  Scene: The drawing-room at Miss Wickham’s house in Tunbridge Wells. It is a room in which there is too much furniture. There are armchairs covered with faded chintz, little tables here and there, cabinets containing china, a great many photographs in silver frames, porcelain ornaments wherever there is a vacant space, Chippendale chairs and chairs from the Tottenham Court Road. There are flowers in vases and growing plants. The wall-paper has a pattern of enormous chrysanthemums, and on the walls are a large number of old-fashioned watercolours in gilt frames. There is one door, which leads into the hall; and a French window opens on to the garden. The window is decorated with white lace curtains. It is four o’clock in the afternoon. The sun is streaming through the drawn blinds. There is a wreath of white flowers in a cardboard box on one of the chairs. The door is opened by Kate, the parlour-maid. She is of respectable appearance and of a decent age. She admits Miss Pringle. Miss Pringle is companion to a wealthy old lady in Tunbridge Wells. She is a woman of middle age, plainly dressed, thin and narrow of shoulders, with a weather-beaten, tired face and grey hair. Kate. I’ll tell Miss Marsh you’re here, Miss Pringle. Miss Pringle. How is she to-day, Kate? Kate. She’s tired out, poor thing. She’s lying down now. But I’m sure she’d like to see you, Miss. Miss Pringle. I’m very glad she didn’t go to the funeral. Kate. Dr. Evans thought she’d better stay at home, Miss, and Mrs. Wickham said she’d only upset herself if she went. Miss Pringle. I wonder how she stood it all those months, waiting on Miss Wickham hand and foot. Kate. Miss Wickham wouldn’t have a professional nurse. And you know what she was, Miss.... Miss Marsh slept in Miss Wickham’s room, and the moment she fell asleep Miss Wickham would have her up because her pillow wanted shaking, or she was thirsty, or something. Miss Pringle. I suppose she was very inconsiderate. Kate. Inconsiderate isn’t the word, Miss. I wouldn’t be a lady’s companion, not for anything. What they have to put up with! Miss Pringle. Oh, well, everyone isn’t like Miss Wickham. The lady I’m companion to, Mrs. Hubbard, is kindness itself. Kate. That sounds like Miss Marsh coming downstairs [She goes to the door and opens it.] Miss Pringle is here, Miss. [Norah comes in. She is a woman of twenty-eight, with a pleasant, honest face and a happy smile. She is gentle, with quiet manners, but she has a quick temper, under very good control, and a passionate nature which is hidden under a demure appearance. She is simply dressed in black.] Norah. I am glad to see you. I was hoping you’d be able to come here this afternoon. Miss Pringle. Mrs. Hubbard has gone for a drive with somebody or other, and didn’t want me. [They kiss one another. Norah notices the wreath.] Norah. What’s this? Kate. It didn’t arrive till after they’d started, Miss. Norah. I wonder whom it’s from. [She looks at a card which is attached to the wreath.] “From Mrs. Alfred Kate. Sorrowing relatives is good, Miss. Norah. [Remonstrating.] Kate ... I think you’d better take it away. Kate. What shall I do with it, Miss? Norah. I’m going to the cemetery a little later. I’ll take it with me. Kate. Very good, Miss. [Kate takes up the box and goes out.] Miss Pringle. You haven’t been crying, Norah? Norah. [With a little apologetic smile.] Yes, I couldn’t help it. Miss Pringle. What on earth for? Norah. My dear, it’s not unnatural. Miss Pringle. Well, I don’t want to say anything against her now she’s dead and gone, poor thing, but Miss Wickham was the most detestable old woman I ever met. Norah. I don’t suppose one can live all that time with anyone and not be a little sorry to part with them for ever. I was Miss Wickham’s companion for ten years. Miss Pringle. How you stood it! Exacting, domineering, disagreeable. Norah. Yes, I suppose she was. Because she paid me a salary she thought I wasn’t a human being. I never saw anyone with such a bitter tongue. At first I used to cry every night when I went to bed because of the things she said to me. But I got used to them. Miss Pringle. I wonder you didn’t leave her. I would have. Norah. It’s not easy to get posts as lady’s companion. Miss Pringle. That’s true. They tell me the agents’ books are full of people wanting situations. Before