  Scene: Penelope’s boudoir. It is an attractive room, furnished with bright-coloured chintzes, and gay with autumn flowers and great bunches of leaves. There is a large looking-glass. It is a room to live in, and there are books and magazines scattered about. Photographs of Dickie in every imaginable attitude. Pen, in a ravishing costume, is alone, standing in the middle of the room. She looks at herself in the glass and turns right round, smiling with satisfaction. She preens herself. Suddenly she sees something she does not quite like; she frowns a little, then she makes a face at herself, solemnly and elaborately curtsies, and gaily throws herself a kiss. Peyton comes in, followed by the Golightlys. Peyton. Professor and Mrs. Golightly. Penelope. [Stretching out her arms.] Oh, my sainted mother! Mrs. Golightly. [Out of breath.] I’ve never climbed up so many stairs in my life. Penelope. I told Peyton to bring you up here so that no one should come and bother us. [With a dramatic gesture.] My noble father! Golightly. My chiyld! Mrs. Golightly. Don’t be ridiculous, Pen. Penelope. Sit down, mamma, and get your breath back, because I’m just going to take it away again. Mrs. Golightly. It sounds hardly worth while. Penelope. Dickie adores me. Mrs. Golightly. Is that all? Penelope. But it’s the most surprising, exquisite, wonderful thing in the world, and I’m in the seventh heaven of delight. Golightly. But has he told you so? Penelope. Oh, no, we’re not on speaking terms at present. Golightly. Ah, I suppose you express your mutual affection in dumb show. Penelope. He went out immediately after you left last night, and didn’t come home till past twelve. I heard him stop at my door, so I huddled myself under the bed-clothes and pretended to be fast asleep, but I just let my hand drop carelessly over one side of the bed. Then he gave a tiny little knock, and as I didn’t answer he came in, and he crept up on tip-toe, and he looked at me as if—as if he’d like to eat me up. Golightly. Penelope, you’re romancing. How on earth could you know that? Penelope. [Putting her finger at the back of her head.] I saw him through the back of my head—there. And then he bent down and just touched my hand with his lips. [Showing her hand to Golightly.] Look, that’s where he kissed it—just on the knuckle. Golightly. [Gravely looking at her hand.] It seems to have left no mark. Penelope. Don’t be silly. And then he crept softly out again, and I had the first really good sleep I’ve had for a month. And this morning I had my breakfast in bed, and when I got up he’d gone out. Mrs. Golightly. You haven’t seen him to-day at all? Penelope. No, he didn’t come in to luncheon. Mrs. Golightly. Well, Charles, I’m grateful that you never showed your passion for me by keeping systematically out of my way. Penelope. But, my dear, it’s so simple. Of course, he’s in a dreadful temper. I’ve made him feel a perfect fool, [Golightly, who has been sitting near a table, draws a sheet of paper towards him and begins, meditatively, to write. Mrs. Golightly. But, darling, don’t waste the precious hours, do it at once. Penelope. No, I’m wiser than that. I’m not going to do anything till Ada Fergusson is quite disposed of. Mrs. Golightly. Has anything been seen of her? Penelope. No, but I expect her here every minute. Mrs. Golightly. [With a gasp.] Here? Penelope. She rang up last night and spoke [imitating a man’s tones] in a deep voice, like this, so that I shouldn’t recognise her. She asked if Dickie was at home, and I said he wasn’t. [Imitating the man’s voice again.] Will you ask him to ring up Mrs. [She catches sight of Golightly and goes up to look at what he is writing. Penelope. [Tapping the table sharply with her open hand.] Two and two don’t make five, father. Golightly. I never said they did, darling. Penelope. Then why are you writing it down? Golightly. You seem to think they do, my dear; and I have the highest respect for your intelligence. Penelope. Mamma, if you thought it absolutely necessary to provide a father for your offspring, I wish you had chosen one who wasn’t quite so irritating. [Golightly does not answer, but quietly adds two and two together. Penelope watches him for a moment. Penelope. D’you think I’m a perfect fool, father? Golightly. Yes, my dear. Penelope. Why? Golightly. You’re preparing for Dickie once more an uninterrupted diet of strawberry ices. [Penelope goes up to her father and sits down opposite to him. She takes the pencil out of his hand. Penelope. Put that down, father, and tell me what you’re talking about. Golightly. [Joining his hands and leaning back in his chair.] How are you going to keep your husband’s love now you have got it back? Penelope. [With a nod and a smile.] I’m never going to bore him with demonstrations of affection. I’m never going to ask him if he loves me. And when he goes out I’m never going to inquire at what time he’ll be back. Golightly. [Calmly.] And what will you do when the next pretty little grass-widow throws herself at his head? Penelope. [Rather outraged at the mere thought.] I hope he’ll duck and dodge her. Golightly. [With a deprecating shrug of the shoulders.] Your mother, from her unrivalled knowledge of heathen races, has told you that man is naturally a polygamous animal. Mrs. Golightly. I shall never forgive myself. Penelope. Do you mean to say I’m to expect Dickie to have flirtations with half a dozen different women? Golightly. I only see one way to avoid it. Penelope. And what is that? Golightly. Be half a dozen different women yourself. Penelope. It sounds dreadfully