W. Somerset Maugham

Scene: Dr. O’Farrell’s consulting-room. It is a comfortably furnished room, with engravings on the walls, photographs in silver frames, and flowers on the chimney-piece. There is a large desk on one side, with papers on it, books, and a reading-lamp. There is a revolving-chair for Dickie to sit in, and a chair on the other side of the desk for the patient. On a side table are a microscope, a stand for test tubes, one or two medicine bottles, a row of large bottles containing chemicals, and an electric lamp. There is a sofa without arms for patients to lie upon, and there are two or three chairs besides. On the shelves are medical books. On a little table is a pile of “Lancets.”

Dickie is sitting at his desk, with his stethoscope still in his ears. A patient is standing up, buttoning up his braces. He puts on his waistcoat and coat as the conversation proceeds. He is a very timid little man, with a bald head and gold spectacles. He has an intensely nervous, apologetic manner.

Dickie.

I’ll just write you out a prescription, shall I?

Patient.

Oh, it’s too good of you. I’m afraid I’m giving you so much trouble.

Dickie.

Not at all. Now what would you like me to give you?

Patient.

[Dreadfully embarrassed.] Oh, whatever you like, please. It’s too good of you.

Dickie.

You know, there’s not much the matter with you.

Patient.

Oh, I’m so sorry. I really, really....

Dickie.

I should have thought you’d be rather pleased.

Patient.

[Apologetically.] Yes, of course, I’m very much pleased. I didn’t mean that. I’ve taken up so much of your time.

Dickie.

It’s only out of the people who’ve got nothing the matter with them that I make a living. The people who are ill either get well or die, and that’s the end of them.

Patient.

Yes, I see. I never thought of that. Beautiful day it is, isn’t it?

Dickie.

Won’t you sit down?

Patient.

Oh, it’s too good of you. Thank you, thank you. I’m afraid I’m taking up so much of your time.

Dickie.

I always make my patients sit on the other side of my desk since one of them suddenly saw a snake on me, and flung himself at my throat in order to save me from being bitten. He nearly throttled me in the process, and when I knelt on his chest, he said I was an ungrateful devil, and he wouldn’t interfere with the snakes next time they went for me.

Patient.

[Extremely agitated.] Oh, but you don’t think there’s any danger of my flying at your throat, do you?

Dickie.

[With a laugh.] No, of course not.

Patient.

I drink nothing for my luncheon, and only claret and water for my dinner.

Dickie.

I suppose you wouldn’t think you’d had your money’s worth if I gave you no medicine?

Patient.

Oh, it’s too good of you, but I think, for my wife’s sake, I’d like to take something.

Dickie.

Well, look here, I’ve given you some strychnine to buck you up, and some bismuth to quiet you down. Take it three times a day after meals.

Patient.

Oh, thank you so much. I’m sure it’s just what I want. And now—er. And now—er....

[He gets up, overcome with embarrassment.

Dickie.

I think there’s nothing more I can do for you.

Patient.

No, er—thank you very much. I—er—it’s so good of you to have taken so much trouble. Yes, er....

Dickie.

[Understanding.] Oh.... My fee is two guineas.

Patient.

[Infinitely relieved.] Oh, thank you so much. That’s just what I wanted to ask you. Shall I write you a cheque?

Dickie.

We always prefer to have it in hard cash, you know, in case it’s a bogus cheque.

Patient.

Oh, certainly. It’s too good of you. I thought you mightn’t like it.

Dickie.

It’s extraordinary how nervous people are about giving a doctor money. If you only knew how jolly glad he is to get it.

Patient.

Yes. Thank you very much.

[The patient takes two guineas out of his pocket and puts them nervously on the chimney-piece.

Dickie.

Hang it all, man, not on the mantelpiece. There are limits.

Patient.

Oh, I beg your pardon. I’m so sorry.

Dickie.

We always like it put on the desk.

Patient.

I don’t often come and consult doctors.

Dickie.

I can see that. If you did you’d probably give me two pounds and say you hadn’t got two shillings on you, especially if you were a woman.

Patient.

You don’t say so. Really it never occurred to me.

Dickie.

Thank you. Well, good-bye.

Patient.

Good-bye, and thank you so much. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Good-bye.

[Dickie leads him to the door and shows him out. At the door he sees Golightly.

Dickie.

Hulloa! Come in, won’t you? [Calling upstairs.] Pen, here’s your noble parent.

[Golightly comes in.

Golightly.

I was just going up to see Pen.

Dickie.

Come and sit down here, and we’ll have a smoke.

Golightly.

Aren’t you expecting patients?

Dickie.

Oh, it’s just on five o’clock. I don’t suppose any one else will come. We might have tea down here.

Golightly.

How are things going?

Dickie.

Rotten. Look here, a wretched two guineas. That’s all I’ve made this afternoon.

[Penelope comes in.

Penelope.

Well, father?

Golightly.

Kiss your noble parent, my child. You’ve got a new dress on.

Penelope.

I rather like it, don’t you?

Dickie.

Is that another new frock, Pen?

Penelope.

Yes, darling. Why?

Dickie.

Oh, nothing.

Penelope.

The wife of a fashionable physician has to spend a lot of money on her clothes.

Golightly.

Dickie was lamenting that times were very bad.

Dickie.

What can you expect with this beastly weather! Fine, dry, cold day after day. We haven’t had a fog this autumn. It doesn’t give one a chance. Of course everybody keeps well. Times are getting worse and worse. Everybody has decent drains now. An officious Government gives people pure water. If it weren’t for patent medicines and the malade imaginaire half the doctors in London would starve.

Penelope.

Never mind, Dickie. There may be a motor accident just outside our front door one of these days.

Dickie.

It would be just like my luck if they were all killed outright. No, what I want is a really good epidemic, a very complicated form of influenza that’d keep people on their backs for about a month.

Penelope.

And supposing I got it?

Dickie.

Well, if you got it that bounder on the other side of the street would have to treat you. And he couldn’t charge you as you’re my wife, and he’d simply grind his teeth at having to waste his time.

Penelope.

The bounder on the other side of the street is Dr. Rogers. I like him much better than Dickie.

Dickie.

Pompous ass.

Penelope.

He’s got such a pleasant bedside manner.

Dickie.

You’ve never seen my bedside manner. [Looking at his hands.] I say, I must just go and wash my hands, they’re covered with Picric Acid.

[Exit.

Penelope.

Where’s mother? Converting the heathen?