I went to Mrs. Hubbard I was out of one for nearly two years. Norah. It’s not so bad for you. You can always go and stay with your brother. Miss Pringle. You’ve got a brother too. Norah. Yes, but he’s farming in Canada. He had all he could do to keep himself, he couldn’t keep me too. Miss Pringle. How is he doing now? Norah. Oh, he’s doing very well. He’s got a farm of his own. He wrote over a couple of years ago and told me he could always give me a home if I wanted one. Miss Pringle. Canada’s so far off. Norah. Not when you get there. Miss Pringle. Why don’t you draw the blinds? Norah. I thought I ought to wait till they come back from the funeral. Miss Pringle. It must be a great relief to you now it’s all over. Norah. Sometimes I can’t realise it. These last few weeks I hardly got to bed at all, and when the end came I was utterly exhausted. For two days I could do nothing but sleep. Poor Miss Wickham. She did hate dying. Miss Pringle. That’s the extraordinary part of it. I believe you were really fond of her. Norah. D’you know that for nearly a year she would eat nothing but what I gave her with my own hands. And she liked me as much as she was capable of liking anybody. Miss Pringle. That wasn’t much. Norah. And then, I was so dreadfully sorry for her. Miss Pringle. Good heavens! Norah. She’d been a hard and selfish woman all her life, and there was no one who cared for her. It seemed so dreadful to die like that and leave not a soul to regret one. Her nephew and his wife were just waiting for her death. It was dreadful. Each time they came down from London I saw them looking at her to see if she was any worse than when last they’d seen her. Miss Pringle. Well, I thought her a horrid old woman, and I’m glad she’s dead. And I hope she’s left you well provided for. Norah. [With a smile.] Oh, I think she’s done that. Two years ago when I nearly went away she said she’d left me enough to live upon. Miss Pringle. You mean when that assistant of Dr. Evans wanted to marry you? I’m glad you wouldn’t have him. Norah. He was very nice. But, of course, he wasn’t a gentleman. Miss Pringle. I shouldn’t like to live with a man at all; I think they’re horrid, but, of course, it would be impossible if he weren’t a gentleman. Norah. [With a twinkle in her eye.] He came to see Miss Wickham, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. First she said that she couldn’t spare me, and then she said that I had a very bad temper. Miss Pringle. I like her saying that. Norah. It’s quite true. Every now and then I felt I couldn’t put up with her any more. I forgot that I was dependent on her, and if she dismissed me I probably shouldn’t be able to find another situation, and I just flew at her. I must say she was very nice about it; she used to look at me and grin, and, when it was all over, say: “My dear, when you marry, if your husband’s a wise man, he’ll use a big stick now and then.” Miss Pringle. Old cat. Norah. [Smiling.] I should like to see a man try. Miss Pringle. How much d’you think she’s left you? Norah. Well, of course, I don’t know; the will is going to be read this afternoon when they come back from the funeral, but from what she said I believe about two hundred and fifty a year. Miss Pringle. It’s the least she could do. She’s had the ten best years of your life. Norah. [With a sigh of relief.] I shall never be at anybody’s beck and call again. I shall be able to get up when I like and go to bed when I like, go out when I choose, and come in when I choose. Miss Pringle. [Drily.] You’ll probably marry. Norah. Never. Miss Pringle. Then what’ll you do? Norah. I shall go to Italy, Florence, Rome. D’you think it’s horrible of me, I’m so happy? Miss Pringle. My dear child. [There is a sound of carriage wheels on the drive.] Norah. There they are. Miss Pringle. I’d better go, hadn’t I? Norah. I’m afraid you must. Miss Pringle. I do so want to know about the will. Can’t I go up to your room and wait there? Norah. No. I’ll tell you what, go and sit in the garden. They want to catch the four something back to London, and we can have a cosy little tea all by ourselves. Miss Pringle. Very well. Oh, my dear, I’m so happy in your good luck. Norah. Take care. [Miss Pringle slips out into the garden, and a moment later Mr. and Mrs. Wickham enter the room. Mrs. Wickham is