exhausting. Golightly. Remember that man is by nature a hunter. But how the dickens can he pursue if you’re always flinging yourself in his arms? Even the barndoor hen gives her lawful mate a run for his money. [Penelope looks from her father to her mother. She gives a little sigh. Penelope. It was so easy for me to love, honour, and obey him, and so delightful. It never struck me that I ought to keep watch over my feelings. Golightly. We all strive for happiness, but what would happiness be if it clung to us like a poor relation? Penelope. [Nodding her head.] Strawberry ice for breakfast, strawberry ice for luncheon, and strawberry ice for tea. Golightly. Put a Rembrandt on your walls, and in a week you’ll pass it without a glance. Penelope. [Pulling out deprecating hands.] Papa, don’t batter me with metaphors. Golightly. [With a smile.] Well, you made your love too cheap, my dear. You should have let your husband beg for it, and you made it a drug in the market. Dole out your riches. Make yourself a fortress that must be freshly stormed each day. Let him never know that he has all your heart. He must think always that at the bottom of your soul there is a jewel of great price that is beyond his reach. Penelope. Do you mean to say that I must be always on my guard? Golightly. A wise woman never lets her husband be quite, quite sure of her. The moment he is—[with a shrug of the shoulders]—Cupid puts on a top-hat and becomes a churchwarden. Penelope. [Huskily.] D’you think it’s worth all that? Golightly. That is a question only you can answer. Penelope. I suppose you mean it depends on how much I love Dickie. [A pause. Tremulously.] I love him with all my heart, and if I can keep his love everything is worth while. [She rests her face on her hands, and looks straight in front of her. Her voice is filled with tears.] But, oh, father, why can’t we go back to the beginning when we loved one another without a thought of wisdom or prudence? That was the real love. Why couldn’t it last? Golightly. [Tenderly.] Because you and Dickie are man and woman, my dear. Penelope. [With a flash of her old spirit.] But my friends have husbands, and they don’t philander with every pretty woman they meet. Golightly. Scylla and Charybdis. The price they pay is satiety. Would you rather have the placid indifference of nine couples out of ten, or at the cost of a little trouble and a little common sense keep Dickie loving you passionately to the end of his days? Penelope. [With a roguish twinkle.] You and mamma show no signs of being bored to death with one another. Golightly. Your sainted mother has been systematically unfaithful to me for twenty years. Mrs. Golightly. Charles! Golightly. She has had an affair with the Additional Curates’ Society, and an intrigue with the English Church Mission. She has flirted with Christian Science, made eyes at Homoeopathy, and her relations with vegetarianism have left a distinct mark on her figure. How could I help adoring a woman so depraved? Mrs. Golightly. [Good-humouredly.] It’s monstrous of you to reproach me, Charles, when you have conducted for years a harem of algebraical symbols. Penelope. [Lifting up her hands in mock horror.] And to think that I never knew how immoral my parents were! Golightly. [Patting his wife’s hand.] I think we must be the lucky ones, dear. We’ve been married for twenty years.... Penelope. [Interrupting.] Make it a quarter of a century, father. I really can’t pass for less than twenty-four. Golightly. [To his wife.] And we seem to have got on pretty well, don’t we? Mrs. Golightly. [Affectionately.] You’ve been very good to me, Charles, dear. Golightly. We’ve clomb the hill together.... Penelope. Sh! sh! sh! I cannot allow my parents to flirt in my presence. I never heard of such a thing. Golightly. We tender our apologies. Penelope. [Hearing a sound.] Listen. There’s Dickie. Father, quickly—what must I do to make him love me always? Golightly. In two words, lead him a devil of a life. Penelope. [Ruefully.] If you only knew how I want to fly into his arms and forget the wretched past! Golightly. Don’t, but tell him you’re going for a motor trip. Penelope. [Her face falling.] Supposing he lets me go? Golightly. My dear, a merciful providence has given you roguish eyes and a sharp tongue. Make use of them. Mrs. Golightly. Charles, I shall be thankful when you return to your mathematics. The morals of that hussy X are already so bad that you can’t make them much worse. Penelope. The fact is, papa, that as a guide for the young you have rather advanced views. Golightly. [With a grotesque, dramatic flourish.] Ungrateful child! And I, like the pelican, have offered you my very heart to dine on. [Dickie comes in. He is a little embarrassed and uncomfortable. Dickie. May I come in? Penelope. Yes, do! Dickie. [Nodding to the Golightlys.] How d’you do? Golightly. [To his wife.] Are you ready? Mrs. Golightly. [Getting up.] Yes. Dickie. I hope I’m not driving you away. Golightly. Oh no, we only came in for ten minutes to say good-bye to Penelope. [Dickie, rather puzzled at this, gives Penelope a quick look. Dickie. Are you ...? [He stops.] Golightly. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, dear. Penelope. Oh, I’m sure I shall. Mrs. Golightly. Good-bye, darling. Penelope. [Kissing her mother.] Good-bye. [She goes to the bell and rings it. Golightly. We can find our way out. Don’t bother about Peyton. Penelope. I want to speak to her. Golightly. Oh, I see. [Nodding to Dickie.] Good-bye. [The Golightlys go out. Penelope, with a slight smile, lies down on the sofa and takes up a magazine. She pays no attention to Dickie. He gives her a sidelong glance and arranges his tie in the glass. Peyton comes in. Penelope. [Looking up from her magazine.] Oh, Peyton, you might pack up some things for me in that little flat portmanteau of the doctor’s. Put my green charmeuse in. Peyton. Very well, ma’am. Penelope. You can call a cab in half an hour. Peyton. Very well, ma’am. [Exit. Dickie. Are you going away? Penelope. Oh, yes, didn’t I tell you? Dickie. [Stiffly.] No. Penelope. How stupid of me! You see, I was expecting you to spend two or three days in Paris with Ada, and I arranged to motor down to Cornwall with the Hendersons. Dickie. But I gave up the trip to Paris so as not to annoy you. Penelope. [Smiling.] It wouldn’t have annoyed me a bit, darling. Dickie. It ought to have annoyed you. Penelope. In any case I’m afraid I can’t throw the Hendersons over. They’ve made up a little partie carrÉe so that we can play bridge in the evenings. [Dickie goes up to Pen and sits on the sofa beside her. Dickie. Look here, Pen, let’s make it up. Penelope. [Quite pleasantly.] But we haven’t quarrelled, have we? Dickie. [With a smile.] I don’t know whether I want to shake you or hug you. Penelope. Well, if I were you, I’d do neither. Dickie. [Taking her hands.] Pen, I want to talk seriously to you. Penelope. [Releasing them, with a look at the clock.] Have you time? Dickie. What on earth d’you mean? Penelope. You generally start off for Mrs. Mack’s about now. [Dickie gets up and walks up and down the room. Dickie. [Resolutely.] Mrs. Mack’s dead. Penelope. [Jumping off the sofa.] Dead! When’s the funeral? Dickie. The date hasn’t been settled yet. Penelope. Well, now you’ll be able to send in your bill. Dickie. [Nervously.] Pen, Mrs. Mack never existed. Penelope. [With a smile.] I never thought she did, darling. Dickie. What! [Penelope giggles. Dickie. D’you mean to say you knew all the time that I’d invented her? Penelope. I thought it was very nice of you to make up a plausible excuse for being away so much. Dickie. Then, when you bought all those things because I was making such a pot of money, you were just pulling my leg. Penelope. [With a smile.] Well.... [Dickie suddenly bursts into a shout of laughter. Dickie. [When he recovers.] I say, you have scored us off. Upon my soul, you are a wonderful little woman. I can’t think how I ever saw anything in Ada Fergusson. Penelope. Oh, but I think she’s charming. Dickie. What nonsense! You know you don’t. If you only knew the life she led me! Penelope. I suppose she often asked you if you really loved her? Dickie. Ten times a day. Penelope. And when you left her, did she want to know exactly at what time you’d come back? Dickie. How did you know? Penelope. I guessed it. Dickie. [Going towards her as if to take her in his arms.] Oh, Pen, let’s forget and forgive. Penelope. [Getting out of his way.] There’s nothing to forgive, darling. Dickie. [Making a step towards her.] I suppose you want Penelope. [Eluding him as though by accident.] I daresay the game isn’t worth the candle. Dickie. [Trying to intercept her.] Don’t speak of it. Penelope. [Keeping out of his reach.] And I was under the impression you were having such a good time. Dickie. I was feeling awfully conscience-stricken. Penelope. That’s where women have such an advantage over men. Their conscience never strikes them till they’ve lost their figure and their complexion. Dickie. [Stopping.] I say, what are you running round the room for in that ridiculous fashion? Penelope. I thought we were playing touch-last. Dickie. Don’t be a little beast, Pen. You know you love me, and I simply dote upon you.... I can’t do more than I have done. Penelope. What d’you want me to do? Dickie. I want you to kiss and make friends. Penelope. [Quite good-naturedly.] I think you’re a little previous, aren’t you? Dickie. I suppose you’re thinking of Ada Fergusson. Penelope. I confess she hadn’t entirely slipped my mind. Dickie. Hang Ada Fergusson! Penelope. I think that’s rather drastic punishment. After all, she did nothing but succumb to your fatal fascination. Dickie. That’s right, put all the blame on me. As if it Penelope. How changeable you are. Dickie. [Going towards her eagerly.] I’m never going to change again. I’ve had my lesson, and I’m going to be good in future. Penelope. [Getting a chair between herself and him.] Anyhow, don’t you think you’d better be off with the old love before you get on with the new? Dickie. Yes, but you might help me. Penelope. You don’t want me by any chance to tell Ada Fergusson that you don’t care for her any more? Dickie. It’s a devilish awkward thing to say oneself. Penelope. I can imagine that the best-tempered woman would take it a little amiss. Dickie. I say, can’t you suggest something to help me out? Penelope. [With a shrug of the shoulders.] My dear, since the days of Ariadne there’s only been one satisfactory way of consoling a deserted maiden. Dickie. [With a jump.] Uncle Davenport! Penelope. What about Uncle Davenport? Dickie. He told me yesterday he thought she was a devilish fine woman. Penelope. Oh, no, Dickie, I’m not going to allow you to sacrifice my only uncle. Dickie. I’ll just ring him up and tell him she’s not gone to Paris. Penelope. No, Dickie. No, Dickie. No, Dickie! Dickie. [At the telephone.] Mayfair 7521. I promise you he shall come to no harm. Before it gets serious we’ll tell him that she’s not a Jones of Llandudno, but a Jones of Notting Hill Gate. Penelope. [With a giggle.] I don’t think it’s quite nice what you’re doing. Dickie. I think it’s