Golightly.

From the safe distance of the Albert Hall.

Penelope.

[With a change of manner.] I’m glad you came alone.

Golightly.

Is anything the matter?

Penelope.

[Breaking out.] I can’t go on with it any longer. I’ve come to the end of my strength.

Golightly.

Is Dickie still ...?

Penelope.

Yes. I can’t imagine what he sees in her. I sit and watch her sometimes and wonder what she has that I haven’t got. You don’t think I’m plain, do you?

Golightly.

Certainly not. If you had been I should have exposed you at your birth, like the ancient Spartans.

Penelope.

There are lots of men who are willing to tell me that I’m extremely attractive.

Golightly.

Why don’t you let them?

Penelope.

My dear father, you’re the most immoral parent I’ve ever come across.

Golightly.

[With a little deprecatory shrug.] It might be politic.

Penelope.

[Shaking her head.] No, I don’t know whether I shall ever get Dickie back again, but I don’t want to get him back by exciting his jealousy. I don’t want his love if I can only have it by making him think other men are in love with me.

Golightly.

Remember that two and two never make five.

Penelope.

[Impatiently.] It’s easy enough to give advice. You’ve only got to sit still and watch. I’ve got to do things. And the worst of it is that doing things means doing nothing.

Golightly.

My dear.

Penelope.

Now, father, don’t look as if you didn’t understand or I shall throw something at your head. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could be up and doing, but I just have to sit still and keep my temper. You don’t know what I’ve suffered this month with a smiling face. I’ve laughed while my heart ached. I’ve chaffed Dickie when I’ve known he was just going to meet Ada Fergusson. I’ve arranged little parties so that they might be together. I haven’t even dared to cry by myself in case Ada Fergusson should see that my eyes were red and tell Dickie. He’s seen her every day, every single day for the last month, and all the time I’ve been cheerful and pleasant and amusing.

Golightly.

But how does he manage to get the time?

Penelope.

Of course he’s been neglecting his practice. He’s sent his assistant to people he ought to have seen himself. You remember Mrs. Mack, don’t you?

Golightly.

[Smiling.] The imaginary Mrs. Mack? Yes.

Penelope.

If you knew how I hated Mrs. Mack! She’s been having operations. She has an operation about once a week, and Dickie goes off for the whole day in his car.

Golightly.

She must have the constitution of a boa-constrictor.

Penelope.

And the curious thing is that she always has an operation when there’s a race meeting. She had an operation for the Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton; and she had another operation for the Cesarewitch, and a third for Sandown.

Golightly.

How very singular.

Penelope.

It is till you know that Ada Fergusson adores racing. And the thing that makes me so furious is that I’m quite certain Dickie puts on her money for her; and when her horse wins she pockets the profits, and when it loses she doesn’t pay her stake.

Golightly.

That sounds very nasty of her. What makes you think it?

Penelope.

I do it myself.... Poor Dickie, it’s going to cost him a lot of money this month.

Golightly.

Why?

Penelope.

Because whenever he goes out for the day I have to console myself by buying something. I generally choose something rather dear.

Golightly.

I don’t remember that I advised that in the treatment of a volatile husband.

Penelope.

No, I added it of my own accord.

Golightly.

But why did you send for me to-day?

Penelope.

Because the end has come. And I can’t stand it any longer. This morning Dickie said that Mrs. Mack was well enough to be moved, and he was going to take her over to Paris to put her in the Riviera train.

Golightly.

Do you mean to say that....

Penelope.

[With an angry shrug of the shoulders.] Ada Fergusson wants a little jaunt in Paris.

Golightly.

What are you going to do?

Penelope.

I’m going to tell him he must choose between us. I’m going to do everything I can to prevent him from going. And I mean to let him know that if he goes it’s the end.

Golightly.

Oh!

Penelope.

Don’t say oh! Say I’m quite right. Say it’s the only thing to do.

Golightly.

But I think you’re quite wrong.

Penelope.

Wrong!

Golightly.

You don’t suppose he wants to go to Paris. No man in his senses would take the risk.

Penelope.

Then why is he going?

Golightly.

Because she’s making him. And once a woman in these circumstances makes a man do what he doesn’t want to, it’s the beginning of the end.

Penelope.

How d’you know?

Golightly.

I don’t know. I guess it.

Penelope.

It seems to me that a lifetime spent in the study of mathematics has resulted in some very various knowledge.

Golightly.

Be a good girl, Pen, and let them go.

[There is a pause while Penelope, resting her face on her hands, looks straight at her father. She thinks the matter out.

Penelope.

You were right when you said I should want a great deal of tact, and a great deal of patience, and a great deal of self-control. My word!

Golightly.

[Smiling.] Well?

Penelope.

I’ll do nothing. I’ll hold my tongue, I’ll smile, I’ll make jokes, but....

Golightly.

Yes?

Penelope.

I want some hats badly. I’ll just go and ring up FranÇoise and tell her to send me all she’s got in the shop.

[Dickie comes in.

Golightly.

I was just going.

Dickie.

I’m sorry. Why so soon?

Golightly.

I promised to fetch my wife.

Penelope.

You must come back. This is the first time I’ve been separated from Dickie since our marriage, and I shall want to hide my head in the maternal bosom while my noble father pats my hand.

Dickie.

I wish you wouldn’t take it so calmly, Pen. You might be a bit cut up.

Penelope.

But, darling, I’m making every preparation to have fit after fit of violent hysterics. I can’t do more.

Dickie.

Rot me, that’s right.

Penelope.

[With meaning.] After all, Dickie, I know you wouldn’t go if you could help it. It’s only because you feel it’s your duty, isn’t it?

[Dickie is rather uncomfortable, but says nothing. Golightly breaks the momentary silence.

Golightly.

Why are you going by night?

Dickie.

[Relieved.] Oh, you see, there’s so much less of a crowd. It’s more convenient when you’re carting an invalid about.

Penelope.

[Gaily.] It’ll be great fun, because you’ll see all the gay young men who are making a little excursion to Paris with the object of their affections. I’m told they always go by night so that no one should see them on the journey.

Golightly.

Well, I must be getting on or I shall be late. Au revoir.

Penelope.

Don’t be too long, father, in case my emotions get the better of me before you come back.

Golightly.

[Nodding.] I may see you later, Dickie.

[He goes out. Penelope makes as if to follow him.

Penelope.

I’m going upstairs to have tea.

Dickie.

