W. Somerset Maugham

Scene: A drawing-room at Lord Francis Etchingham’s house in Norfolk Street, Park Lane. An Adam room, with bright chintzes on the furniture, photographs on the chimney-piece and the piano, and a great many flowers. There is an archway at the back, leading into another drawing-room, and it is through this that visitors are introduced by the butler. On the left is a large bow window, and on the right a door leading into the library.

Lord and Lady Francis.

Lord Francis Etchingham is a man of fifty, of the middle height, rather bald, with an amiable, weak face. He is a good-natured person, anxious to do his best in all things and to all people so long as he is not bored. He wants everything to go smoothly. He has a comfortable idea of his own capacity. Reduced circumstances have drawn him into affairs, and he regards himself as a fine man of business. Lady Francis is a handsome and well-preserved woman of the same age as her husband, with dyed red hair; she has a massive, almost an imposing, presence, and she is admirably gowned. She treats her husband with good-humoured scorn, aware of his foibles, but amused rather than annoyed by them. When the curtain rises Francis Etchingham is a prey to the liveliest vexation. He is walking nervously across the room, while his wife, with a thin smile, stands quietly watching him. With a gesture of irritation he flings himself into a chair.

Etchingham.

Why the dickens didn’t you tell me last night, Angela?

Lady Francis.

[Smiling.] I had no wish to disturb my night’s rest.

Etchingham.

Upon my soul, I don’t know what you mean. It’s incomprehensible to me that you should have slept like a top. I couldn’t have closed my eyes the whole night.

Lady Francis.

I know. And you would have taken excellent care that I shouldn’t close mine either.

Etchingham.

I should have thought I had enough to do without being pestered with a foolish woman’s matrimonial difficulties.

Lady Francis.

[With a laugh.] You really have a very detached way of looking at things, Frank. No one would imagine, to hear you speak, that the foolish woman in question was your daughter.

Etchingham.

Really, Angela, I must beg you not to make this a subject of flippancy.

Lady Francis.

[Good-humouredly.] Well, what do you propose to do?

Etchingham.

[Flying out of his chair.] Do? What do you expect me to do? You tell me that Kate came home at twelve o’clock last night without a stitch of clothing....

Lady Francis.

My dear, if I told you that I was most unwarrantably distorting the truth.

Etchingham.

[Irritably correcting himself.] In a ball dress, with an opera cloak on—without her luggage, without even a dressing-case—and informs you that she’s left her husband.... It’s absurd.

Lady Francis.

Quite absurd. And so unnecessarily dramatic.

Etchingham.

And when’s she going home?

Lady Francis.

She assures me that she’s not going home.

Etchingham.

[Almost beside himself.] She’s not going to stay here?

Lady Francis.

Those are her plans at the moment.

Etchingham.

And George?

Lady Francis.

Well?

Etchingham.

You don’t suppose her husband’s going to put up with this nonsense? Has he made no sign?

Lady Francis.

Ten minutes after she arrived he sent a messenger boy—with a toothbrush.

Etchingham.

Why a toothbrush?

Lady Francis.

I don’t know. Presumably to brush her teeth.

Etchingham.

Well, that shows he doesn’t look upon the matter as serious. Of course, it was a whim on Kate’s part. Luckily he’s coming here this morning....

Lady Francis.

[Interrupting.] Is he?

Etchingham.

Yes, he promised to fetch me in his car. We’re going to drive down to the City together. I’ll bring him in, and meanwhile you can talk to Kate. I dare say she’s thought better of it already. It only wants a little tact, and we can settle the whole thing. George is clever enough to have given some plausible explanation to the servants.

Lady Francis.

Are you really under the impression things are going to pass off in that way?

Etchingham.

Why not?

Lady Francis.

They say it’s a wise man who knows his own father, but it’s apparently a wiser man still who knows his own daughter.

Etchingham.

Angela, for goodness’ sake don’t try to be bright and amusing.

Lady Francis.

Do you know so little of Kate as to imagine she would have taken a step of this kind without having quite made up her mind?

Etchingham.

You don’t mean to say you think Kate will refuse to go back to her husband?

Lady Francis.

I do.

Etchingham.

But what reasons does she give? Why did she say she left him?

Lady Francis.

She gave no reasons. She merely stated the fact and asked if I could put her up.

Etchingham.

Well, she must go back to her husband.

Lady Francis.

[As if it were the most innocent question.] Why?

Etchingham.

Because a woman’s place is by her husband’s side, Angela. You know just as well as I do that I can’t afford to quarrel with George Winter. I’m chairman of half a dozen of his companies. The position would be intolerable. I should be expected to take Kate’s side if she were right or wrong.

Lady Francis.

I suppose you owe him money?

Etchingham.

No, not exactly.

Lady Francis.

Ah! [With a shrewd look at him and a smile.] And how much is it that you—don’t exactly owe him?

Etchingham.

We’re mixed up together in any number of business undertakings, and naturally we have a sort of running account. If we settled up I dare say I should have to find something like fifteen thousand pounds.

Lady Francis.

Good heavens, I thought you’d been making money.

Etchingham.

Yes, I did, but the fact is, we’ve been very badly hit lately. Practically all our interests are in Central America, and we couldn’t foresee that there’d be a revolution there.