horrid. I shall blame myself very much afterwards. Penelope. With your moral sense too. Dickie. Hulloa, can I speak to Mr. Barlow? Hulloa, is that you, Uncle Davenport? No, I didn’t go to Paris after all. [With a wink at Penelope.] Mrs. Mack had a sudden relapse, and couldn’t be moved. No, Mrs. Fergusson hasn’t gone either. [Peyton comes in. Peyton. Mrs. Fergusson is in the drawing-room, ma’am. Dickie. [Speaking down the telephone.] What! Half a minute. Hold on. Penelope. I’ve been expecting her all the afternoon. Ask her if she wouldn’t mind coming up here. Peyton. Very well, ma’am. [Exit. Dickie. I say, there’s no getting out of it. [At the telephone.] Hulloa. Why don’t you come round? Mrs. Fergusson is calling on Pen, and you can arrange about your luncheon party then.... All right. Good-bye.... I say, I’m going to bolt. Penelope. You coward! Dickie. [Pretending to be very dignified.] I’m not a coward, Penelope. I shall be back in two minutes. But I’m thirsty, and I’m going to have a brandy and soda. [He bends down to kiss her, but she moves away. Dickie. I say, hang it all, you needn’t grudge me one kiss. Penelope. [Smiling.] Wait till you’re off with the old love, my friend. Dickie. I think it’s a bit thick that a man shouldn’t be allowed to embrace the wife of his bosom. Penelope. You shall afterwards, if you’re good. Dickie. I say, she’s just coming. What a blessing this room has two doors! [He goes out. Penelope gets up, looks at herself in the glass, arranges a stray lock of hair, and powders her nose. Ada Fergusson comes in. Penelope. [Kissing her effusively.] Dearest ... I hope you don’t mind being dragged up here. Mrs. Fergusson. Of course not. I like this room. I always think it’s just the place for a heart-to-heart talk. Penelope. How nice you’re looking! Mrs. Fergusson. D’you like my frock? Penelope. I always think it suits you so well. Mrs. Fergusson. [Acidly.] It is the first time I have put it on. Penelope. Oh, then I suppose I’ve seen one just like it on other people. Mrs. Fergusson. You’ll think I’m coming here a great deal, dearest. Penelope. You know that Dickie and I are always glad to see you. Mrs. Fergusson. Is Dr. O’Farrell at home? I wanted to ask him something about the medicine he prescribed for me yesterday. Penelope. Now don’t say you’ve come to see Dickie. I was hoping you’d come to see me. Mrs. Fergusson. I wanted to kill two birds with one stone. Penelope. That is a feat of marksmanship which always gives one satisfaction. Mrs. Fergusson. I forget if you said that Dr. O’Farrell was at home. Penelope. You know, I think you must be the only person who’s known him ten minutes without calling him Dickie. Mrs. Fergusson. I should have no confidence in him as a doctor if I did. Penelope. I never employ him myself. I always go to Dr. Rogers. Mrs. Fergusson. You look as if you had robust health, dearest. Penelope. Oh, I just manage to trip along above ground to save funeral expenses. Mrs. Fergusson. Is Dr. O’Farrell quite well? Penelope. Tired. Mrs. Fergusson. [Wondering why.] Oh? [A slight pause. Mrs. Fergusson. I suppose you haven’t the least idea when he’ll be home? Penelope. I didn’t know he was out. Mrs. Fergusson. Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said he was out. Penelope. No. Mrs. Fergusson. I must have misunderstood you. Penelope. I think he’s lying down. You see he was with poor Mrs. Mack till twelve o’clock last night. Mrs. Fergusson. [With a slight start.] Was he? Penelope. It’s so bad that she should have had a relapse when she seemed to be going on so well. Mrs. Fergusson. [Puzzled, but trying not to show it.] I was more distressed than I can say. Penelope. And it must have been so inconvenient for you after you’d made all your arrangements for going to Paris. Mrs. Fergusson. Oh, of course, I didn’t think of my convenience at all. Penelope. Dickie says the way you’ve nursed her is beyond all praise. Mrs. Fergusson. I think in this life we ought to do what we can for one another. I only did my duty. Penelope. So few of us do that. Mrs. Fergusson. When I think of my husband bravely serving his country in a foreign land, I feel that I ought to do anything I can to help others. [Penelope meditatively winks to herself. Penelope. Were you there at the end? Mrs. Fergusson. [Astounded.] What end? Penelope. You don’t mean to say you don’t know? Mrs. Fergusson. Penelope, I haven’t an idea what you’re talking about. Penelope. But Dickie was with Mrs. Mack all this morning. Mrs. Fergusson. That’s absurd. Penelope. I wonder you weren’t sent for. Mrs. Fergusson. But.... [She is speechless with anger and amazement. Penelope. Then you really don’t know? Mrs. Fergusson. [Desperately.] I know nothing. Penelope. My poor, dear Ada. I’m distracted that I should have to give you this bitter, bitter blow. Mrs. Mack is—dead. Mrs. Fergusson. Dead! Penelope. She died in Dickie’s arms, thanking him for all he’d done for her. Mrs. Fergusson. Impossible! Penelope. I don’t wonder you say that. She was quite frisky a day or two ago.... Sit down, dear. You’re quite upset. You were very fond of her, weren’t you? Mrs. Fergusson. Dead! Penelope. Why don’t you have a good cry? Can’t you find your handkerchief? Take this. It’s very sad, isn’t it? And after all you’d done for her? [Mrs. Fergusson dabs her eyes with the handkerchief. Mrs. Fergusson. [Forcing herself to be natural.] It’s a great blow. Penelope. Oh, I know. I feel for you, dear. Dickie was [Dickie comes in and stops at the door for a moment as he sees the two women apparently in tears. Dickie. I say, what’s up? Penelope. [With