a pretty young woman. She is dressed in black, but her gown is elegant and fashionable. James Wickham is a clean-shaven, thin-faced man, with a baldish head. He is dressed in black and wears black kid gloves.] Dorothy. [Cheerfully.] Ouf! Do put the blinds up, Miss Marsh. We really needn’t be depressed any more. Jim, if you love me, take those gloves off. They’re perfectly revolting. [Norah goes to the window and draws up the blind.] Wickham. Why, what’s wrong with them? The fellow in the shop told me they were the right thing. Dorothy. I never saw anyone look quite so funereal as you do. Wickham. Well, you didn’t want me to get myself up as though I were going to a wedding, did you? Norah. Were there many people? Dorothy. Quite a lot. The sort of people who indulge in other people’s funerals as a mild form of dissipation. Wickham. [Looking at his watch.] I hope Wynne will look sharp. I don’t want to miss that train. Dorothy. Who were all those stodgy old things who wrung your hand afterwards, Jim? Wickham. I can’t think. They made me feel such a fool. Dorothy. Oh, was that it? I saw you looking a perfect owl, and I thought you were giving a very bad imitation of restrained emotion. Wickham. [Remonstrating.] Dorothy. Norah. Would you like some tea, Mrs. Wickham? Dorothy. Well, you might send some in so that it’ll be ready when Mr. Wynne comes. [Norah is just going to ring the bell, but Mrs. Wickham stops her with a pleasant smile.] We’ll ring for you, shall we? I daresay you’ve got one or two things you want to do now. Norah. Very good, Mrs. Wickham. [She goes out.] Wickham. I say, Dorothy, you oughtn’t to be facetious before Miss Marsh. She was extremely attached to Aunt Louisa. Dorothy. Oh, what nonsense! It’s always a very good rule to judge people by oneself, and I’m positive she was just longing for the old lady to die. Wickham. She was awfully upset at the end. Dorothy. Nerves! Men are so idiotic. They never understand that there are tears and tears. I cried myself, and heaven knows I didn’t regret her death. Wickham. My dear Dorothy, you oughtn’t to say that. Dorothy. Why not? It’s perfectly true. Aunt Louisa was a detestable person and no one would have stood her for a minute if she hadn’t had money. I don’t see any use in being a hypocrite now that it can’t make any difference either way. Wickham. [Looking at his watch again.] I wish Wynne would hurry up. It’ll be beastly inconvenient if we miss that train. Dorothy. I don’t trust Miss Marsh. She looks as if she knew what was in the will. Wickham. I don’t suppose she does. Aunt Louisa wasn’t the sort of person to talk. Dorothy. I’m sure she knows she’s been left something. Wickham. Oh, well, I think she has a right to expect that. Aunt Louisa led her a dog’s life. Dorothy. She had wages and a comfortable home. If she didn’t like the place she could have left it.... After all it’s family money. I don’t think Aunt Louisa had the right to leave it to strangers. Wickham. We oughtn’t to complain if Miss Marsh gets a small annuity. Aunt Louisa promised her something of the sort when she had a chance of marrying a couple of years ago. Dorothy. Miss Marsh is quite young. It isn’t as if she’d been here for thirty years. Wickham. Well, I’ve got an idea that Aunt Louisa meant to leave her about two hundred and fifty a year. Dorothy. But what’s the estate? Wickham. About nineteen thousand pounds, I believe. Dorothy. Oh, it’s absurd. It’s a most unfair proportion. It makes all the difference to us. On that extra two hundred and fifty a year we could almost keep a car. Wickham. My dear, be thankful if we get anything at all. Dorothy. [Aghast.] Jim! [She stares at him.] Jim, you don’t think! Oh! That would be too horrible. Wickham. Take care. [The door opens and Kate brings in the tea-things. She puts them on a small table.] How lucky it is we had a fine day, isn’t it? Dorothy. Yes. Wickham. It looks as if we were going to have a spell of fine weather. Dorothy. Yes. Wickham. It’s funny how often it rains for weddings. Dorothy. Very funny. [Exit Kate.] I’ve been counting on that money for years. I used to dream at night that I was reading a telegram with the news of Aunt Louisa’s death. And I’ve thought of all we should be able to do when we got it. It’ll make such a difference. Wickham. You know what she was. She didn’t