Lady Francis.

The possibility might have crossed your mind.

Etchingham.

Oh, I knew you’d blame me. And I suppose you’ll blame me because a confounded earthquake smashed up one of our railways.

Lady Francis.

And how d’you propose to raise fifteen thousand pounds?

Etchingham.

That’s just it. It would be devilish awkward. And George is in a confounded tight place too.

Lady Francis.

You’d better talk to Kate. I’ll send for her.

[She touches a bell, and gives her order down a speaking tube.

Lady Francis.

Ask Mrs. Winter to be good enough to come to the drawing room.

Etchingham.

You must talk to her seriously, Angela. You must tell her that her behaviour is outrageous.

Lady Francis.

[With a chuckle.] No, my dear. You are going to talk to her.

[Catherine Winter comes in. She is a graceful woman, with a strong, passionate face; and her expression, rather tired but self-contained and resolute, suggests that she has endured great trouble and is now making a desperate effort to escape. She is very simply dressed and wears no jewellery but her wedding ring.

Catherine.

Good-morning, father.

[She goes up to Lord Francis and kisses his cheek.

Etchingham.

[With elaborate politeness.] Be so good as to sit down, Catherine.

[Catherine exchanges with her mother a glance of faint amusement and takes a seat.

Etchingham.

[With a fine assumption of paternal authority.] I want to talk to you. Your mother and I have sent for you.... [Breaking out.] Now what does all this mean? It’s ridiculous nonsense. You’re surely old enough to have learnt a little self-control.

Catherine.

[Calmly.] I’ve shown a good deal of self-control during the four years of my married life, father. I was afraid it was growing into a habit.

Etchingham.

Am I to understand that what your mother tells me is true?

Catherine.

[Quietly.] I lived with George as long as I could. I put up with more than any woman I know would have done. But there are some things no one should suffer who has any self-respect.

Etchingham.

You’ve never complained before of George’s behaviour.

Catherine.

No.

Etchingham.

Why have you never said a word to your mother about it? I can’t imagine why you shouldn’t get on with George. I don’t suppose you’ve ever expressed a whim that he hasn’t gratified. Your allowance is princely. Your pearls are the envy of every woman in London.

Catherine.

Oh, yes, he’s generous. My pearls have been a splendid advertisement.

Etchingham.

[Ignoring the second sentence and pouncing on the admission.] Then what have you got to complain of?

Catherine.

I dare say my mother knows what half London is chattering about.

Etchingham.

Well, Angela?

Lady Francis.

Oh, my dear, I hoped it was idle gossip. A man as much in the public eye as George Winter—the most prominent financier of the moment—is certain to be talked about.

Etchingham.

I suppose he’s been flirting with two or three pretty women.

Lady Francis.

I understand things are supposed to have gone rather further than that.

Etchingham.

That’s the kind of thing a tactful woman must close her eyes to. You’re a woman of the world, Kate. You know what men are. You must extend a certain degree of licence to a man of George Winter’s temperament.

Catherine.

You don’t understand, father. I bore my life till I couldn’t bear it any longer. I’m not the sort of woman to make scenes. I held my tongue, I closed my eyes, till something happened which I couldn’t endure. I’ve left him fully decided to divorce him. Nothing that you can say will move me.

Etchingham.

But you can’t divorce him. You’ve accused him of nothing but infidelity. You can’t be so ignorant of the law....

Catherine.

[Interrupting.] I’m not at all ignorant of the law. I assure you that he has complied fully with all the conditions which are needful.

Lady Francis.

Kate.

Catherine.

Please don’t ask me. I feel that my whole soul is foul with....

Etchingham.

Well, of course there are always two sides to every question.

Catherine.

Oh, father, you’re not going to tell me that that, too, is usual in polite society, for a man to.... Oh!

[She gives a gesture and a cry of disgust.

Lady Francis.

I wonder if you’d go and read your Times, Frank. I should like to talk to Katie alone.

Etchingham.

[With a look from his wife to his daughter.] Eh, very well. Perhaps you can do something with her. Tell her what it means if she persists. I suppose I shall find the Times in the library.

[He goes out.

Lady Francis.

[With a smile.] Your father has such a power of delusion. He never looks at anything but the Daily Mail, but he’s quite convinced that he reads nothing but the Times.

Catherine.

[Passionately.] Oh, mother, you’ll stand by me, won’t you? You know what I’ve gone through. If you care for me at all you must have some pity.

[Lady Francis looks at her coolly. She is quite unmoved by the vehemence of the appeal. She pauses for a moment before answering.

Lady Francis.

Why have you chosen this particular moment to leave your husband?

Catherine.

There are limits to human endurance.

Lady Francis.

You’ve lived a good deal apart. Like civilized people you’ve made the best of a mutual want of sympathy. I should have thought George interfered with you very little. I have an idea that no woman would care to undergo the—inconvenience of proceedings for divorce without a very good reason. You’ve got a peculiarly fastidious taste, Katie. It must be something rather out of the way that induces you to expose your private life to all and sundry.

Catherine.

It’s merely a choice of ignominies.

[Lady Francis pauses an instant, then raps out the question sharply.

Lady Francis.

Are you in love?

Catherine.

You have no right to ask me that, mother.