a sob.] I’ve just broken the news to poor Ada. Dickie. What news? Penelope. She didn’t know that Mrs. Mack was—no more. Mrs. Fergusson. [Trying to conceal her rage and mystification.] I certainly didn’t! Penelope. You ought to have let her know, Dickie. She would have liked to be—in at the death. Dickie. I wanted to spare you. Mrs. Fergusson. It’s too kind of you. Penelope. I knew that was it. Dickie has such a kind heart. Mrs. Fergusson. [With restrained anger.] I have already noticed it. Penelope. [To her husband.] And you were so fond of her, weren’t you? Dickie. I looked upon her as a real friend. Penelope. I’ve told Ada that she expired in your arms, darling. Dickie. With a smile on her lips. Penelope. That’s just what I said. Murmuring the name of her husband, who’d been dead for forty years. What did you say the name was, Dickie? Dickie. Walker, darling. Penelope. Tell Ada more. She wants to hear the details. Dickie. She asked to be remembered to you. She sent her love to your husband. Penelope. She seems to have thought of everything. You must go to the funeral, Dickie. Dickie. Yes; I should like to show her that sign of respect. Penelope. [To Mrs. Fergusson.] Wouldn’t you like a glass of sherry, dearest? I can see you’re quite upset. Mrs. Fergusson. The—news has taken me by surprise. Penelope. To tell you the truth, I expected it last night. But I quite understand your emotion. Mrs. Fergusson. I’m so much obliged for your sympathy. Penelope. I’m going to get you some sherry myself. Dickie. Oh, let me. Penelope. No, stay with Ada, darling. You have such a way with you when one’s in trouble. Dickie. [Edging off.] On an occasion like this a woman wants another woman with her. Penelope. [Preventing him from moving.] No, you know just the right thing to say. I shall never forget how charming you were when our last cook gave notice. [She goes out. Mrs. Fergusson springs to her feet. Mrs. Fergusson. Now! Dickie. Good heavens! You made me positively jump. Mrs. Fergusson. What does all this mean? Dickie. Mrs. Fergusson. How can Mrs. Mack be dead? You know just as well as I do that she never existed. Dickie. Upon my word, I’m beginning to be not quite certain. I’ve talked about her so much that she seems much more real than—than my bank balance, for instance. And I could write a beautiful article for the Lancet on the case. Mrs. Fergusson. [Furiously.] Oh! Dickie. After all, she did have a rotten time of it, poor old lady. Operation after operation. Life wasn’t worth living. She was bound to die. And I call it a jolly happy release. Mrs. Fergusson. Where were you last night? Dickie. I was at Mrs. Mack’s—no, of course, I wasn’t. I’m so used to saying that that it slips out quite naturally. I’m awfully sorry. Mrs. Fergusson. How can you tell me such lies? Dickie. I don’t know. I suppose it’s growing into a habit. Mrs. Fergusson. I recommend you to keep them for Penelope. Dickie. I suppose you think, then, they don’t matter? Mrs. Fergusson. Oh, she’s your wife. That’s quite another story. Dickie. I see. Mrs. Fergusson. What d’you mean by saying, I see? Dickie. It was the only reply I could think of at the moment. Mrs. Fergusson. I’m sure you meant something by it. [Peyton comes in with a tray on which are two wine glasses and a decanter. They keep silence till she has gone out. Dickie. Have a glass of sherry, will you? Mrs. Fergusson. No. Dickie. Well, I think I will if you don’t mind. [He pours himself out a glass.] I have an idea that sherry’s coming into fashion again. Mrs. Fergusson. Have you? Dickie. I always think I have a knack of making myself pleasant under difficulties. [He drinks a glass of sherry to give himself courage. Dickie. Look here, I’ve got something to tell you that I’m afraid you won’t very much like. I daresay you’ll think me an awful brute, but I’m bound to say it. [Mrs. Fergusson does not answer, and after a moment’s pause he goes on.] The fact is, I’m not built the proper way for intrigue. All these lies make me awfully uncomfortable. I don’t like to think I’m treating Penelope badly. [Another pause.] I may as well tell you the whole truth bang out. I’ve discovered that I’m desperately in love with Penelope. Mrs. Fergusson. [Calmly.] And? Dickie. [Rather surprised.] And that’s all. Mrs. Fergusson. And how do you imagine that interests me? Dickie. [Quite embarrassed.] I thought—er.... [Mrs. Fergusson goes into a peal of laughter. Dickie, quite taken aback, looks at her with astonishment. Mrs. Fergusson. You haven’t been under the impression that I ever cared for you? Dickie. [Trying to make it out.] No, no. Of course a man’s a conceited ass who thinks a woman’s in love with him. Mrs. Fergusson. You amused me when I first met you, but you’ve long ceased to do that. Dickie. It’s kind of you to say so. Mrs. Fergusson. It was convenient to have some one to do things for me. I’m a womanly woman and.... Dickie. You don’t know your way about. Mrs. Fergusson. For the last month you’ve bored me to extinction. I’ve done everything in my power to show you except say it right out. Dickie. I’m afraid I’ve been very dense. Mrs. Fergusson. Dreadfully dense. Dickie. But it was good of you to spare my feelings. Mrs. Fergusson. [With an amiable smile.] D’you think it would be rude if I described you in your own words as a conceited ass? Dickie. It might make our future acquaintance rather formal. Mrs. Fergusson. There will be no future acquaintance. Dickie. Then there’s nothing more to be said. [Mrs. Fergusson sweeps to the door. She stops. Mrs. Fergusson. Does Penelope adore you as blindly as when