care two-pence for us. We ought to be prepared for the worst. Dorothy. D’you think she could have left everything to Miss Marsh? Wickham. I shouldn’t be surprised. Dorothy. We’ll dispute the will. It’s undue influence. I suspected Miss Marsh from the beginning. I hate her. Oh, why doesn’t Wynne come? [There is a ring at the bell.] Wickham. Here he is, I expect. Dorothy. The suspense is too awful. Wickham. Pull yourself together, old girl. And I say, look a bit dismal. After all, we’ve just come from a funeral. Dorothy. Are we downhearted? [Kate enters to announce Mr. Wynne.] Kate. Mr. Wynne. [He enters and she goes out and closes the door. Mr. Wynne, the late Miss Wickham’s Wickham. Hulloa! Wynne. [Taking Dorothy’s hand rather solemnly.] I didn’t have an opportunity of shaking hands with you at the cemetery. Dorothy. [Somewhat helplessly.] How do you do? Wynne. Pray accept my sincerest sympathy on your great bereavement. Dorothy. Of course, the end was not entirely unexpected. Wynne. No, I know. But it must have been a great shock all the same. Wickham. My wife was very much upset, but of course my poor aunt had suffered great pain, and we couldn’t help looking upon it as a happy release. Wynne. How is Miss Marsh? [Dorothy gives him a quick look, wondering whether there is anything behind the polite inquiry.] Dorothy. Oh, she’s very well. Wynne. Her devotion to Miss Wickham was wonderful. Dr. Evans—he’s my brother-in-law, you know—told me no trained nurse could have been more competent. She was like a daughter to Miss Wickham. Dorothy. [Rather coldly.] I suppose we’d better send for her. Wickham. Have you brought the.... [He stops in some embarrassment.] Wynne. Yes, I have it in my pocket. Dorothy. I’ll ring. [She touches the bell.] Wickham. I expect Mr. Wynne would like a cup of tea, Dorothy. Dorothy. Oh, I’m so sorry, I quite forgot about it. Wynne. No, thank you very much. I never take tea. [He takes a long envelope out of his pocket, and from it the will. He smooths it out reflectively. Dorothy gives the document a nervous glance. Kate comes in.] Wickham. Will you ask Miss Marsh to be good enough to come here. Kate. Very good, sir. [Exit.] Dorothy. What is the time, Jim? Wickham. [Looking at his watch.] Oh, there’s no hurry. [To Wynne.] We’ve got an important engagement in London this evening. We’re very anxious not to miss the fast train. Dorothy. The train service is rotten. Wynne. The will is very short. It won’t take me two minutes to read it. Dorothy. [Nervous and impatient.] What on earth is Miss Marsh doing? Wynne. How pretty the garden is looking now. Wickham. [Abruptly.] Very. Wynne. Miss Wickham was always so interested in her garden. Dorothy. Yes. Wynne. My own tulips aren’t so advanced as those. Wickham. [Irritably.] Aren’t they? Wynne. [To Dorothy.] Are you interested in gardening? Dorothy. [Hardly able to control her impatience.] No, I hate it.... At last! [The door is opened and Miss Marsh comes in. Wynne gets up.] Wynne. How d’you do, Miss Marsh? Norah. How d’you do? Wickham. Will you have a cup of tea? Dorothy. [All nerves.] Jim, Miss Marsh would much prefer to have tea quietly after we’re gone. Norah. [With a faint smile.] I won’t have any tea, thank you. Dorothy. Mr. Wynne has brought the will with him. Norah. Oh, yes. [She sits down calmly. Dorothy, with clenched hands, watches her. She tries to make out from her face whether Norah knows anything.] Wynne. Miss Marsh, so far as you know, there’s no other will? Norah. How d’you mean? Wynne. Miss Wickham didn’t make a later one—without my assistance, I mean? You know of nothing in the house, for instance? Norah. [Quite decidedly.] Oh, no. Miss Wickham always said you had her will. She was extremely methodical. Wynne. I feel I ought to ask because she consulted me about making a fresh will a couple of years ago. She told me what she wanted to do, but gave me no actual instructions to draw it. I thought perhaps she might have done it herself. Norah. I heard nothing about it. I’m sure that her only will is in your hands. Wynne. Then I think we may take it that this.... [Dorothy suddenly understands; she interrupts quickly.] Dorothy. When was that will made? Wynne. Eight or nine years ago.... The exact date was March 4th, 1904. [Dorothy gives Norah a long, searching look.] Dorothy. When did you