Lady Francis.

[With a slight smile.] Your indignation is almost an answer in itself, isn’t it? I suppose you want to marry.

[Catherine does not answer. She takes a step or two impatiently.

Lady Francis.

Well?

Catherine.

I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.

Lady Francis.

In that case, I should have thought you had nothing to conceal.

Catherine.

[Defiantly.] I haven’t. When I thought that everything was over for me and that life was meaningless, I found it was only just beginning. And I thanked God for all I’d gone through because perhaps it made me less unfit for the great love that descended upon me.

Lady Francis.

It’s Robert Colby, isn’t it?

Catherine.

Yes.

Lady Francis.

And you’ve made your arrangements, I suppose, to be married as soon as the decree is made absolute?

Catherine.

We haven’t discussed the matter.

Lady Francis.

But still, I may take it that is the intention?

Catherine.

Yes.

Lady Francis.

Your father wishes me to tell you that if you quarrel with George it will ruin him. He could hardly keep the position that George has given him on his various boards.

Catherine.

You will be no worse off than before I married.

Lady Francis.

Except that it appears your father owes George fifteen thousand pounds.

Catherine.

Do you want to cheat me again out of the little happiness that seems in store for me?

Lady Francis.

I want you to do what is right in your own eyes.

Catherine.

How can you be so cruel?

George Winter.

[Opening the door.] May I come in?

[He enters with Francis Etchingham. George Winter is a man of powerful build, with fine hair and fine eyes; he wears a short red beard. He is inclined to corpulence, but bears himself with an attractive swagger. He is a jovial, bland fellow. He appears to be the best-natured person in the world, and his great astuteness suggests itself only now and then in a look of his eyes. He has admirable control over an execrable temper. Catherine turns round with a startled cry at the sound of her husband’s voice.

Catherine.

George!

George Winter.

My dear, look pleased to see me. It’s only decent.

Catherine.

It’s infamous that you should come here. If you had any decent feeling....

George Winter.

[Blandly.] My dear child, I had a business engagement with your father. It’s unreasonable to expect me not to keep it because you have temporarily abandoned the conjugal roof.

Catherine.

[To her father.] You might have warned me.

Etchingham.

My dear, I was hoping that after a talk with your mother you’d have....

Catherine.

[Interrupting.] What can I do to show you that I’ve made up my mind for good and all?

George Winter.

Even after one’s made up one’s mind, it’s not too late to listen to reason.

Lady Francis.

I think for all our sakes you should listen to anything that George has to say.

Catherine.

[To George Winter.] Do you understand what my mother means?

George Winter.

[With a little chuckle.] I dimly suspect.

Catherine.

My father owes you a lot of money. He’s chairman of half your companies. He thinks that if I divorce you he’ll have to pay that money....

George Winter.

I’m sure his sense of delicacy would prevent him from remaining in my debt.

Catherine.

And you’ll make him resign his directorships?

George Winter.

[With his tongue in his cheek.] I know him well enough to feel certain that he would never wish to retain them.

Catherine.

Oh, it’s vile.

George Winter.

Or is it common sense?

[There is a moment’s pause, and when George Winter speaks it is with great seriousness.

George Winter.

Now look here, Kate; listen to me carefully. You know that all our interests are in Central America. The Lewishams had it all their own way out there till I came along. They owned the railways and the mines and the trams—everything that was worth having. Well, I knew I couldn’t oust them, but I thought I could make them take me in. I’ve been fighting them tooth and nail for ten years. They’ve done all they could to smash me by fair means and foul, but they haven’t succeeded. And now I’m in sight of my goal. I can force them to come to terms.

Catherine.

All this is nothing to me.

George Winter.

The Lewishams got on to a big thing—a mine called the Campo del Oro. But that earthquake the other day queered their pitch, and they offered bills when hard cash was the only thing to do the trick. I thought that what was good enough for the Lewishams was good enough for me. I knew that if I could get it they’d have to take me in. I had two hours to think it over. I found the cash and bought the mine last week.

Catherine.

It doesn’t interest me.

George Winter.

It will. I sent Macdonald out there.

Etchingham.

Macdonald is George’s expert. He’s the soundest man in the profession.

George Winter.

And straight, straight as a die. I’m expecting his report every day. He may cable me at any moment. Then I shall get to work. I’m going to float the mine as a company with a capital of half a million. Your father will be chairman, and he ought to make close on fifty thousand out of it. For a reason I needn’t tell you, we can’t afford to wait. We must have ready money, and that means floating the company at once. My only chance is in Middlepool, where three parts of my backing have come from before. We shall soon be in the middle of a General Election. And you know how uncertain my seat in Middlepool is. I keep it only by my personal popularity. I’m at the mercy of the Nonconformists, and if there’s talk of a divorce it’s all U.P. with me. They’ll make me retire before the election, and if that happens the new company won’t stand a dog’s chance.

Lady Francis.

Why?

George Winter.

Because with the general public nervous, I shall have to depend on Middlepool, and there I can only float it on my personal character.

Catherine.

I’m afraid you’ll think it very selfish, but I haven’t any more power of self-sacrifice in me.

George Winter.