[Rather stiffly.] I’d like to have a little talk with you, Pen.

Penelope.

Then come up into the drawing-room.

Dickie.

I’d rather talk to you down here.

Penelope.

[Sitting down.] Very well. Talk.

Dickie.

You can send for the tea if you like.

Penelope.

No; I’ll let it stand and ruin my digestion.

Dickie.

[Taking papers out of his pocket and giving them to Penelope.] D’you know what these are?

Penelope.

[With a charming smile.] Bills, darling?

Dickie.

I can see they’re bills, thank you!

Penelope.

[Flourishing one of them.] This is for the frock I’ve got on. You wouldn’t think it cost so much, would you? [Looking down at it.] You see, you have to pay for the cut.

Dickie.

[Trying to keep his temper.] And what do you expect me to do with them?

Penelope.

[Indifferently.] You can put them in the waste-paper basket if you like, but it would be shorter to pay them.

Dickie.

[Flying into a passion.] Now, look here, Pen. It’s perfectly preposterous. You know I’m not going to stand this sort of thing.

Penelope.

[Apparently much astonished, quite good-humouredly.] Darling, you’re not going to make a scene for a few little things I’ve bought myself. I was positively in rags, and I thought you liked me to dress neatly.

Dickie.

Hang it all, I’m a poor man, and you’ve spent more than a hundred and fifty pounds in this one month.

Penelope.

[Calmly.] Does it come to as much as that? It’s lucky you’ve got such a good patient in Mrs. Mack, isn’t it?

[He gives her a suspicious look, but to get away from Mrs. Mack breaks out angrily.

Dickie.

Senseless extravagance I call it. Now look here, here’s thirty-five pounds for a dress in blue cloth—absurd price to pay—on 9th of October.

Penelope.

Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton.

Dickie.

How d’you mean, Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton?

Penelope.

I just happen to remember they were on that day because Madame Claude was so surprised to see me. It was only by the merest chance that she hadn’t gone to the races herself.

Dickie.

But what on earth put it into your head to go and buy a blue cloth dress?

Penelope.

[Sweetly.] Well, you see, darling, it was the day of the first operation that was performed on Mrs. Mack. And you were away all day, and I felt awfully depressed and lonely. And I knew how anxious you were, and it made me anxious, so I just went and ordered a blue cloth to cheer myself up a bit.

[Dickie looks at her for a moment, then looks down at the bill, is about to speak, but says nothing. Penelope watches him.

Dickie.

[Suddenly.] And look here, on the 13th of October there’s an ermine stole and a muff.

Penelope.

Yes, that was the second operation on poor Mrs. Mack.

Dickie.

I say, I think it’s a bit thick.

Penelope.

Well, I had to do something while you were away. And it made me feel so miserable to see everybody driving off with race glasses to Liverpool Street.

Dickie.

I beg your pardon.

Penelope.

You see, the 13th of October was the Cesarewitch.

Dickie.

And I suppose all the others are to be explained in the same way. [Looking at a bill.] October 22.

Penelope.

Sandown Races.

[Dickie looks through the bill crossly, but does not speak.

[Innocently.] I wonder why you always had your operations on the same day as an important race meeting.

Dickie.

I suppose you think it odd?

Penelope.

A little.

Dickie.

Well, it isn’t odd at all. It’s one of old Peter Marsden’s cranky ways. I told you it was Peter Marsden who did the operations, didn’t I? [Penelope nods.] The fact is, he’s simply mad on racing. And he’s lost such a pot of money that he always fixes an important operation for the same day as a race meeting so that he absolutely won’t be able to go to it.

Penelope.

Funny old thing.

[Dickie looks up suspiciously.

[With a laugh.] Peter Marsden, not you, darling.

Dickie.

Now look here, Pen, we’ll say no more about these bills. I’ll pay them this time....

Penelope.

I knew you would.

Dickie.

But there must be no more of them.

Penelope.

I really don’t know why you should make such a fuss. After all, you’ve been earning simply heaps and heaps of money with Mrs. Mack.

Dickie.

We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched. I haven’t had a penny out of her yet.

Penelope.

But now that she’s going away you can send in your bill.

Dickie.

Oh, I couldn’t possibly. It would kill her.

Penelope.

Don’t you think you might risk it?

Dickie.

I think you’re awfully heartless, Pen. You forget that I’m very much attached to the old lady. I look upon her as a friend as well as a patient.

Penelope.

Perhaps she’ll leave you something in her will. We want a new electric brougham, don’t we?

Dickie.

Oh, I shouldn’t accept it. I have the strongest feeling against doctors getting legacies from their patients.

Penelope.

Well, you’ll be able to charge at least a hundred and fifty pounds for taking her to Paris.

Dickie.

[With a start.] Pen!

Penelope.

Oh, you made me jump.

Dickie.

You’re not proposing to buy anything more?

Penelope.

Well, darling, I know that when I get up to-morrow morning and you’re not here, I shall feel dreadfully lonely and depressed.

Dickie.

[Interrupting.] Have your sainted mother to stay with you.

Penelope.

And it’s struck me that I simply haven’t got a hat I can wear.

Dickie.

[Sternly.] Penelope.

Penelope.

[Persuasively.] It’ll make my frocks last so much longer if I have some nice hats. You see, you ring the changes, and people think you have a new gown on.

Dickie.

And may I venture to inquire how many hats you’ll want to overcome your depression?

Penelope.

[Decidedly.] Three.

Dickie.

I never heard anything so preposterous.

Penelope.

Now look here, Dickie, I’m willing to meet you half way; I promise you they shan’t cost more than five pounds each. You can afford that out of the hundred and fifty.

Dickie.

The fact is, Pen, that Mrs. Mack is more a friend than a patient, and she’s not so well to do as I thought. I’m proposing to make no charge for accompanying her to Paris.

Penelope.

[Quite firmly.] Oh, no, Dickie, I won’t hear of it. You’ve got a wife to think of—if you died to-morrow I should be totally unprovided for. You have no right to be quixotic. It’s not fair to me.

[Dickie is just going to answer when Peyton comes in.

Peyton.

A lady wishes to see you, sir.

Dickie.

[Irritably.] At this hour?

Peyton.

It’s Mrs. Watson, sir.

Dickie.

Oh, yes, I know. Show her in.

[Exit Peyton.

Dickie.

Thank heaven, there’s somebody. I’ll get a few guineas out of her at all events. [Looking at his case book.] Four visits. That’ll be five guineas. By Jove, I want them.

