  Scene. Mrs. Vida Phillimore's boudoir. The room is furnished to please an empty-headed, pleasure-loving and fashionable woman. The furniture, the ornaments, what pictures there are, all witness to taste up-to-date. Two French windows open on to a balcony, from which the trees of Central Park can be seen. There is a table between them; a mirror, a scent bottle, &c., upon it. On the right, up stage, is a door; on the right, down stage, another door. A lady's writing-table stands between the two, nearer centre of stage. There is another door up stage; below it, an open fireplace, filled with potted plants, andirons, &c., not in use. Over it is a tall mirror; on the mantel-piece are a French clock, candelabra, vases, &c. On a line with the fireplace is a lounge, gay with silk pillows. A florist's box, large and long, filled with American Beauty roses, rests on a low table near the head of the lounge. Small tables and light chairs where needed. Benson, alone in the room, is looking critically about her. She is a neat and pretty little English lady's maid in black silk and a thin apron. Still surveying the room, she moves here and there, and, her eyes lighting on the box of flowers, she goes to the door of Vida's room and speaks to her. Benson. Yes, ma'am, the flowers have come. She holds open the door through which Vida, in a morning gown, comes in slowly. She is smoking a cigarette in as Æsthetic a manner as she can, and is evidently turned out in her best style for conquest. Vida. [Faces the balcony as she speaks, and is, as always, even and civil, but a bit disdainful toward her servant.] Terribly garish light, Benson. Pull down the— [Benson, obeying, partly pulls down the shade.] Lower still—that will do. [As she speaks she goes about the room, giving the tables a push here and the chairs a jerk there, and generally arranging the vases and ornaments.] Men hate a clutter of chairs and tables. [Stopping and taking up a hand mirror from the table, she faces the windows.] I really think I'm too pale for this light. Benson. [Quickly, understanding what is implied.] Yes, ma'am. [Benson goes out for the rouge, and Vida seats herself at the table. There is a knock at the door.] Come! [Brooks comes in. Brooks. [An ultra-English footman, in plush and calves.] Any horders, m'lady? Vida. [Incapable of remembering the last man, or of considering the new one.] Oh,—of course! You're the new— Brooks. Footman, m'lady. Vida. [As a matter of form.] Your name? Brooks. Brooks, m'lady. [Benson returns with the rouge. Vida. [Carefully giving instructions while she keeps her eyes on the glass and is rouged by Benson.] Brooks, I am at home to Mr. Karslake at eleven; not to any one else till twelve, when I expect Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby. [Brooks, watching Benson, is inattentive. Brooks. Yes, m'lady. Vida. [Calm, but wearied by the ignorance of the lower classes.] And I regret to inform you, Brooks, that in America there are no ladies, except salesladies! Brooks. [Without a trace of comprehension.] Yes, m'lady. Vida. I am at home to no one but the two names I have mentioned. [Brooks bows and exits. She dabs on rouge while Benson holds glass.] Is the men's club-room in order? Benson. Perfectly, ma'am. Vida. Whiskey and soda? Benson. Yes, ma'am, and the ticker's been mended. The British sporting papers arrived this morning. Vida. [Looking at her watch which lies on the dressing-table.] My watch has stopped. Benson. [Glancing at the French clock on the chimney-piece.] Five to eleven, ma'am. Vida. [Getting promptly to work.] H'm, h'm, I shall be caught. [Rising.] The box of roses, Benson! [Benson brings the box of roses, uncovers the flowers and places them at Vida's side.] My gloves—the clippers, and the vase! [Each of these things Benson places in turn within Vida's range where she sits on the sofa. She has the long box of roses at her side on a small table, a vase of water on the floor by her side. She cuts the stems and places the roses in the vase. When she feels that she has reached a picturesque position, in which any onlooker would see in her a creature filled with the love of flowers and of her fellow man, she says:] There! [The door opens and Brooks comes in; Vida nods to