first come to Miss Wickham? Norah. At the end of nineteen hundred and three. [There is a slight pause.] Wynne. Shall I read it, or would you just like to know the particulars? It is very short. Dorothy. Let us just know roughly. Wynne. Well, Miss Wickham left one hundred pounds to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, and one hundred pounds to the General Hospital at Tunbridge Wells, and the entire residue of her fortune to her nephew, Mr. James Wickham. [Dorothy gives a sharp inspiration of triumph. She looks again at Norah, but Norah gives no sign of emotion.] Wickham. And Miss Marsh? Wynne. Miss Marsh is not mentioned. Norah. [With a faint smile.] I could hardly expect to be. At the time the will was drawn I had been Miss Wickham’s companion for only a few months. Wynne. That is why I asked whether you knew of any later will. When I talked to Miss Wickham on the subject she said her wish was to make adequate provision for you after her death. I think she had spoken to you about it. Norah. Yes. Wynne. She mentioned three hundred a year. Norah. That was very kind of her. I’m glad she wished to do something for me. Wynne. Oddly enough she spoke about it to Dr. Evans only a few days before she died. Wickham. Perhaps there is a later will somewhere? Wynne. I honestly don’t think so. Norah. I’m sure there isn’t. Wynne. Dr. Evans was talking to Miss Wickham about Miss Marsh. She was tired out and he wanted Miss Wickham to have a professional nurse. She told him then that I had the will and she had left Miss Marsh amply provided for. Dorothy. [Quickly.] That isn’t legal, of course? Wynne. What isn’t? Dorothy. I mean, no one could force us—I mean, the will stands as it is, doesn’t it? Wynne. Certainly. Wickham. I’m afraid it’s a great disappointment to you, Miss Marsh. Norah. [Lightly.] I never count my chickens before they’re hatched. Wynne. It would be very natural if Miss Marsh were disappointed under the circumstances. I think she’d been led to expect.... Dorothy. [Interrupting.] Our aunt left a very small fortune, I understand, and I suppose she felt it wouldn’t be fair to leave a large part of it away from her own family. Wickham. Of course, it is family money; she inherited it from my grandfather, and ... but I want you to know, Miss Marsh, that my wife and I thoroughly appreciate all you did for my aunt. Money couldn’t repay your care and devotion. You’ve been perfectly wonderful. Norah. It’s extremely good of you to say so. I was very fond of Miss Wickham. Nothing I did for her was any trouble. Wynne. I think everyone who saw Miss Marsh with Miss Wickham must be aware that during the ten years she was with her she never spared herself. Wickham. [Hesitatingly, with a glance at his wife.] Of course, my aunt was a very trying woman. Dorothy. [Agreeably.] Earning one’s living is always unpleasant. If it weren’t there’d be no incentive to work. [Norah gives her a glance of quiet amusement at this surprising remark.] Wickham. My wife and I would be very glad to make some kind of acknowledgment of your services. Dorothy. I was just going to mention it. Wynne. [Brightening a little.] I felt sure that under the circumstances.... Dorothy. [Interrupting him quickly.] What were your wages, Miss Marsh? Norah. Thirty pounds a year. Dorothy. Really? Many ladies are glad to go as companion without any salary, just for the sake of a home and congenial society. I daresay you’ve been able to save a good deal in all these years. Norah. [Frigidly.] I had to dress myself decently, Mrs. Wickham. Dorothy. [With all the charm she can put into her manner.] Well, I’m sure my husband will be very glad to give you a year’s salary, won’t you, Jim? Norah. It’s very kind of you, but I’m not inclined to accept anything but what’s legally due to me. Dorothy. [Undisturbed.] You must remember that there’ll be very heavy death duties to pay. They’ll swallow up the income from Miss Wickham’s estate for at least two years, won’t they, Mr. Wynne? Norah. I quite understand. Dorothy. Perhaps you’ll change your mind. Norah. I don’t think so. [There is a slight, rather awkward pause. Mr. Wynne gets up. His manner shows that he is not impressed by Mrs. Wickham’s generosity.] Wynne. Well, I think I must leave you. Wickham. We must go, too, Dorothy. Dorothy. [Quite at ease.] Oh, it’ll only take