Penelope.

What’s the matter with her?

Dickie.

I don’t know, but I’m pretending I do. And she probably won’t find out.

Penelope.

I’ll leave you. I must just telephone to some one.

[She goes out. Dickie walks up and down irritably. When Mrs. Watson appears he at once puts on his professional manner, and is very bland and affable. Mrs. Watson is a little, old lady in black.

Dickie.

Well, Mrs. Watson?

Mrs. Watson.

You mustn’t mind my coming so late. I know you don’t see any one after five, but I’m going away.

Dickie.

I’m delighted to see you. I promise you that.

Mrs. Watson.

I’m starting for the Riviera with my daughter to-morrow, and I thought I’d like to see you again before I went.

Dickie.

Of course. And how have you been getting on?

Mrs. Watson.

[With the keenest satisfaction.] Oh! I don’t get on. I never get better.

Dickie.

Have you been taking your medicine regularly?

Mrs. Watson.

[Cheerfully.] Yes; but it doesn’t do me any good.

Dickie.

Let’s try your knee jerks, shall we?

[Mrs. Watson crosses one leg over the other, and Dickie taps below the knee; the leg is slightly jerked up.

Dickie.

That seems right enough.

Mrs. Watson.

Sir Benjamin Broadstairs tried everything, and he couldn’t cure me; and then I went to Sir William Wilson, and he told me not to do any of the things that Sir Benjamin Broadstairs told me to do, and I got worse and worse!

Dickie.

You seem uncommonly cheerful about it.

Mrs. Watson.

I’ve been to every doctor in London, and they all say I’m a wonderful case. I like being examined by doctors, and they take such an interest in me. The hours and hours they’ve spent over me. I can never be grateful enough for all the kindness I’ve had from them.

Dickie.

It’s very nice of you to say so. I think I’ll try you on something else to-day.

Mrs. Watson.

Oh! make it nice and strong; won’t you, doctor?

Dickie.

You seem to like your medicine with some body in it.

Mrs. Watson.

Well, I like taking medicines. It’s something to do; and now my daughter’s married I’m very much alone. I think I’ve taken every medicine in the Pharmacopoeia, and they’ve none of them done me any good.

Dickie.

[Handing her a prescription.] Well, perhaps this will. You must take it three times a day before meals.

Mrs. Watson.

[Looking at it.] Oh! but I’ve had this before, Dr. O’Farrell. Sir Arthur Thomas gave me this only a few months ago.

Dickie.

Well, try it again. Perhaps you didn’t give it a fair chance.

Mrs. Watson.

I was reading in the Lancet the other day that a German doctor had discovered a new medicine which does nerve cases such a lot of good. I’m sure it’s the very thing for me.

Dickie.

What on earth were you reading the Lancet for?

Mrs. Watson.

Oh, I always read the Lancet and the British Medical Journal. You see, my poor husband had to take them in for his practice.

Dickie.

[With a gasp.] You don’t mean to say your husband was a doctor?

Mrs. Watson.

Oh, I thought I told you that I was a doctor’s widow.

[Dickie tries to master his agitation while Mrs. Watson prattles on.

Mrs. Watson.

I can never bear to hear doctors spoken badly of. They never do me any good, but they’ve been kindness itself. I’ve only once been rudely treated, and that—if you’ll believe it—was by a mere nobody. I told him all my symptoms, and he said to me, Madam, can you eat? Yes, I said. I have breakfast in the morning and a little soup at eleven o’clock; and then I have lunch, and I always make a good tea, and I eat a little dinner at half-past seven, and before I go to bed I have some bread and milk. Then he said, Madam, can you sleep? Yes, I said, for an old woman I sleep very well; I sleep eight or nine hours regularly. Then he said, Madam, can you walk? Oh! yes, I said, I always make a point of walking four miles a day. Then he said, My opinion is that you’ve got nothing the matter with you at all. Good afternoon.

Dickie.

Fancy.

Mrs. Watson.

Well, I just looked him up and down, and I said to him, Sir, your opinion is not shared by Sir Benjamin Broadstairs, or Sir William Wilson, or Sir Arthur Thomas. And I didn’t even offer him a fee, but I just swept out of the room. [Archly.] You won’t give me that new medicine?

Dickie.

Honestly, I don’t think it’s quite what you want.

Mrs. Watson.

Very well. I expect you know best. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time.

Dickie.

[Sarcastically.] Oh, it’s of no value, thank you.

Mrs. Watson.

[Persuasively.] Will you tell me what I owe you?

Dickie.

Oh, as a doctor’s widow, of course, I couldn’t dream of accepting a fee.

Mrs. Watson.

That is kind of you. But you must allow me to give you a little present.

Dickie.

[Rather feebly, but brightening up a little.] Oh, really, you know....

Mrs. Watson.

I’ve seen every doctor in London of any importance, and they’ve none of them charged me a penny, but I always make them a little present. I know that you doctors have to go out in all weathers, and you never wrap yourselves up. So I give them a woollen comforter.

[She takes out of her bag a large red woollen comforter.

Dickie.

[Blankly.] Oh, thank you very much.

Mrs. Watson.

I made it myself.

Dickie.

Did you!

Mrs. Watson.

And Sir Benjamin promised to wear his every winter. You’ll find it so warm.

Dickie.

I’m very grateful to you.

Mrs. Watson.

And now, good-bye, and thank you so much.

Dickie.

When you come back from the Riviera, you might do worse than consult Dr. Rogers. He lives just at the other end of the street, you know. He’s very good in cases like yours.

Mrs. Watson.

Thank you so much.

Dickie.

Good-bye.

[She goes out, and he shuts the door. He runs to the other and calls out.

Dickie.

Pen! Pen!

Penelope’s Voice.

Yes.

[There is a knock at the door.

Dickie.

[Irritably.] Come in.

[Mrs. Watson enters.

Mrs. Watson.

I knew there was something I wanted to ask you particularly, and I nearly forgot it. Sir Benjamin Broadstairs said I ought never to eat anything but toast, and Sir William Wilson said he didn’t think toast was at all good for me, and I only ought to eat bread. Now, I wonder what I had better do?

Dickie.

[Seriously, as if he were deliberating.] Well, if I were you, I’d eat bread toasted only on one side.

Mrs. Watson.

Thank you so much. Good-bye. I hope you’ll like the comforter.

Dickie.

I’m sure I shall. Good-bye.