first I met you? Dickie. I venture to think she’s as much in love with me as I am with her. Mrs. Fergusson. What have you done with the letters I wrote to you? Dickie. I did as we agreed. I burnt them at once. Mrs. Fergusson. I didn’t. I kept yours. Dickie. I shouldn’t have thought they were interesting enough. Mrs. Fergusson. I have an idea that Penelope would find them positively absorbing. Dickie. Why don’t you send them to her? Mrs. Fergusson. If you have no objection, I think I will. Dickie. They will tell her nothing that she doesn’t know already. Mrs. Fergusson. [Coming back, startled.] You don’t mean to say you’ve told her? Dickie. Of course not. Mrs. Fergusson. Well? Dickie. She’s known it all along. Mrs. Fergusson. Known what? Dickie. Everything. From the beginning. Mrs. Fergusson. [Terrified.] How did she find out? Dickie. Heaven only knows. Mrs. Fergusson. It’s a trap! I might have known she wasn’t such a fool as she seemed. She wants to divorce you, and she’s used me. My husband will never stand that. Dickie. I can imagine that even the most affectionate husband would draw the line there. Mrs. Fergusson. Oh, don’t try and be funny now. Dickie. I wasn’t. The funny part is yet to come. Mrs. Fergusson. What? Dickie. Well, you needn’t get into a state about it. Penelope’s not going to do anything. Mrs. Fergusson. But then, why ...? Dickie. [With a shrug of the shoulders.] She doesn’t care a hang. Mrs. Fergusson. I don’t understand. Dickie. Don’t you? It’s very simple. It’s a matter of no importance. She’s glad that I’ve been amused. If she only knew how much amusement I’ve got out of it! She looks upon it in the light of a—of a change of air. Mrs. Fergusson. [Furiously.] Oh! Oh! Oh! A fortnight’s golf at the seaside, I suppose. Dickie. Something like that. Mrs. Fergusson. I’d sooner she divorced you. Dickie. Thanks, I wouldn’t. Mrs. Fergusson. Oh, what a humiliation! I’ve been just a convenience because she had other fish to fry. How sordid it makes the whole thing! And I was yearning for romance. I would never have looked at you if I hadn’t thought she doted on you. Dickie. I have an idea that affairs of this sort are only romantic when they happen to other people. When they happen to yourself—well, sordid’s just the word. Mrs. Fergusson. [Suddenly remembering.] And Mrs. Mack? Dickie. She’s known all about that too. Mrs. Fergusson. D’you mean that to-day when we ...? Dickie. Mingled your tears? I think hers were about as real as yours. Mrs. Fergusson. And she led me on to say one thing after another. Dickie. I think she’s been pulling both our legs successfully. Mrs. Fergusson. How on earth am I going to meet her now? Dickie. She’ll be all right. She’ll be just as charming as ever. Mrs. Fergusson. You fool! Don’t you see that if she’s charming to me it’s because she thinks she’s prettier than I am, and cleverer than I am, and more fascinating than I am? She doesn’t even despise me, she’s indifferent to me. [She goes to the glass and looks at herself. Mrs. Fergusson. [Furiously.] A change of air. [The door opens slowly, and Penelope comes in. She has changed into motoring things. Mrs. Fergusson gives a sudden gasp as she sees her and turns her face away. For a moment Penelope stands still, looking at them reflectively. Dickie aimlessly arranges things on a table. Penelope. [With a faint smile.] I’m not disturbing you, am I? Dickie. Er.... Penelope. Yes? Dickie. Nothing. [Suddenly, with a sob, Mrs. Fergusson sinks into a chair, and hiding her face bursts into tears. Penelope gives her a look of surprise and goes swiftly up to her. She leans over her, with her hand on Mrs. Fergusson’s shoulder. Penelope. [Almost tenderly.] What? Real tears? Mrs. Fergusson. [In a broken voice.] I feel so ridiculous. Penelope. [With a little smile, as if she were talking to a child.] Don’t. Don’t cry. Mrs. Fergusson. I look such a perfect fool. Penelope. It’s so tiresome of our little sins to look foolish when they’re found out, instead of wicked. Mrs. Fergusson. I shall never respect myself again. Penelope. Dry your tears, dear. Uncle Davenport has just come, and he wants to know if it’s respectable to ask you to lunch with him alone. Mrs. Fergusson. [With a suspicion of her old manner.] He’s so sympathetic. I’d like to have a heart-to-heart talk with him. Penelope. You’ll find the Carlton a most suitable place. Mrs. Fergusson. Are my eyes red? Penelope. Not a bit. I’ll get you some powder. [She takes the powder-box off a table, and Mrs. Fergusson meditatively powders her nose. Mrs. Fergusson. I like him. He talks of all the duchesses by their Christian names. [Peyton announces Barlow and goes out. Peyton. Mr. Davenport Barlow. [As he comes in, Mrs. Fergusson finally and entirely regains her usual manner. Penelope. [Kissing her uncle.] How d’you do? Barlow. [Advancing gallantly to Mrs. Fergusson.] This is a pleasing surprise. I was under the impression you were in Paris. Mrs. Fergusson. No, poor Mrs. Mack was suddenly taken much worse. Barlow. It is my gain. Mrs. Fergusson. It’s too nice of you to say so, but I’m leaving London at once all the same. Barlow. But this is very sudden. What shall we do without you? Mrs. Fergusson. You must blame Dr. O’Farrell. Dickie. [Astonished.] Me? Mrs. Fergusson. He tells me that now I’m quite strong enough for Barlow. But I thought he was bravely fighting for his country. Mrs. Fergusson. Well, you see, there doesn’t happen to be any fighting for him to do just now, and he’s taken a very nice house at Malta. And I shall start to-morrow. Barlow. This is more distressing than I can say. And