five minutes to get down to the station in a cab. Wynne. Good-bye, Miss Marsh. If I can be of any help to you I hope you’ll let me know. Norah. That’s very kind of you. Wynne. [To Dorothy.] Good-bye. [He bows slightly to her, nods to Wickham and during Dorothy’s next speech goes out.] Dorothy. [Very friendly and affable.] Jim will be writing to you in a day or two. You know how grateful we both are for all you did for our poor aunt. We shall be glad to give you the very highest references. Wickham. [Relieved to be able to offer something.] Oh, yes, we’ll do everything we can. Dorothy. You’re such a wonderful nurse, I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty in getting another situation. I expect I can find you something myself. I’ll ask among all my friends. [Norah looks at her reflectively, but does not answer. Dorothy beams and smiles at her.] Wickham. Come on, Dorothy, we really haven’t got any time to lose. Good-bye, Miss Marsh. Norah. Good-bye. [They bustle out and in a moment the sound is heard of wheels on the drive as the cab carries them away. Norah is left alone. She stands staring in front of her. She does not hear Miss Pringle come in from the garden.] Miss Pringle. I thought they were never going. Well? [Norah turns and looks at her without a word. [Miss Pringle is startled.] Norah! What’s the matter? Isn’t it as much as you thought? Norah. Miss Wickham’s left me nothing. Miss Pringle. Oh! Norah. Not a penny! Oh, it’s cruel. After all, there was no need for her to leave me anything. She gave me board and lodging and thirty pounds a year. If I stayed it was because I chose. She needn’t have promised me anything. She needn’t have prevented me from marrying. Miss Pringle. My dear, you could never have married the little assistant. He wasn’t a gentleman. Norah. Ten years! The ten best years of a woman’s life, when other girls are enjoying themselves. And what did I get for it? Board and lodging and thirty pounds a year. A cook does better than that. Miss Pringle. We can’t expect to make so much money as a good cook. One has to pay something for living like a lady among people of one’s own class. Norah. Oh, it’s cruel. Miss Pringle. [Trying to console her.] My dear, don’t give way. I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty in finding another situation. You wash lace beautifully, and no one can arrange flowers like you. Norah. I was dreaming of France and Italy.... I shall spend ten years more with an old lady, and then she’ll die, and I shall look out for another situation. It won’t be so easy then because I shan’t be so young. And so it’ll go on till I can’t find a situation because I’m too old, and some charitable people will get me into a home. You like the life, don’t you? Miss Pringle. My dear, there are so few things a gentlewoman can do. Norah. When I think of these ten years! Having to put up with every unreasonableness! Never being allowed to feel ill or tired! No servant would have stood what I have. The humiliation I’ve endured! Miss Pringle. You’re tired and out of sorts. Everyone isn’t so trying as Miss Wickham. I’m sure Mrs. Hubbard has been kindness itself to me. Norah. Considering. Miss Pringle. I don’t know what you mean by considering. Norah. Considering that she’s rich and you’re poor. She gives you her old clothes. She often doesn’t ask you to have dinner by yourself when she’s giving a party. She doesn’t remind you that you’re dependent unless she’s very much put out. But you—you’ve had Miss Pringle. [Rather hurt.] I don’t know why you say such things to me, Norah. [Before Norah has time to answer Kate comes in.] Kate. Mr. Hornby would like to see you for a minute, Miss. Norah. [Surprised.] Now? Kate. I told him I didn’t think it would be convenient, Miss, but he says it’s very important, and he won’t detain you more than five minutes. Norah. What a nuisance.... Ask him to come in. Kate. Very good, Miss. [Exit.] Norah. I wonder what on earth he wants. Miss Pringle. Who is he, Norah? Norah. Oh, he’s the son of Colonel Hornby. Don’t you know, he lives at the top of Molyneux Park. His mother was a great friend of Miss Wickham’s. He [Kate shows the visitor in.] Kate. Mr. Hornby. [She goes out. Reginald Hornby is a good-looking young man, with a neat head on a long, elegant body. His dark, sleek hair is carefully