If the Campo del Oro is a failure, it’ll knock down all the other companies I’m connected with. The Lewishams will seize the opportunity to make a raid on me. I’m standing on the edge of a precipice, and anyone who cares to give me a shove will send me over.... It’ll mean your father’s ruin and mine—I dare say you don’t mind that—but it’ll also mean the ruin of thousands of poor investors all over the country. Three-quarters of the population of Middlepool will lose their savings.

Catherine.

You’ve lied to me so often, George.

George Winter.

I can show you by plain figures that every word I say is true.

Catherine.

I haven’t much sympathy with the gamblers who want to make money without working for it. If they lose, it’s their own look out.

[There is a pause. George Winter looks at her and nods to himself.

George Winter.

[To Etchingham.] I think you’d better go now. The rest of our conversation doesn’t need any listeners.

Catherine.

I have nothing more to say to you.

George Winter.

Don’t be a damned fool. It’s a matter of life and death to me, and d’you think I’m going to ... [He stops.] Please, Lady Francis.

Lady Francis.

Of course we’ll leave you. Come, Frank.

[Lady Francis and her husband go out.

George Winter.

[With a twinkle in his eye.] I don’t think your elopement receives the unqualified approval of your parents.

Catherine.

D’you want to repeat that odious scene of last night? Surely we said all that we had to say to one another.

George Winter.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] You know, I wouldn’t have played the fool with other women if you hadn’t shown me very clearly that you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.

Catherine.

I would rather not discuss that.

George Winter.

[With a chuckle.] After all, it isn’t as if I cared a tinker’s cuss for the whole lot of them.

Catherine.

[Flushing.] And you think that makes it any better? I think I could have forgiven you if you’d had any love for those wretched women. But it wasn’t even that. You exposed me to all that humiliation merely to gratify your vanity. When I’ve seen how you’ve treated those women I, even I, have been sorry for them.

George Winter.

If you like I’ll give you my solemn word of honour that you shall have no cause to complain in future.

Catherine.

It’s too late. You’ve given me my chance of freedom and I mean to take it.

George Winter.

You’re not keeping your part of the bargain.

Catherine.

What d’you mean?

George Winter.

You didn’t marry me because you were in love with me....

Catherine.

[Interrupting.] That’s not true.

George Winter.

[With a smile.] Think.

Catherine.

[Hesitating.] A year ago I would have said again that it wasn’t true. I didn’t know what love was.

George Winter.

You married me because I was rich.

Catherine.

[Passionately.] No, no.

George Winter.

I’d just won a seat that they’d given me because they thought I hadn’t a chance. I won it off my own bat, because I imposed myself on Middlepool and forced them to vote for me. I was in the public eye. I was a power already. The world seemed at my feet.

Catherine.

All that’s very harmless. You flattered me. The life you offered me seemed so large, so full, and I was very young. I was dazzled by your brilliancy and your success. I mistook it for love.

George Winter.

And I married you because I wanted a wife. You happened to have an uncle who’s a duke, and aristocratic connexions are devilish useful in England to a Radical politician.

Catherine.

[Bitterly.] Oh, yes, I found out soon enough why you married me.

George Winter.

It was a business arrangement on both sides, and you’ve had your full share of the profits.

Catherine.

[Outraged.] Oh, how can you?

George Winter.

You’d always lived in a pokey way and I gave you magnificence. I’ve kept even the spirit of my part of the bargain. Your father wasn’t mentioned in the settlements. But every stick of furniture in this house has been bought with my money. The very clothes on your mother’s back are paid for by me.

Catherine.

That’s not true.

George Winter.

You don’t think your father is worth the money I give him. He’s as incompetent as all the rest of these damned fools who come from the West-End and think they can make money in the City. The nincompoop thinks himself a financial authority. The charwoman of a bucket-shop could give him points.

Catherine.

He has his name and his position.

George Winter.

Nowadays even a country curate will fight shy of a title on a prospectus. The salaries he gets are merely payments for you.

Catherine.

Oh, you’ve said all this so often. For years you’ve bullied me with your money. I was such a fool, because you said it was dishonest of me to go, rather than that even you should have the smallest cause to blame me, I bore everything. I clenched my hands and suffered.

George Winter.

[With a chuckle.] In a diamond tiara and a Paquin dress.

Catherine.

I thought I should have the strength to suffer to the end. But I haven’t. If you bought an article and it hasn’t turned out worth the money you gave for it, that’s your look out. You see, you’ve taught me something after all.

[A very short pause. George Winter makes up his mind to try compromise.

George Winter.

Now, look here; I’m willing to meet you half-way. I don’t ask you to come back to me. You can live as you like and where you like. I’ll give you five thousand a year. Your father can keep his directorships. The only thing I ask is that you shouldn’t apply for a divorce and that you should appear with me at certain public functions.

Catherine.

[Passionately.] I want to be free. I’ve lived in an atmosphere of lies and hypocrisy till I can hardly breathe. Your good nature is merely a pose. Your generosity is merely an advertisement. You care for nothing but your own self-advancement. And I want to be rid of the horrible feeling that all sorts of shady things are going on around me that I don’t know.

George Winter.

[Sharply.] What d’you mean?

Catherine.

I know that you’re not honest.

George Winter.

What d’you mean? What d’you mean? What d’you mean?

Catherine.

You’re hurting me.

George Winter.