Benson. Brooks. [Announcing stolidly.] Sir John Karslake. John, dressed in very nobby riding togs, comes in gaily and forcibly. Benson withdraws as he enters, and is followed by Brooks. Vida, from this moment on, is busied with her roses. Vida. [Languorously, but with a faint suggestion of humour.] Is that really you, Sir John? John. [Lively and far from being impressed by Vida.] I see now where we Americans are going to get our titles. Good-morning! You look as fresh as paint. [He lays his gloves and riding crop on the table, and takes a chair. Vida. [Facing the insinuation with gentle pain.] I hope you don't mean that? I never flattered myself for a moment you'd come. You're riding Cynthia K? John. Fiddler's going to lead her round here in ten minutes! Vida. Cigars and cigarettes! Scotch? [Indicating a small table. John. Scotch! [Goes up quickly to table and helps himself to Scotch and seltzer. Vida. And now do tell me all about her! [Putting in her last roses; she keeps one rosebud in her hand, of a size suitable for a man's buttonhole. John. [As he drinks.] Oh, she's an adorable creature—delicate, high-bred, sweet-tempered— Vida. [Showing her claws for a moment.] Sweet-tempered? Oh, you're describing the horse! By "her," I meant— John. [Irritated by the remembrance of his wife.] Cynthia Karslake? I'd rather talk about the last Tornado. [He drops moodily into a chair. Vida. [With artful soothing.] There is only one thing I want to talk about, and that is, you! Why were you unhappy? John. [Still cross.] Why does a dollar last such a short time? Vida. [Curious.] Why did you part? John. Did you ever see a schooner towed by a tug? Well, I parted from Cynthia for the same reason that the hawser parts from the tug—I couldn't stand the tug. Vida. [Sympathizing.] Ah! John. [After a pause, and still cross.] Awful cheerful morning chat. Vida. [Excusing her curiosity and coming back to love as the only subject for serious conversation.] I must hear the story, for I'm anxious to know why I've taken such a fancy to you! John. [Very nonchalantly.] Why do I like you? Vida. [Doing her best to charm.] I won't tell you—it would flatter you too much. John. [Not a bit impressed by Vida, but humanly ready to flirt.] Tell me! Vida. There's a rose for you. [Giving him the one she has in her hand. John. [Saying what is plainly expected of him.] I want more than a rose— Vida. [Passing over this insinuation.] You refuse to tell me—? John. [Once more reminded of Cynthia, speaks with sudden feeling.] There's nothing to tell. We met, we loved, we married, we parted; or at least we wrangled and jangled. [Sighs.] Ha! Why weren't we happy? Don't ask me, why! It may have been partly my fault! Vida. [With tenderness.] Never! John. [His mind on Cynthia.] But I believe it's all in the way a girl's brought up. Our girls are brought up to be ignorant of life—they're ignorant of life. Life is a joke, and marriage is a picnic, and a man is a shawl-strap— 'Pon my soul, Cynthia Deane—no, I can't tell you! [In great irritation, he rises abruptly, and strides up and down the room. Vida. [Gently.] Please tell me! John. Well, she was an heiress, an American heiress—and she'd been taught to think marriage meant burnt almonds and moonshine and a yacht and three automobiles, and she thought—I don't know what she thought, but I tell you, Mrs. Phillimore, marriage is three parts love and seven parts forgiveness of sins. [He continues restlessly to pace the floor as he speaks of Cynthia. Vida. [Flattering him as a matter of second nature.] She never loved you. John. [On whom she has made no impression at all.] Yes, she did. For six or seven months there was not a shadow between us. It was perfect, and then one day she went off like a pistol-shot! I had a piece of law work and couldn't take her to see Flashlight race the Maryland mare. The case meant a big fee, big Kudos, and in sails Cynthia, Flashlight-mad! And will I put on my hat and take her? No—and bang she goes off like a stick o' dynamite—what did I marry her for?