[She goes out again, and Dickie shuts the door.

Dickie.

Pen! Pen!

[Penelope comes in by the other door.

Penelope.

What is the matter?

[Dickie goes up to her furiously with the comforter in his hands.

Dickie.

Look! That’s my fee! That!

Penelope.

It’s a woollen comforter.

Dickie.

Don’t be idiotic, Penelope. I can see it’s a woollen comforter.

Penelope.

But what’s the meaning of it?

Dickie.

She’s a doctor’s widow. Of course I couldn’t charge her anything. She kept it dark till to-day. I’ll tell you what, doctors’ widows oughtn’t to be allowed to survive their husbands.

Penelope.

Oh!

Dickie.

When you’re my widow, Pen, you go right up one side of Harley Street and then right down the other and see them all.

Penelope.

But supposing I’m not ill?

Dickie.

Hang it all, when you’ve lost me the least you can do is to enjoy indifferent health.

[Peyton comes in.

Peyton.

If you please, sir, Mrs. Watson says, may she just see you for one minute.

Dickie.

[Resigned.] Yes.

[Exit Peyton.

Dickie.

What the dickens does she want now?

[Peyton shows Mrs. Watson in.

Mrs. Watson.

You’ll think you’ve never seen the last of me.

Dickie.

[Blandly.] Not at all. Not at all.

Mrs. Watson.

I’ve been thinking about what you said about toasting my bread on one side.... On which side shall I put the butter?

Dickie.

[With his chin in his hand.] H’m. H’m. You must put the butter on the toasted side.

Mrs. Watson.

Oh, thank you. Now just one more question, do you think a little jam would hurt me?

Dickie.

No, I don’t think a little jam would hurt you, but you mustn’t put it on the same side as you put the butter.

Mrs. Watson.

Oh, thank you. Good afternoon. I’m so much obliged.

Dickie.

Not at all. Not at all.

[Mrs. Watson goes out.

Dickie.

[Shaking his fist at the door.] Suttee.... That’s the word. Suttee.

Penelope.

Dickie, what are you talking about?

Dickie.

I’ve been trying to think of it for ten minutes. That’s what doctors’ widows ought to do—Suttee. Like the Hindoos.

Penelope.

Burn themselves alive at their husbands’ death?

Dickie.

You’ve hit it. Suttee. That’s the word.

Penelope.

But, darling, I should hate to grace your funeral by making a bonfire of myself.

Dickie.

Oh, you have no affection for me.

Penelope.

Lots, but that’s asking a great deal, isn’t it?

Dickie.

No, you don’t care for me as much as you used to. You’re quite different. I’ve noticed lots of things.

Penelope.

[With a rapid glance at him, but keeping her chaffing manner.] Oh, nonsense.

Dickie.

You’ve changed lately. You never come down to see me off in the morning, and you don’t ask me at what time I’m coming back. You always used to sit on the arm of my chair after breakfast when I was smoking my pipe and reading the paper.

Penelope.

You must have hated it, didn’t you?

Dickie.

Of course I hated it, but it showed you were fond of me, and now that you don’t do it any more I miss it.

[Peyton comes in, followed by Mrs. Fergusson, and withdraws.

Peyton.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Dickie gives a slight start, and shows faint signs of annoyance. He cannot make out what Mrs. Fergusson has come for.

Mrs. Fergusson.

The maid told me you were here, so I asked her to show me straight in. I hope you don’t mind.

Penelope.

Of course not. We’re delighted to see you anywhere. Won’t you have some tea?

Mrs. Fergusson.

No, thank you. The fact is, I’ve come to see Dr. O’Farrell professionally.

Penelope.

You’re not ill?

Mrs. Fergusson.

I’ve not been very well lately, and I thought I’d like to see a doctor. [To Dickie.] Will you treat me?

Dickie.

I’ll do anything I can for you.

Mrs. Fergusson.

But it must be really a professional visit. You know, I want to pay.

Penelope.

Oh, nonsense, Dickie couldn’t dream of accepting money from one of my friends.

Mrs. Fergusson.

No, I’ve got the strictest principles on that point. I think it’s too bad of people to want a doctor to treat them for nothing. I really insist on paying the usual fee.

Dickie.

Oh, well, we’ll discuss that later.

Penelope.

I’ll leave you alone, shall I?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Do you mind, dear? It makes me a little uncomfortable to discuss my symptoms before a third party.

Penelope.

Of course.

Mrs. Fergusson.

We shall only be five minutes.

Penelope.

I warn you that Dickie’s medicines are perfectly beastly.

[She goes out.

Dickie.

I’m sorry you’re seedy. You were all right yesterday.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Laughing.] I’ve never been better in my life, thank you.

[Dickie is rather taken aback.

Mrs. Fergusson.

That’s the advantage of you being a doctor. When I want to see you alone I can do it under your wife’s very nose. Don’t you think it was rather ingenious?

Dickie.

[Dryly.] Very.

[She gives a little laugh. She gets up and steps cautiously to the door, and suddenly flings it open.

Dickie.

What on earth are you doing?

Mrs. Fergusson.

I wanted to see if Penelope was listening.

Dickie.

[Rather sharply.] Of course she wasn’t listening. That’s about the last thing she’d do.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, my dear, don’t get in a temper about it. Lots of women do listen, you know.

Dickie.

Do they? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Fiddle.

Dickie.

Then will you tell me in what way I can be of use to you?

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Good-humouredly.] Certainly not, if you ask me as crossly as that. You may kiss my hand. [He does so.] That’s right. Still cross?

Dickie.

No.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Do you love me as much as ever?

Dickie.

Yes.

Mrs. Fergusson.

You wouldn’t say no if you didn’t, would you?

Dickie.

No.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Brute!

Dickie.

[Rather impatiently.] I say, what on earth have you come for?

Mrs. Fergusson.

You are nice to me to-day.

Dickie.

Well, when I left you yesterday we fixed up everything. I gave you your ticket, and I wrote down the time the train started.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Well, for one thing I wanted to see Penelope.

Dickie.

Why?

Mrs. Fergusson.

It amuses me to see her simplicity. I get a lot of pleasure in looking at her and thinking how little she suspects what is going on under her very nose. She’s the most trusting person I ever met in my life.

Dickie.

If you want to know anything, it makes me feel devilish uncomfortable.

Mrs. Fergusson.

My poor, dear boy, what are you talking about?