[In his rage hardly able to articulate.] Damn you, how dare you say that to me?

Catherine.

Let me go.

George Winter.

Why don’t you answer? What d’you mean?

Catherine.

[Shaking herself free.] I’ll tell you what I mean. I know that if the occasion arose you wouldn’t hesitate to steal.

George Winter.

[With a laugh of relief.] Is that all?

Catherine.

For years I’ve been tortured by the horror of it. Each pearl you’ve given me—and you’ve thrust them upon me—I’ve asked myself if it was honestly come by. And that’s why I want to escape from you—not only because you’ve been odiously cruel to me, even now when you’re trying to persuade me to return to you, and because you’ve flaunted before me one vulgar intrigue after another—but because I feel that all this wealth rests on lying, and swindling, and roguery.

George Winter.

[Banteringly.] Well, you must confess that so far I’ve been eminently successful in not getting found out.

Catherine.

[Taking no notice of his remark.] And now surely you have nothing more to say to me.

George Winter.

[With a bland smile.] My dear, knowing how important it is to me that you should return to the conjugal roof, you don’t imagine I have come without some means to persuade you.

Catherine.

I assure you you’re wasting your time. You’ve always told me it was valuable.

George Winter.

[In his most delightful manner.] You seem to be under the delusion it rests with you to make conditions.

Catherine.

I make no conditions. I merely announce my decision.

George Winter.

[Taking a letter from his pocket and quietly smoothing it out on a table.] I’ve never suffered from that form of snobbishness which makes many self-made men hurl their origin in the face of a British public only too anxious to pretend it thinks them the scions of a noble house. But I have never concealed from you that mine was humble.

Catherine.[Suspiciously.] What is that paper?

George Winter.

[Ignoring the question.] That is one of the pills you had to swallow when I married you and your excellent but impoverished family. I started life with neither friend nor money, but with exceptionally fine parts. I soon discovered that the simplest way to succeed is by blackmail. It is astonishing how many men keep a large-sized skeleton in their cupboards. If you only get a sight of those discreditable bones, you can often make a whole family your bosom friends. I’m not boring you, am I?

Catherine.

You’re torturing me.

George Winter.

This is a copy of a letter which you may remember. The original was so crumpled that I can’t help thinking you were romantic enough to sleep with it under your pillow. It begins: My very dear friend....

Catherine.

[Interrupting.] How did you get that?

George Winter.

I can never understand why people are such fools as to write love-letters. I never do. I only send telegrams.

Catherine.

[With flashing eyes.] You didn’t go to my dressing-case?

George Winter.

[Amused.] I did indeed.

Catherine.

[Looking at the Bramah-key on her bracelet.] You broke it open?

George Winter.

When I made you a present of your dressing-case, I kept the duplicate key in case you lost yours.

Catherine.

It’s infamous. It’s—it’s just like you.

George Winter.

[Smiling.] Why on earth were you so incautious as to leave it behind?

Catherine.

[Indignantly.] I thought I could trust you. It never struck me that you’d pry into my private papers.

George Winter.

[With a chuckle.] Nonsense. You were so taken with the dramatic gesture of leaving the house in a pink satin opera cloak that you forgot all about it.

Catherine.

There’s nothing in any of my letters that I’m ashamed of.

George Winter.

Would you like to look at this one?

Catherine.

[Refusing to take it.] I know that there can be absolutely no harm in it.

George Winter.

I wonder what a clever counsel would make of it. I can imagine it read in such a manner that those vague words should gather form and substance. A little irony, a grotesque emphasis here and there, and I can see the junior bar rolling with laughter. I don’t imagine a parliamentary light like your friend Robert Colby would take ridicule very well. It’s only by his entire lack of humour that he’s risen to the exalted position he now adorns.

Catherine.

[Frightened.] What d’you mean, George?

George Winter.

[Good-humouredly.] My dear, I’m going to bring a counter petition, that’s all. You want to wash your dirty linen in public, let’s have an entire spring cleaning.

Catherine.

[Scornfully.] Oh, my dear George, if you only knew how indifferent I am to such a threat! We haven’t done anything with which we can reproach ourselves.

George Winter.

[Banteringly.] You astonish me, my dear Kate. Surely it can’t have slipped your memory that Robert Colby, snatching a brief and well-earned holiday from affairs of state, made a tour of North Italy last Easter, and you accompanied him.

Catherine.

[Flaring up.] That’s not true. You know it’s not true. I went with Barbara Herbert....

George Winter.

[Interrupting, with a twinkle in his eye.] And a maid. It’s always a little unsafe to trust maids, especially Scotch maids with strongly religious principles.

Catherine.

What have you been doing?

George Winter.

[Taking a paper out of his pocket.] Here is another interesting little document that I’ve been at some pains to acquire. Being, alas! aware that the wife of my bosom might—turn troublesome one day or another, I thought it safe to have a weapon in my hand for future use. It is a list of the hotels at which you stayed. Shall I read it to you?

Catherine.

If you choose.

George Winter.

[Hugely amused.] At Milan you stayed at the Palace, and Robert Colby at the Cavour.

Catherine.

[Sarcastically.] Damning, isn’t it?

George Winter.

But perhaps finding the Palace noisy, and trusting in Mr. Robert Colby’s better judgment, at Venice you both stayed at the Danielli.