are you going straight through? Mrs. Fergusson. No, I shall stop a day or two in Paris on my way. Barlow. How very singular! I had made all arrangements to go to Paris to-morrow myself. Mrs. Fergusson. Then would you mind looking after me on the journey? You see, I’m a womanly woman, and I’m quite helpless in the train by myself. Barlow. I should look upon it as a privilege. And perhaps we might go to one or two plays while you’re there. Mrs. Fergusson. If you’ll promise not to take me to anything risky. Barlow. Ha, ha, ha. Mrs. Fergusson. [To Penelope.] Well, dear, I must say good-bye to you. I’m afraid we shan’t meet again for some time. Penelope. Good-bye. [They kiss one another affectionately. Mrs. Fergusson. [To Dickie.] Good-bye. If you hear of anything good on the Stock Exchange, you might let me know. I think I shall cut my loss on Johannesburg and New Jerusalems. Dickie. I would. Mrs. Fergusson. [To Barlow.] I have a cab downstairs. Can I give you a lift anywhere? Barlow. It would be very kind of you. [With a nod to Dickie she goes out. Barlow. [Shaking hands with Penelope.] Charming creature. So dashing and a thorough gentlewoman. Penelope. Now, mind, Uncle Davenport, no pranks. Barlow. My dear, I’m not only the soul of honour, but fifty-two. [Exit. Penelope. [As he goes out.] I suppose that does induce a platonic state of mind. Dickie. [With a sigh of relief.] Ouf! [Penelope turns to a glass to arrange her hat. Dickie watches her with a smile. Well? Penelope. [Pretending to be surprised.] I beg your pardon? Dickie. You promised to kiss me. Penelope. I didn’t. I promised to allow myself to be kissed. Dickie. [Taking her in his arms and kissing her.] You little beast. Penelope. Finished? Dickie. Not nearly. Penelope. Then I’m afraid you must go on another time. I’ve got a taxi at the door, and it’s costing twopence a minute. Dickie. [Stepping back.] What d’you want a taxi for? Penelope. [With a laugh.] I thought that would chill your ardour. Dickie. You’re not going on that beastly motor trip now? Penelope. Why on earth not? Dickie. [Half injured, half surprised.] Pen! Penelope. [Looking at the watch on her wrist.] Good gracious, I’m keeping them waiting. Dickie. [Taking both her hands.] Now don’t tease me. Go and take those horrid motor things off, and let’s have a comfortable little tea together. And tell Peyton you’re not at home. Penelope. I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid I can’t break an engagement. Dickie. You’re not serious? Penelope. Abnormally. Dickie. But, Pen dear, everything’s different now. Don’t you know that I love you? Penelope. It’s very nice of you to say so. Dickie. Doesn’t it mean anything to you? Penelope. Not much. Dickie. [Beginning to be rather perplexed.] But, Pen dear, pull yourself together. I love you just as much as you love me. Penelope. [With a little smile.] But what makes you think I love you? Dickie. [Aghast.] You—you don’t mean to say that you don’t care for me any more? Penelope. [Judicially.] I—no longer feel that the world is coming to an end when you go out of the room. Dickie. What!... Why don’t you say straight out that you can’t bear the sight of me? Penelope. Because it wouldn’t be quite true. I like you very well. Dickie. Like me! I don’t want you to like me. I want you to love me. Penelope. I wish I could. It would save a lot of bother. Dickie. I don’t understand. This is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I always thought you adored me. Penelope. Why? Dickie. Because I adore you. Penelope. Since when? Dickie. Always, always, always. Penelope. Fancy. Dickie. Oh, I know I made a fool of myself. I shall never cease to regret it. D’you think I was happy? D’you think I had a jolly time? Not much.... I suppose it’s that. You can’t forgive me? Penelope. Nonsense. Of course I forgive you. It doesn’t matter a bit. Dickie. [With a gesture of desperation.] The whole thing’s Greek to me. I loved you always, Pen. I never ceased for a moment to love you. Penelope. My dear, you need not protest so much. It doesn’t very much interest me either way. Dickie. What a fool I was! I ought to have known that if you took it so calmly it could only be because you didn’t care. If a woman doesn’t make scenes it can only mean that she doesn’t love you.... You used to love me? Penelope. Yes. Dickie. How can you be so fickle? I never thought you’d treat me like this. [Penelope looks about as if she’d lost something. Dickie. What are you looking for? Penelope. I fancied you’d lost your sense of humour. I was just seeing if I could find it. Dickie. How can I have a sense of humour when I’m suffering? Penelope. [Starting at the word.] Suffering? Dickie. The tortures of the damned. I want you. I want your love. [He does not see Penelope’s face. An expression of remorse comes into it at the pain she is causing him. She outlines a gesture towards him, but quickly restrains herself. Penelope. [With a mocking laugh.] Poor darling. Dickie. [Furiously.] Don’t laugh at me. Penelope. I wasn’t. I was quite sorry for you. Dickie. D’you think I want your pity? Penelope. I’m very unfortunate. I seem quite unable to please you. I think it’s just as well that I’m going away for a week. Dickie. [Starting up.] No, you’re not going away. Penelope. [Raising her eyebrows.] What makes you think that? Dickie. Because I forbid you to. Penelope. [Smiling.] And are you under the delusion that at your command I shall fall flat on my face? Dickie. I’m the master of this house, and I mean to make myself respected. Penelope. My dear, since you pay the rent and the taxes it’s