Dickie.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we had to take any precautions. But she trusts us absolutely. Why, she’s always throwing us together. It never enters her head that there can be the least reason for suspicion. It’s like knocking a man down who can’t defend himself.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I suppose that means that you no longer love me?

Dickie.

Of course I love you. Good heavens, I’ve told you so till I’m blue in the face.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, no, you no longer love me. Men only begin to have scruples when they stop caring for you.

[Dickie gives a sigh of resignation. This is not the first scene he has had to put up with.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I’ve sacrificed everything for your sake. And now you insult me. And when I think of my poor husband bravely serving his country in a foreign land! Oh, it’s cruel, cruel!

Dickie.

But I’ve only said it made me feel low down to treat Penelope badly.

Mrs. Fergusson.

You don’t think of my feelings. You don’t think how I feel. What about my husband?

Dickie.

Well, you see I don’t happen to know your husband, and I do know my wife.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Don’t be so stupid. Of course you know your wife.

Dickie.

That’s why I don’t like behaving like an utter cad.

Mrs. Fergusson.

If you really loved me you would think of nothing but me, nothing, nothing, nothing.

[She puts her handkerchief to her eyes.

Dickie.

Oh, I say, don’t cry.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I shall cry. I’ve never been treated like this before. If you don’t love me any more, why don’t you say so?

Dickie.

Yes, I do love you. But....

Mrs. Fergusson.

But what?

Dickie.

[Nervously.] Well—er—I think it would be much better if we—put the trip to Paris off for a bit.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Gasping with anger.] Oh! Oh! Oh!

Dickie.

Penelope’s so blindly confident.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I’ll never speak to you again. I wish I had never met you. Oh, how can you insult me like this!

Dickie.

Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! I say, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be horrid. I’m awfully sorry.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.

Dickie.

I’ll do anything you like if you won’t cry. I say, just think if Penelope came in—I was only thinking of the risk to you. Of course, there’s nothing I’d like so much as a jaunt over the Channel.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Is that true?

Dickie.

Yes.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Do you really want me to come?

Dickie.

Of course I do, if you don’t mind the risk.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[With a smile.] Oh, I’ll make that all right.

Dickie.

Why, what are you going to do?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Wait a minute or two and you’ll see.

Dickie.

We might tell Penelope that we’re ready.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Very well. [As Dickie goes to the door.] Oh, I quite forgot. I’ve simply got a head like a sieve.

Dickie.

What’s the matter?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Well, I almost forgot the very thing I came to see you about. And all through you making a scene.

Dickie.

Did I make a scene? I wasn’t aware of it.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I want to ask you something. You won’t be angry, will you?

Dickie.

I shouldn’t think so.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Of course it’s nothing very important really, but it’s just a little awkward to ask.

Dickie.

Oh, nonsense. Of course I’ll do anything I can.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Well, a friend of mine on the Stock Exchange gave me a splendid tip, and....

Dickie.

It hasn’t come off. I know those splendid tips.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, but it’s bound to be all right, only there are some differences to pay. I don’t quite understand what it all means, but Solly Abrahams....

Dickie.

[Interrupting.] Is that your friend on the Stock Exchange?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Yes, why?

Dickie.

Oh, nothing. Good old Scotch name, that’s all.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Solly says I must send him a cheque for a hundred and eighty pounds.

Mrs. Fergusson.

And it’s just a little awkward for me to pay that just now. You see my income is always paid me half-yearly, and I really haven’t got a hundred and eighty pounds in the bank. I never borrow—it’s a thing I can’t bear—and I felt the only person I could come to now was you.

Dickie.

I’m sure that’s awfully nice of you, not to say flattering.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I knew you’d give it me at once, and, of course, I’ll pay you back out of my profits.

Dickie.

Oh, that’s very good of you. I’ll see what I can do.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Would it be too much trouble if I asked you to write out a cheque now? It’ll be such a weight off my mind.

Dickie.

Of course. I’ll be only too glad. By the way, what are the shares called?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, it’s a gold mine. It’s called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem.

Dickie.

The name inspires confidence.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Thanks, so much. It’s awfully good of you. Now just write out a little prescription so as to have something to show Penelope.

Dickie.

You forget nothing.

Mrs. Fergusson.

And I must give you a fee.

Dickie.

Oh, I wouldn’t bother about that.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh yes, I insist. Besides, it makes it look so much more probable.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, how stupid of me! I’ve only got a two-shilling bit in my purse. You don’t happen to have a couple of sovereigns on you.

Dickie.

Oh, yes, I think I have. The only money I’ve earned to-day.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Thank you.... There. That looks a most imposing fee. You must leave it on there for Penelope to see.

Dickie.

Shall I call her?

Mrs. Fergusson.

I will. [She goes to the door and calls.] Penelope, we’ve quite done.

Dickie.

[Hearing voices upstairs.] Hulloa, there’s our Uncle Davenport.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, I met him in the park the other day. He made himself so pleasant. He asked me if I was a Fergusson of Glengary. I didn’t know what he meant, but I said I was, and he seemed so pleased.

Dickie.

You’d better not let him know you were a Miss Jones or he’ll have a fit.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, I shall tell him I’m a Jones of Llandudno. I think that sounds rather smart.

Dickie.

You have what one might politely describe as a remarkable power of invention.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I don’t know about that, but I am a womanly woman, and that’s why men like me.

Barlow.

Ah, Mrs. Fergusson, this is a delightful surprise.

Mrs. Fergusson.

You wicked, wicked man, I am told you’re such a rake.

Penelope.

Uncle Davenport?

Barlow.

[Delighted.] Ah, ah. Tales out of school, Mrs. Fergusson.

Mrs. Fergusson.

If I’d known what a reputation you had I wouldn’t have let you talk to me for half an hour in the park.

Barlow.

[Bubbling over with delight.] Oh, you mustn’t listen to all you hear. A man who goes out as much as I do is sure to get talked about. Our world is so small and so censorious.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Dr. O’Farrell has been writing a prescription for me. I haven’t been very well lately.

Barlow.

Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. You look the picture of health and extremely handsome.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, you horrid cruel thing! I wanted you to sympathise with me and tell me how ill I looked.

Barlow.

If you will allow me to call on you I can promise to sympathise with you, but I’m afraid I shall never be able to tell you that you look anything but charming.

Mrs. Fergusson.

That’s too nice of you. You must come and see me the moment I get back from Paris.

Penelope.

Are you going to Paris?

Mrs. Fergusson.