Catherine.

[With a shrug of the shoulders.] Where else should one stay?

George Winter.

I find in my Baedeker that there are twenty-seven hotels in Venice, but I daresay it was very natural that you should both hit upon the Danielli. And you took the precaution of arriving twenty hours after him. But at Ravenna, flinging prudence to the winds, you arrived on the same day, by the same train, and you put up at the same hotel.

Catherine.

There is only one.

George Winter.

You had rooms seventeen and eighteen, and Barbara Herbert had room five.

Catherine.

There was only one vacant room on the first floor, and of course I insisted that Barbara should take it.

George Winter.

Unselfish in the extreme, and just like you, my dear; but don’t you think it was a little indiscreet?

Catherine.

We had nothing to be ashamed of, and therefore we had nothing to fear.

George Winter.

I’ve often thought that was the greatest drawback of innocence. It makes one so devilish imprudent.

Catherine.

I went to Italy with your express consent. I wrote and told you that I’d met Robert Colby. Chance threw us together in Venice; we found we were making practically the same tour, and we joined forces. I saw no harm in it. I see no harm in it now. You can make what use of the admissions you like.

George Winter.

And do you think you will be able to persuade a British jury that you and Robert Colby travelled through Italy together merely to look at churches and pictures?

Catherine.

George, I know now that I never cared for you, but I promise you on my word of honour that I’ve never been unfaithful to you.

George Winter.

My dear, it’s not a question of convincing me—I am the most trusting, the most credulous of mortals—but of convincing the twelve good men and true who form a British jury.

Catherine.

You’re not a fool, George. You know people, and you know what I’m capable of and what I’m not. In your heart you’re certain that I’ve done nothing that can give you any cause for complaint. I’ve suffered a great deal during these four years—I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy to go through what I have—I implore you not to drag me through this horror.

George Winter.

My dear, your simple-mindedness positively takes me aback.

Catherine.

[Indignantly.] How can you be so ignoble?

George Winter.

[Dropping his bantering tone, quickly and sternly.] You must know me very little, Kate. My whole life is at stake, and you think I’m going to be moved by entreaties or abuse? I’m at the most critical point of my career. Part of my strength is that I never deceive myself. I’m only an adventurer. My millions are paper millions, and I want to be in such a position that if I’m in need of half a million I can go to the big men and get it, and if one of them asks me for half a million I can afford to put it down. And now, if only I hold on, I shall get everything I want. And you come and whine before me and play the fool. What d’you think I care for your twopenny-halfpenny love-affairs? Do what you like. I don’t care, so long as you’re not flagrant.

Catherine.

[Indignantly.] Oh!

George Winter.

That anyone can be such a fool as to let love interfere with his life! It’s so unimportant.

Catherine.

To me it means the whole world.

George Winter.

Well, I give you your choice. If you bring an action against me I bring a counter-petition.

Catherine.

[Stung into defiance.] My choice is made long ago. I’m strong in my innocence.

George Winter.

You’ll ruin me and ruin your father, but you’ll ruin Robert Colby as well.

Catherine.

[Quickly.] What do you mean?

George Winter.

You don’t mean to say you’re so simple-minded as to imagine he can do anything but resign his seat if he were made co-respondent in a divorce case? They say, if we get in again, he’s to be given the Ministry of War. Humpty-Dumpty. It’s the end of his political career.

Catherine.

[Desperately.] We have nothing to reproach ourselves with. Nothing.

George Winter.

You sent a note to him last night. What did you say?

Catherine.

[Defiantly.] I asked him to come here at twelve o’clock.

George Winter.

[Taking out his watch.] It’s nearly twelve now. I’ll wait. And you shall talk to him.

Anne.

[As she comes in.] Good morning, good people.

Catherine.

[With a pleasant, affectionate smile.] Ah, Nan.

Anne.

[Going up to George Winter.] Well, how is my great brother-in-law?

George Winter.

He’s in his usual rude health, thank you.

Anne.

I’ve brought Teddie to introduce him to you.

O’Donnell.

How d’you do?

Anne.

[With a flourish.] This is the Napoleon of Finance. He owns seventeen companies, five gold mines, two railways, a house in Portman Square, two places in the country, a yacht, five motor-cars, the family of Etchingham....

George Winter.

[Interrupting.] Take a long breath and say ninety-nine.

Anne.

[Laughing.] Don’t be ridiculous.

George Winter.

Now, what is it you want?

Anne.

I? [Coaxingly.] You’re an old dear, George.

George Winter.

I thought so. Well, what is it?

Anne.

I want you to give Mr. O’Donnell a job.

Catherine.

Anne!

O’Donnell.

I say, Nan, you needn’t put it so bluntly.

Anne.

It’s no good beating about the bush with George, is it?

George Winter.

[Amused and pleased.] Not much.

Anne.

Now, sit down and let me talk sensibly to you.

Catherine.

Anne, I’d rather you didn’t—just now. George and I are busy.

George Winter.

Have they interrupted you, darling? I thought you had nothing more you wanted to say.

Anne.

Is anything the matter?

George Winter.

Nothing. Kate’s a little under the weather this morning.

Anne.

Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. What is it?

George Winter.

