?

Penelope.

[Hesitating.] What do you think, mamma?

Mrs. Golightly.

My dear, I highly disapprove of your father’s idea, and I can’t imagine how it ever came into his head, but I’m bound to say I think there’s some sense in it.

Penelope.

[Making up her mind.] I’ll try. Remember, no one knows anything that has happened. You’ll back me up, mamma, won’t you?

Mrs. Golightly.

You’re not going to ask me to tell a pack of lies, darling?

Penelope.

Only white ones, mother. If there’s a whopper to tell, I’ll tell it myself.

Beadsworth.

But what about Barlow?

Golightly.

He’s a man of the world. He’s sure to put his foot in it.

Penelope.

I’ll settle him.

Penelope.

Ah!

Barlow.

I could not get on to her. I don’t know what’s the matter with those telephone girls. Hussies!

Penelope.

Uncle Davenport, I find I’ve been entirely mistaken about Dickie. He’s not to blame in any way.

Barlow.

Good gracious me! And Ada Fergusson?

Penelope.

Is, I have no doubt, no worse than anybody else.

Barlow.

This is a surprise. How on earth have you come to this conclusion?

Penelope.

By adding two and two together.

Barlow.

Upon my word! I must say, it annoys me that I should have been forced to break an important engagement for no reason. I should have thought....

Penelope.

[Interrupting.] Uncle Davenport, it’s quite bad enough that I should be done out of a scene, but if you’re going to make one it’s more than I can stand.

Beadsworth.

Well, as I can’t be of any more use to you, I think I’ll get back to the bosom of my family.

Penelope.

Of course, I look upon this as a professional visit.

Beadsworth.

Oh, nonsense!

Penelope.

I couldn’t dream of accepting your services for nothing. You must really let me know what I owe you.

Beadsworth.

I really don’t know what to say.

Penelope.

Dickie charges a guinea when he goes to see anybody.

Beadsworth.

You only mentioned six and eightpence in your telegram.

Penelope.

Very well, I’ll owe you that. It would really make me feel more comfortable.

Beadsworth.

You’re not going to hand it over in hard cash?

Penelope.

I wasn’t thinking of paying you. But I’d like to think I owed it you. You see, then, I shan’t feel under any obligation.

Beadsworth.

In that case I surrender. Good-bye.

Penelope.

Good-bye.

Barlow.

Good-bye, Beadsworth. You must come and dine with me at the club one of these days.

Beadsworth.

I should like to. Good-bye.

Barlow.

Very nice fellow. Quite a gentleman. No one would think he was a solicitor. I shall ask him to dinner with one or two people who don’t matter.

Penelope.

There’s Dickie. D’you hear him whistling? He’s evidently in the best of spirits.

Dickie.

Hulloa! I couldn’t make out what had become of you, Pen.

Penelope.

Why?

Dickie.

You generally come down to meet me when I get in.

Penelope.

My sainted mother is here.

Dickie.

[Gaily.] That’s no reason why you should neglect a devoted husband. [Shaking hands with Mrs. Golightly.] How is your sainted mother? Hulloa, Uncle Davenport, what price duchesses to-day?

Barlow.

I beg your pardon. I don’t know what you mean.

Dickie.

[Looking round at the decanters and glasses with which the room is scattered.] I say, you’ve been doing yourselves rather proud, haven’t you? Who’s been drinking port?

Penelope.

Nobody. It’s an empty glass.

Dickie.

That’s how providence behaves to me. Deliberately puts temptation in my way. It’s simply poison. Gout in my family, you know. My ancestors have lived on colchicum for a hundred years. I feel a tingling in my toes at the mere sight of a bottle of port. And yet I drink it.

Barlow.

It’s a great mistake, of course, to think that gout is a mark of good family. The porter of my club is a martyr to it.

Dickie.

Perhaps he’s the illegitimate son of an earl. You should ask him if he has a strawberry mark on his left shoulder. What’s the matter, Pen?

Penelope.

[Astonished.] With me?

Dickie.

I thought you seemed a bit under the weather.

Penelope.

Why?

Dickie.

I don’t know. You’re not quite up to your usual form, are you? You’ve not asked me what I’ve been doing to-day. As a rule you’re so interested in my movements.

Penelope.

[With a glance at her father.] I thought you’d tell me if you wanted to.

Dickie.

I say, I do think that’s a bit thick. I go slaving my very soul out to provide you with a motor and nice frocks and things, and you don’t take the smallest interest in what I do.

Penelope.

[Smiling.] Well, what have you been doing this afternoon?

Dickie.

[With a sigh of relief.] Oh, I’ve had the very deuce of a day. I’ve got a very interesting case on just now. Taking up a lot of my time. Of course, it worries me rather, but I suppose all these things come in the day’s march. Well, I spent the best part of an hour there.

Penelope.

An hour?

Dickie.

Yes, we had a consultation, you know.

Penelope.

But you had a consultation yesterday.

Dickie.

Yesterday? Yes, she’s a fussy old thing. She’s always wanting consultations.

Penelope.

That’s jolly, isn’t it?

Dickie.

I don’t think it is. It looks as if she hadn’t really confidence in me.

Penelope.

On the other hand, you can charge double, can’t you?

Dickie.

Yes, of course, it has that advantage.

Penelope.

I’ve been hankering after an ermine stole for a long time. I shall buy it now.

Dickie.

[His face falling.] Oh, but I haven’t been paid yet.