I came on purpose to tell you. Really, I’ve got a head like a sieve. Poor Mrs. Mack has asked me if I would go as far as Paris with her. A most unfortunate thing has happened. Her maid’s mother has suddenly died, and the poor thing naturally wants to go to the funeral. And so....

Penelope.

Mrs. Mack has asked you to go in her maid’s place?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Only for two days, of course. Now, I want to know, dear, tell me honestly, do you mind?

Penelope.

I?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Some women are so funny. I thought you mightn’t like the idea of my going with Dr. O’Farrell as far as Paris, and, of course, we shall be travelling back together.

Penelope.

What nonsense! Of course, I’m only too glad. It’ll be so nice for Dickie to have some one to travel with.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Then that settles it. I like to do everything above board, you know.

Barlow.

[Seeing the guineas on the desk.] I see you’ve been raking in the shekels, Dickie.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, that’s my fee. I insisted on paying a fee—I particularly want you to know that, Penelope—I’m so scrupulous about that sort of thing.

Penelope.

Oh, but Dickie can’t accept it. [To Dickie.] You are a grasping old thing!

Dickie.

I’m sure I didn’t want the money.

Penelope.

You really must take it back, Ada.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Putting up a defensive hand.] No, I couldn’t really. It’s one of my principles.

Penelope.

I know your principles are excellent, but I really shouldn’t like Dickie to accept a fee for seeing my greatest friend.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, well, of course, if you take it like that, I don’t know what to do.

Penelope.

Put it in your purse and say no more about it.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, it’s too good of you.

Mrs. Fergusson.

And now I must really fly. [Holding out her hand to Barlow.] Good-bye. Don’t forget to come and see me, but, remember, I shall expect to hear all about that little ballet-girl.

Barlow.

[Delighted to be thought so gay.] You mustn’t ask me to be indiscreet.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[To Penelope.] Good-bye, dear.

Penelope.

I’ll come to the door with you.

Dickie.

[Going to the telephone.] I don’t believe you’ve ever known a ballet-girl in your life.

Barlow.

No, but it pleases women of our class to think one is hand and glove with persons of that profession.

Dickie.

Central 1234. If they only knew that nine ballet-girls out of ten go home every night to their children and a husband in the suburbs! I just want to ring up my broker. Is that you, Robertson? I say, d’you know anything about a mine called the Johannesburg and New Jerusalem? Rotten? I thought as much. That’s all, thank you. [He puts on the receiver—to himself, acidly.] A hundred and eighty pounds gone bang.

Barlow.

Look here, Dickie, now that you have a moment to spare you might give me a little professional advice. Of course, I shan’t pay you.

Dickie.

Good Lord! I might as well be a hospital. I’m not even supported by voluntary contributions.

Barlow.

The fact is, I’ve noticed lately that I’m not so thin as I was.

Dickie.

It can’t have required great perspicacity to notice that.

Barlow.

I’m not asking you for repartee, Dickie, but advice.

Dickie.

You don’t want to bother about a figure at your time of life.

Barlow.

To tell you the truth, I have an inkling that I’ve made something of an impression on a very charming lady....

Dickie.

[Interrupting.] Take my advice and marry her quickly before the impression wears off.

Barlow.

Strange as it may appear to you, she’s a married woman.

Dickie.

Then don’t hesitate—do a bolt.

Barlow.

What do you mean, Dickie?

Dickie.

My dear Uncle Davenport, I’m young enough to be your son; philandering with a married woman is the most exaggerated form of amusement that’s ever been invented. Take care! That’s all I say. Take care!

Barlow.

Why?

Dickie.

She’ll bind you hand and foot, and put a halter round your neck and lead you about by it. She’ll ask you ten times a day if you love her, and each time you get up to go away she’ll make a scene to force you to stay longer. Each time you put on your hat she’ll pin you down to the exact hour of your next visit.

Barlow.

But all women do that. It only shows that they like you.

Dickie.

Yes, I suppose all women do that—except Pen. Pen never bothers. She never asks you if you love her. She never keeps you when you want to get away. She never insists on knowing all your movements. And when you leave her she never asks that fatal, fiendish question, at what time will you be back?

Barlow.

Well, my boy, if my wife were as indifferent to me as that, I should ask myself who the other feller was.

Dickie.

What the dickens do you mean by that?

Barlow.

My dear Dickie, it’s woman’s nature to be exacting. If she’s in love with you she’s always a nuisance, and a very charming nuisance too, to my mind. I like it.

Dickie.

You are not suggesting that Penelope....

Barlow.

Now, my dear boy, I didn’t come to talk to you about Penelope, but about my own health.

Dickie.

[Impatiently.] Oh, you’ve got chronic adiposity. That’s all that’s the matter with you.

Barlow.

Good gracious me, that sounds very alarming. And what shall I do for it?

Dickie.

[Savagely, very quickly.] Give up wines, spirits and liqueurs, bread, butter, milk, cream, sugar, potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, peas, turnips, rice, sago, tapioca, macaroni, jam, honey, and marmalade.

Barlow.

But that’s not treatment, that’s homicide!

Dickie.

[Taking no notice.] Put on a sweater and run round the park every morning before breakfast. Let’s have a look at your liver.

Barlow.

But, my dear Dickie....

Dickie.

Lie down on that sofa. Now don’t make a fuss about it. I’m not going to kill you. [Barlow lies down.] Put your knees up.

Barlow.

[As Dickie feels his liver.] She’s a fine, dashing woman. There’s no doubt about that.

Dickie.

Let yourself go quite loose. Who’s a fine, dashing woman?

Barlow.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Barlow.

Dickie, Dickie.

Barlow.

Is my liver very wrong?

Dickie.

[Completely abstracted.] It’s in a beastly state. I thought it would be.

Barlow.

[In tragic tones.] Richard, tell me the worst at once.

Dickie.

[Impatiently.] Don’t be such an old donkey. Your liver’s as right as mine is. There’s nothing the matter with you except that you do yourself too well, and don’t take enough exercise.

Barlow.

[With unction.] I suppose one has to pay for being the most popular diner-out of one’s time.

Dickie.

[Looking at him sharply.] Is it on Mrs. Fergusson that you’ve made something of an impression?

Barlow.

[With great self-satisfaction.] My dear fellow, I am the last man to give a woman away.

Dickie.

Ah!

Barlow.

Between ourselves, Dickie, do you think Mrs. Fergusson would find it peculiar if I asked her to lunch with me tÊte-À-tÊte at the Carlton?