I warned you not to eat that pÂtÉ de foie gras last night, my dear. It always disagrees with you.

Catherine.

Please don’t worry about me.

George Winter.

[To Anne.] Why d’you want me to give Mr. O’Donnell a job?

Anne.

Because he’s my young man.

George Winter.

Is he, by Jove!

O’Donnell.

I offered her my hand and heart....

Anne.

[Interrupting.] And being a practical person I promptly inquired what were his worldly possessions.

O’Donnell.

They’re not only nil, they’re astonishingly nil. In point of fact, if you reckon debts they’re positively minus.

Anne.

So I fell into his arms and said, let us put up the banns at once.

George Winter.

[Very jolly and affable.] That’s where I come in.

Anne.

Well, I thought he might manage one of your railways or be your chauffeur, or if you didn’t think he was good enough for that you might make him director of one of your companies.

Catherine.

Nan, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

Anne.

Good heavens, if papa can direct companies surely Teddie can.

Catherine.

No, I didn’t mean that. But there are circumstances that you don’t understand. Mr. O’Donnell can’t ask George to do anything for him. Mr. O’Donnell....

George Winter.

[Quite good-humouredly.] Really, Kate, you might let me answer for myself.

Anne.

George always said he’d help me when I wanted to marry.

George Winter.

[To O’Donnell.] I presume your idea is to go into the City?

O’Donnell.

Yes, more or less.

George Winter.

Educated at a public school, I suppose?

O’Donnell.

Yes, I was at Harrow.

George Winter.

[With a twinkle in his eye.] Then I may take it that you tried to get into the Army and failed?

O’Donnell.

Yes, I suppose I did.

George Winter.

And you hadn’t got enough money to go into the diplomatic?

Anne.

How on earth d’you know, George?

George Winter.

When a young man of family and education tells me he wants to go into the City, I know it’s because he’s too incompetent to do anything else. Fifty years ago the fool of good family went into the Church, now he goes into the City.

O’Donnell.

You’re not very flattering.

George Winter.

I dare say you’ll suit me all right.

Anne.

Oh, George, you are a brick.

George Winter.

Give me a kiss and I’ll find him a job.

Anne.

I’ll give you two.

George Winter.

I shan’t find him two jobs.

Anne.

I can’t imagine why everybody’s so afraid of you, George. You’re an old dear.

George Winter.

A heart of gold, that’s what I always tell Kate. [To O’Donnell.] Come and see me to-morrow morning, and we’ll have a talk about things.

O’Donnell.

It’s awfully good of you.

George Winter.

You know, you’ll have to do as you’re told if you come to me.

O’Donnell.

I dare say I shan’t mind that.

George Winter.

It’s not always pleasant being at the beck and call of a damned bounder.

O’Donnell.

How d’you mean?

George Winter.

Of course you look upon me as a damned bounder. I know that. I wasn’t educated at Harrow. My father was a hatter at Middlepool, a Nonconformist, and an aitchless one at that. I went to sea when I was fourteen, and when I was your age I was earning twenty-five bob a week as clerk in a bucket shop. Of course I’m a damned bounder.

Anne.

Now, George, don’t be disagreeable.

George Winter.

Well, run along, children.... Have you spoken to your father about this?

Anne.

No, we’re going to leave you to do that.

George Winter.

Are you?

Anne.

Well, you see, father’s sure to kick up a bit of a row because Teddie’s so absolutely stony, but if you say you’ve given him a job....

Catherine.

Father may object....

Anne.

Oh, he wouldn’t dare if George said it was all right.

George Winter.

[Kindly.] Are you really very keen on marrying?

Anne.

Awfully.

George Winter.

Well, I’ll see what I can do. Good-bye.

Catherine.

George, you’re not going to take Teddie O’Donnell in your service. You must understand it’s impossible.

George Winter.

[Coolly.] Why?

Catherine.

We can accept nothing from you.

George Winter.

This disinterestedness is rather a new trait in your family, isn’t it?

Catherine.

You’re only wasting his time in making him come down to see you to-morrow.

George Winter.

I don’t suppose it’s as valuable as all that.

Catherine.

Anne will have to be told the facts, and she’ll see at once that it’s out of the question for Teddie to accept favours from you.

George Winter.

I wonder.

Catherine.

[Defiantly.] I have no doubt of it.

George Winter.

Do you think she’ll be pleased when she’s told that, owing to your unreasonableness, her marriage can’t take place? Are you sure she won’t say that she has no quarrel with me?

Catherine.

I should make her understand.

George Winter.

It seems rather selfish on your part, doesn’t it? If Anne’s heart is set upon marrying this rather foolish boy, have you the heart to prevent her?

Catherine.

I’ve sacrificed myself long enough. It’s Anne’s turn now.

George Winter.

You’ll find self-sacrifice one of the forms of self-indulgence in which people are never wildly anxious to take turn and turn about.

Catherine.

What can you do with Teddie O’Donnell? He’s no good to you.

George Winter.

I’m not sure. I like dealing with gentlemen. When they go into the City they take to dirty work with an alacrity which you often don’t find in the City man born and bred.

Catherine.

Even if there was nothing else, I would do all I could to prevent a decent boy from being exposed to your influence.

George Winter.