brushed, his small moustache is trim and curled. His beautiful clothes suggest the fashionable tailors of Savile Row. His tie, his handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket, his boots, are the very latest thing. He is a nut.] Hornby. I say, I’m awfully sorry to blow in like this. But I didn’t know if you’d be staying on here, and I wanted to catch you. And I’m off in a day or two, myself. Norah. Won’t you sit down? Mr. Hornby—Miss Pringle. Hornby. How d’you do? Everything go off O.K.? Norah. I beg your pardon? Hornby. Funeral, I mean. Mother went. Regular beano for her. [Miss Pringle, rather shocked, draws herself up primly, but Norah’s eyes twinkle with amusement at his airy manner.] Norah. Really? Hornby. You see, she’s getting on. I’m the child of her old age—Benjamin, don’t you know. [He turns to Miss Pringle.] Benjamin and Sarah, you know. Miss Pringle. I understand perfectly, but it wasn’t Sarah. Hornby. Wasn’t it? When one of her old friends dies, mother goes to the funeral and says to herself: “Well, I’ve seen her out, anyhow.” Then she comes back and eats muffins for tea. She always eats muffins after she’s been to a funeral. Norah. The maid said you wanted to see about something. Hornby. That’s right, I was forgetting. [To Miss Pringle.] If Sarah wasn’t Benjamin’s mother, whose mother was she? Miss Pringle. If you want to know, I recommend you to read your Bible. Hornby. [With much satisfaction.] I thought it was a stumper. [To Norah.] The fact is, I’m going to Canada, and mother told me you’d got a brother or something out there. Norah. A brother, not a something. Hornby. And she said, perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a letter to him. Norah. I will with pleasure. But I’m afraid he won’t be much use to you. He’s a farmer and he lives miles away from anywhere. Hornby. But I’m going in for farming. Norah. Are you? What on earth for? Hornby. I’ve jolly well got to do something, and I think farming’s about the best thing I can do. One gets a lot of shooting and riding, you know. And then there are tennis parties and dances. And you make a pot of money, there’s no doubt about that. Norah. I thought you were in some motor business in London. Hornby. Well, I was in a way. But ... I thought you’d have heard about it. Mother’s been telling everybody. Governor won’t speak to me. Altogether things are rotten. I want to get out of this beastly country as quick as I can. Norah. Would you like me to give you the letter at once? Hornby. I wish you would. [Norah sits down at an escritoire and begins to write a letter.] Fact is, I’m broke. I was all right as long as I stuck to bridge. I used to make money on that. Over a thousand a year. Miss Pringle. [Horrified.] What! Hornby. Playing regularly, you know. If I hadn’t been a fool I’d have stuck to that. But I got bitten with chemi. Norah. [Turning round.] With what? Hornby. Chemin de fer. Never heard of it? I got in the habit of going to Thornton’s. I suppose you never heard of him either. He keeps a gambling hell. Gives you a slap-up supper for nothing, as much pop as you can drink, and changes your cheques like a bird. The result is I’ve lost every bob I had, and then Thornton sued me on a cheque I’d given him. The Governor forked out, but he says I’ve got to go to Canada. I’m never going to gamble again, I can tell you that. Norah. Oh, well, that’s something. Hornby. You can’t make money at chemi. The cagnotte’s bound to clear you out in the end. When I come Norah. Here is your letter. Hornby. Thanks awfully. I daresay I shan’t want it, you know. I expect I shall get offered a job the moment I land, but there’s no harm having it. I’ll be getting along. Norah. Good-bye, then, and good luck. Hornby. Good-bye. [He shakes hands with Norah and Miss Pringle and goes out.] Miss Pringle. Norah, why don’t you go to Canada? Now your brother has a farm of his own I should have thought.... Norah. [Interrupting.] My brother’s married. He married four years ago. Miss Pringle. You never told me. Norah. I couldn’t. Miss Pringle. Norah. She was a waitress at a scrubby little hotel in Winnipeg. Miss Pringle. What are you going to do, then? Norah. It’s no good crying over spilt milk. I’ll look out for another situation. END OF FIRST ACT |
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