quite right that you should rule this house with a rod of iron if you wish it. Personally, at the moment I only want to get out of it. Dickie. You’re not going out of it. Penelope. Do you propose to keep me here against my will? Dickie. Certainly, if needful. Penelope. H’m. [She gets up and goes to the door. He intercepts her, locks the door, and puts the key in his pocket. Penelope. Brute force. Dickie. I think it’s about time I showed you I’m not going to be made a perfect fool of. [Penelope shrugs her shoulders and sits down. Suddenly she chuckles. Dickie. I don’t see anything to laugh at. Penelope. I do. It’s so mediÆval. And are you going to feed me on bread and water? Dickie. [Angrily.] Ugh. [He looks at her.] Now, look Penelope. I refuse to discuss the matter till you’ve opened the door. Dickie. It’s not the time of year for a motor trip. [Pause. Penelope looks straight in front of her, taking no notice of what he says.] It’ll rain cats and dogs, and you’ll catch a beastly cold. You’ll probably get pneumonia. [Pause.] I’m feeling awfully run down, and I shouldn’t wonder if I were sickening for something myself. [Penelope smothers a giggle and continues to stare into vacancy. Dickie breaks out passionately.] But don’t you see that if I’m preventing you from going, it’s because I can’t bear to let you out of my sight? I want you. I want you always by me. I want you to love me.... Oh, if you only knew how much I love you, you wouldn’t be so heartless. Penelope. [Turning to him and speaking quite calmly.] But surely, if you cared for me, you wouldn’t try to deprive me of a little enjoyment. You’d be willing to sacrifice yourself sometimes. You’d have a certain regard for my wishes. You wouldn’t put every absurd obstacle in the way when the chance offers for me to have some amusement. [Dickie looks at her for a moment then turns away and walks up and down, with downcast Penelope. What does that mean? Dickie. [In a broken voice.] You’re quite right. I’ve simply been beastly selfish. I was only thinking of myself. I dare say I bore you. Perhaps you’ll like me better when you’ve been away for a few days. [Penelope is so moved that she can hardly keep up her acting any longer. She struggles with herself, and in a moment masters the desire to throw herself in his arms. Penelope. Since you locked the door, perhaps you’ll be good enough to unlock it. [Without a word he takes the key and goes to the door. He unlocks it. Penelope. Am I to understand that you offer no objection to my trip? Dickie. If it’ll give you pleasure to go, I shall be pleased to think you’re happy. I only want you to be happy. Penelope. Would you rather I stayed? Dickie. No. [Penelope gives a slight start. This is not at all what she wants. Penelope. Oh! Dickie. I don’t know what I shall do without you. I feel as if I were only now getting to know you. It’s as though—oh, I don’t know how to express it. Penelope. But you’ve just said you would rather I went. Dickie. I don’t want to think of myself any more. I want to think only of you. It makes me so happy to think of you, Pen. I want to sacrifice myself. Penelope. [Relieved.] Will you go to my room and see if my bag has been taken down? [He goes out for a moment. She remains with an ecstatic look on her face. He comes back. Dickie. Yes. Peyton’s taken it. Penelope. Then—[she gives him a look from beneath her eye-lashes]—ring and tell her to bring it up again. Dickie. [Hardly able to believe his good fortune.] Pen! Penelope. Are you pleased? Dickie. Oh, you’re much too good to me. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Oh, Pen, if you only knew how much I adore you! [He falls on his knees and passionately kisses her hands. She can hardly restrain herself from lifting him up and flinging her arms round his neck. Dickie. Is there any chance for me at all? D’you think you’ll ever love me as you used to? Penelope. How can I tell? Dickie. Oh, why can’t we go back to the beginning? D’you Penelope. [Concealing a smile.] How you must have hated it! Dickie. Hate it? I’ve never been so happy in my life. Penelope. At all events I hope we shall always continue to be good friends. Dickie. [Starting up.] Friends! What’s the good of offering me your friendship when I’m starving for your love? How can you make me so unhappy? Penelope. [Smiling indulgently.] But I’m not going to make you unhappy. I hope I shall always be very pleasant and agreeable. Dickie. What d’you think I care for that? Pen, promise that you’ll try to love me? Penelope. [With a smile.] Yes, I’ll try if you like. Dickie. I’ll make you love me. I’ll never rest till I’m sure of your love. Penelope. And when you are sure of it I suppose you won’t care twopence for me any more? Dickie. Try me! Try me! [He kisses her hands again. He does not see her face. She smiles and shakes her head. Dickie. I never knew that you were so adorable. It fills me with rapture merely to kiss your hands. [Penelope gives a little laugh and releases herself. Penelope. Now I must just go to the Hendersons and tell them I can’t come motoring. Dickie. Can’t you telephone? I don’t want to let you out of my sight. Penelope. They’re not on the telephone. It’ll be more convenient for me to go. Dickie. Very well. If you must, I suppose you must. [She smiles and goes to the door. When she reaches it he stops her. Dickie. Oh, Pen! Penelope. Yes. Dickie. At what time will you be back? [Recognising the phrase, she gives a gesture of amusement, quickly kisses her hand to him, and slips out of the door. The End. |
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