Well, you may try yours on Anne. Tell her that I’ll start her young man on four hundred a year, and I’ll allow her a couple of hundred more, so that they can marry next week if they want to. And add that you are divorcing me, and it would be monstrous if either of them accepted my offer.

Catherine.

Oh, I know well enough that you didn’t make him pretty speeches because you took any interest in doing a kindness. It was merely another coil of the chain you’ve twisted round me. Oh, it’s fiendish. Each way I turn I find that you bar my way.

George Winter.

In the agitation of the moment you seem to be mixing your metaphors, my dear.

Thompson.

Mr. Robert Colby has come, madam.

George Winter.

Is he waiting downstairs?

Thompson.

I’ve shown him in the morning-room. He said he would wait till you were disengaged, ma’am.

George Winter.

Ask him to come up. [To Catherine.] I’ll leave you——

Thompson.

Very good, sir.

George Winter.

With my best wishes. I’ll go and discuss the weather and the crops with your excellent father, and you shall discuss the situation with Robert Colby.

Catherine.

For goodness’ sake leave me alone.

George Winter.

Suggest a counter-petition and see how he takes it. My own impression is that he’ll run like a rabbit.

George Winter.

And if he does, you know whose arms are open to receive you. Whose 60 Mercedes is panting to take you to whose sheltering roof.

Thompson.

Mr. Robert Colby.

Catherine.

How good of you to come.

Colby.

[Taking her hands.] You look as if you were surprised to see me.

Catherine.

You must be frantically busy. I thought you might not be able to manage it.

Colby.

You know very well wild labour leaders couldn’t have prevented me.

Catherine.

Of course I know you wouldn’t really let me interfere with anything serious, but it’s very pleasant to flatter myself that the whole country is waiting while you’re wasting your time with me. D’you know what I’ve done?

Colby.

I suspected what your note meant, but I’m anxious to hear it from your own lips.

Catherine.

I’ve crossed the Rubicon. I’m seeing my solicitor to-day, and the petition will be filed as soon as ever it’s possible.

Colby.

I’m so glad. You had no right to go on with that degrading life.

Catherine.

I want you to assure me again that I’m right. I’m so weak. I feel so utterly defenceless.

Colby.

It won’t be very long now before....

Catherine.

[Interrupting.] No, not yet, Robert.

Colby.

I want to tell you at once how passionately I love you.

Catherine.

[With the tenderest of smiles.] D’you think it’s needful? I’m so glad to think you’ve never made love to me. There was all the love I wanted in the look of your eyes, and your voice, though you said quite commonplace things, told me that you cared for me.

Colby.

I’ve never even kissed your hand, Kate.

Catherine.

I’m very grateful to you. Now more than ever I want to feel quite sure that we have nothing to reproach ourselves with.

Colby.

It’s rather hard on me.

Catherine.

Do you think I find it any easier? Sometimes when I’ve been dreadfully lonely, dreadfully wretched, I’ve longed to be able to rest my head on your shoulder, and I’ve thought I might have loved my tears if you could have kissed them away.

Colby.

Were you angry with me when I wrote to you? The one foolish letter?

Catherine.

How could I be?

Colby.

I was dreadfully unhappy then. Everything I tried seemed to go wrong. I was utterly dispirited, and I couldn’t help writing.

Catherine.

I read the letter till I knew every word by heart. Sometimes I wonder how I could have borne my life at all except for the knowledge that you cared for me.

Colby.

You’ve never once told me that you love me, Kate.

Catherine.

D’you want me to say it in so many words? Why else d’you think I’m exposing myself to all the humiliation, all the horrors that are before me? Yes, I love you with all my heart and soul.

Colby.

And after it’s all over?

Catherine.

It shall be as you wish.

Colby.

You’ve meant so much to me, Kate. All the success I’ve had I feel that I owe to you. Sometimes I’ve hated the intrigues and the littleness of politics. I’ve been tempted to give the whole thing up. But you put fresh courage into me. It’s because of you that I’ve been able to ignore the rest and just keep my eyes fixed always on the greatness of the aim.

Catherine.

[Smiling.] It makes me so proud to hear you say that.

Colby.

[Lightly.] Did you read the speech I made yesterday?

Catherine.

No, I’m afraid I haven’t yet.

Colby.

[Gaily.] Wretched woman! And every jack one of the papers has given a leader on it.

Catherine.

I’m so sorry. It’s horrid of me.

Colby.

[Laughing.] What nonsense! Of course you’ve had much more important things to think about.

Catherine.

Tell me all about it. I suppose it was the Army debate.

Colby.

Yes, I burnt my ships behind me. I said I thought some form of compulsory service was essential. Perigal’s going to the country at once. I think we shall get in. And if we do ... I wish to goodness they’d give me the War Office. Of course, after six years in office we can only hope for a small majority, and every seat will count. I wonder what will happen at Middlepool.

Catherine.

George is very popular.

Colby.

Yes, that’s just it. As long as he was there the seat was safe. I wonder if anyone else will be able to hold it.

Catherine.

Do you think it will be impossible for him to stand again?

Colby.

Quite. And rightly. No man’s obliged to go into Parliament. If he does it’s his duty to keep clear of scandal.

[Catherine gives a very slight start, and when she speaks her voice is not quite steady.