Dickie.

Peculiar! She’d jump at it.

Barlow.

Do you think her husband would mind?

Dickie.

Oh, her husband’s all right. He keeps on bravely serving his country in a foreign land.

Barlow.

It shows that she has a nice nature, or she wouldn’t have come to ask Penelope if she minded your going to Paris together.

Dickie.

Yes, she has a charming nature.

Barlow.

Lucky dog, I wish I were going to Paris with her.

Dickie.

[Fervently.] I wish you were.

Barlow.

Ha, ha. Well, well, I must be running away. I’m dining out as usual. These good duchesses, they will not leave me alone. Good-bye.

Penelope.

I say, darling, oughtn’t you to be packing?

Dickie.

Come in and let’s smoke a cigarette together.

Penelope.

All right.

Penelope.

I hope you’ll have a splendid time in Paris.

Dickie.

You never sit on the arm of my chair as you used to.

Penelope.

I’m horribly afraid I’m growing middle-aged. I’ve discovered how much more comfortable it is to have a chair of my own.

Dickie.

[Trying to hide a slight embarrassment.] Weren’t you rather surprised when Mrs. Fergusson told you she was going to Paris to-night?

Penelope.

Surprised?

Dickie.

What on earth are you laughing at?

Penelope.

[Bubbling over.] Darling, you must think me an old silly. Of course, I knew you were going together.

Dickie.

[Thoroughly startled.] I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Penelope.

I have tried not to see anything, but you do make it so difficult.

Dickie.

[Making up his mind to be very haughty.] Will you have the goodness to explain yourself?

Penelope.

My dear, of course I know all about it.

Dickie.

I entirely fail to gather your meaning. What do you know all about?

Penelope.

About you and Ada, silly.

Dickie.

[Very haughtily.] Penelope, do you mean to say you suspect me of ...?

Penelope.

[With an affectionate smile.] Darling!

Dickie.

[Suddenly alarmed.] What d’you know?

Penelope.

Everything.

Penelope.

I’ve been so amused to watch you during the last two months.

Dickie.

Amused?

Penelope.

Upon my word, it’s been as good as a play.

Dickie.

[Quite at a loss.] Have you known all along?

Penelope.

My dear, didn’t you see that I did everything in the world to throw you together?

Dickie.

But I assure you there’s not a word of truth in it.

Penelope.

[Good-humouredly.] Come, come, Dickie!

Dickie.

But why haven’t you said anything?

Penelope.

I thought it would only embarrass you. I didn’t mean to say anything to-day, but I couldn’t help laughing when you asked me if I was surprised.

Dickie.

Aren’t you angry?

Penelope.

Angry? What about?

Dickie.

Aren’t you jealous?

Penelope.

Jealous? You must think me a little donkey.

Dickie.

You took it as a matter of course? It amused you? It was as good as a play?

Penelope.

Darling, we’ve been married for five years. It’s absurd to think there could be anything between us after all that time.

Dickie.

Oh, is it? I wasn’t aware of that fact.

Penelope.

The whole thing seemed to me of no importance. I was pleased to think you were happy.

Dickie.

[Flying into a passion.] Well, I think it’s positively disgraceful, Penelope.

Penelope.

Oh, my dear, don’t exaggerate. It was a harmless peccadillo.

Dickie.

I’m not talking of my behaviour, but of yours.

Penelope.

Mine?

Dickie.

Yes, scandalous I call it.

Penelope.

[Quite disappointed.] And I thought it was so tactful.

Dickie.

Tactful be blowed. You must be entirely devoid of any sense of decency.

Penelope.

My dear, I haven’t done anything.

Dickie.

That’s just it. You ought to have done something. You ought to have kicked up a row; you ought to have made scenes; you ought to have divorced me. But just to sit there and let it go on as if it were nothing at all! It’s too monstrous.

Penelope.

I’m awfully sorry. If I’d known you wanted me to make a scene of course I would have, but really it didn’t seem worth making a fuss about.

Dickie.

I’ve never heard anything so callous, anything so cold-blooded, anything so cynical.

Penelope.

You are difficult to please.

Dickie.

But don’t you realise that I’ve treated you abominably.

Penelope.

Oh, no, you’ve always been the best and most discreet of husbands.

Dickie.

No, I’ve been a bad husband. I’m man enough to acknowledge it. And I mean to turn over a new leaf, Penelope; I will give Ada up. I promise you never to see her again.

Penelope.

Darling, why should you cause her needless pain? After all, she’s an old friend of mine. I think the least I can expect is that you should treat her nicely.

Dickie.

D’you mean to say you want it to go on?

Penelope.

It’s an arrangement that suits us all three. It amuses you, Ada has some one to take her about, and I get a lot of new frocks.

Dickie.

Frocks?

Penelope.

Yes, you see, I’ve been consoling my aching heart by replenishing my wardrobe.

Dickie.

So you’re willing to sacrifice our whole happiness to your frocks. Oh, I’ve cherished a viper in my bosom. I may have acted like a perfect beast, but, hang it all, I do know what’s right and wrong. I have a moral sense.

Penelope.

It seems to have displaced your sense of humour.

Dickie.

Do you know that all these weeks I’ve been tortured with remorse? I’ve told myself every day that I was treating you shamefully, I’ve not had a moment’s happiness. I’ve lived on a perfect rack.

Penelope.

It doesn’t seem to have had any serious effect on your health.

Dickie.

And here have you been laughing up your sleeve all the time. It can’t go on.

Penelope.

Upon my word, I don’t see why not?

Dickie.

We’ve been mistaken in one another. I’m not the man to stand such a position with indifference. And I’ve been mistaken in you, Penelope. I thought you cared for me.

Penelope.

I dote upon you.

Dickie.

That’s a jolly nice way of showing it.

Penelope.

That’s just what I thought it was.

Dickie.

You’ve outraged all my better nature.

Penelope.

Then what do you propose to do?

Dickie.

I’m going to do the only possible thing. Separate.

Penelope.

[Hearing voices in the hall.] Here are papa and mamma. They said they were coming back.

Dickie.

I hope they’ll never find out what a wicked, cruel woman you are. It would send down their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.

Penelope.

But, my dear, they know all about it.

Dickie.

What! Is there any one who doesn’t know?

Penelope.

We didn’t tell Uncle Davenport. He’s such a man of the world, he has no sense of humour.

[Peyton comes in to announce the Golightlys, then goes out.