Penelope.

They’ll be only too glad to wait. And it’s such a bargain.

Dickie.

[To change the conversation.] Well, after my consultation I was so fagged that I had to go into the club to have a rubber of Bridge.

Golightly.

By the way, what is the name of your patient?

Dickie.

The name of my patient?

Penelope.

Oh, yes, I was telling papa that you’d got a new patient who was bringing in pots of money. I couldn’t remember her name.

Dickie.

[Embarrassed.] Oh—er, Mrs. Mac....

Penelope.

Mrs. Mac what?

Dickie.

Mrs. Macnothing.

Barlow.

How d’you mean, Mrs. Macnothing? I’ve never heard of a family called Macnothing.

Dickie.

No, of course, her name isn’t Macnothing.

Barlow.

But you distinctly said it was Mrs. Macnothing.

Dickie.

Now, my dear Pen, did I say anything about Macnothing?

Penelope.

Well, what is her name then?

Dickie.

I’ve been telling you for the last ten minutes. Her name’s Mrs. Mack.

Barlow.

Why on earth didn’t you say so at once?

Golightly.

How did you find such a profitable patient?

Dickie.

Oh, it was a great piece of luck. She heard about me from that little friend of yours, Pen. What is her name?

Golightly.

You seem to have a very bad memory for names, Dickie. You should make a knot in your handkerchief.

Dickie.

It’s a friend of Pen’s. [Pretending to try and remember.] Her husband’s in the navy, stationed at Malta, isn’t he?

Penelope.

Ada Fergusson.

Dickie.

That’s it, of course. Mrs. Fergusson.

Barlow.

One of the Fergussons of Kingarth, I suppose?

Dickie.

I don’t know at all. Quite a nice little thing, I thought. I must confess that she didn’t interest me very much.

Peyton.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Penelope.

How d’you do?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Is it a preposterous hour to pay a call?

Penelope.

Of course not. I’m always delighted to see you.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I’ve been shopping the whole afternoon, and it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t seen you for ages.

Penelope.

Do you know my sainted mother?

Mrs. Fergusson.

How d’you do?

Penelope.

This is my noble father, and this is my uncle.

Barlow.

How d’you do?

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Turning blandly to Dickie.] You haven’t forgotten me?

Dickie.

Of course not.

Mrs. Fergusson.

We haven’t met for ages, have we?

Dickie.

Simply ages.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I passed you in Piccadilly the other day, and you cut me dead.

Dickie.

I’m so sorry, I’m so short-sighted.

Penelope.

Dickie, you’re not at all short-sighted. How can you tell such fibs?

Barlow.

[With pompous gallantry.] Dickie feels that only a physical impediment can excuse a man for not seeing a pretty woman.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, how very nice of you to say that.

Barlow.

Not at all, not at all.

Penelope.

I wanted to thank you for getting Dickie such a splendid patient.

Dickie.

[Hastily, seeing her look of astonishment.] I’ve just been telling my wife about Mrs. Mack.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Not in the least understanding.] Oh, yes.

Dickie.

It was really awfully good of you to tell her to send for me. I’ve been to see her this afternoon.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Understanding.] Oh, yes. I like to do all I can for people. I hope you’ll find her a nice patient.

Penelope.

She seems to require a lot of visits.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Yes, she was only telling me the other day how much she liked Dr. O’Farrell. I’m afraid she’s very ill, poor dear.

Dickie.

To tell you the truth, I’m extremely worried about her.

Mrs. Fergusson.

It’s a great comfort to all her friends to know that Dr. O’Farrell is looking after her.

Barlow.

I’ve been wondering if she’s one of the Staffordshire Macks or one of the Somersetshire Macks.

Dickie.

I don’t know at all.

Barlow.

How d’you mean you don’t know at all? She must be one or the other.

Dickie.

I don’t see that it matters either way.

Penelope.

What is she like?

Dickie.

Oh, I don’t know. Like everybody else, I suppose.

Penelope.

Don’t be silly, Dickie. You must know if she’s fat or thin.

Dickie.

[Looking at Mrs. Fergusson.] I should say fat, wouldn’t you?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Obese.

Penelope.

Yes?

Dickie.

She has grey hair.

Mrs. Fergusson.

All in little corkscrew curls.

Dickie.

[Laughing.] Yes. I wonder how she does them.

Mrs. Fergusson.

She has very pretty blue eyes, hasn’t she?

Dickie.

Yes, very pretty blue eyes.

Penelope.

What is her Christian name?

Dickie.

Er—I don’t know at all.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Promptly.] Catherine.

Penelope.

Catherine Mack? Mother, it’s your old friend Catherine Mack. What an extraordinary coincidence!

Golightly.

Catherine Mack. Why, of course, I remember her perfectly. Little grey corkscrew curls and very pretty blue eyes.

Penelope.

Wouldn’t she like mamma to go and see her?

Dickie.

I’m afraid she can’t see any one just yet.

Golightly.

You must tell her how sorry we are to hear she’s so ill.

Dickie.

Oh, yes, I’ll give her any message you like.

Mrs. Golightly.

[Rather stiffly, getting up.] I think I ought to be going. Will you come, Charles?

Golightly.

Yes, my dear.

Penelope.

Good-bye, mother, darling.

[They talk aside as Mrs. Golightly is helped on with her cloak. Dickie is left practically alone with Mrs. Fergusson.