—and words—pretty high words, until she got mad, when she threw over a chair, and said, oh, well,—marriage Vida. [Gently sarcastic.] But she came back! John. She came back, but not as you mean. She stood at the door and said, "Jack, I shall divorce you." Then she came over to my study-table, dropped her wedding ring on my law papers, and went out. The door shut, I laughed; the front door slammed, I damned. [After a silence, moving abruptly to the window.] She never came back. [He turns away and then, recovering, moves toward Vida, who catches his hands. Vida. [Hoping for a contradiction.] She's broken your heart. John. [Taking a chair by the lounge.] Oh, no! Vida. [Encouraged, begins to play the game again.] You'll never love again! John. [Speaking to her from the foot of the sofa.] Try me! Try me! Ah, no, Mrs. Phillimore, I shall laugh, live, love and make money again! And let me tell you one thing—I'm going to rap her one over the knuckles. She had a stick of a Connecticut lawyer, and he—well, to cut a legal story short, since Mrs. Karslake's been in Europe, I have been quietly testing the validity of the decree of divorce. Perhaps you don't understand? Vida. [Displaying her innate shrewdness.] Oh, about a divorce, everything! John. I shall hear by this evening whether the divorce will stand or not. Vida. But it's to-day at three she marries—you won't let her commit bigamy? John. [Shaking his head.] I don't suppose I'd go as far as that. It may be the divorce will hold, but anyway I hope never to see her again. [He sits down beside her so that their faces are now directly opposite. Taking advantage of the close range, her eyes, without loss of time, open a direct fire. Vida. Ah, my poor boy, she has broken your heart. [Believing that this is her psychological moment, she lays her hand on his arm, but draws it back as soon as he attempts to take it.] Now don't make love to me. John. [Bold and amused, but never taken in.] Why not? Vida. [With immense gentleness.] Because I like you too much! [More gaily.] I might give in, and take a notion to like you still more! John. Please do! Vida. [With gush, and determined to be womanly at all hazards.] Jack, I believe you'd be a lovely lover! John. [Immensely diverted.] Try me! Vida. [Not hoping much from his tone.] You charming, tempting, delightful fellow, I could love you without the least effort in the world,—but, no! John. [Playing the game.] Ah, well, now seriously! Between two people who have suffered and made their own mistakes— Vida. [Playing the game too, but not playing it well.] But you see, you don't really love me! John. [Still ready to say what is expected.] Cynthia—Vida, no man can sit beside you and look into your eyes without feeling— Vida. [Speaking the truth as she sees it, seeing that her methods don't succeed.] Oh! That's not love! That's simply—well, my dear Jack, it's beginning at the wrong end. And the truth is you hate Cynthia Karslake with such a whole-hearted hate, that you haven't a moment to think of any other woman. John. [With sudden anger.] I hate her! Vida. [Very softly and most sweetly.] Jack—Jack, I could be as foolish about you as—oh, as foolish as anything, my dear! And perhaps some day—perhaps some day you'll come to me and say, Vida, I am totally indifferent to Cynthia—and then— John. And then? Vida. [The ideal woman in mind.] Then, perhaps, you and I may join hands and stroll together into the Garden of Eden. It takes two to find the Garden of Eden, you know—and once we're on the inside, we'll lock the gate. John. [Gaily, and seeing straight through her veneer.] And lose the key under a rose-bush! Vida. [Agreeing very softly.] Under a rose-bush! [There is a very soft knock at which John starts up quickly.] Come! [Brooks comes in, with Benson close at his heels. Brooks. [Stolid, announces.] My lady—Sir Wilf— [Benson stops him with a sharp movement and turns toward Vida. Benson. [With intention.] Your dressmaker, ma'am. [Benson waves Brooks to go and Brooks very haughtily complies. Vida. [Wonderingly.] My dressmaker, Benson? [With quick intelligence.] Oh, of course, show her up. Mr. Karslake, you won't mind for a few minutes using my men's club-room? Benson John. [Looking at his watch.] How long? Vida. [Very anxious to please.] Half a cigar! Benson will call you. John. [Practically-minded.] Don't make it too long. You see, there's my sheriff's sale on at twelve, and those races this afternoon. Fiddler will be here in ten minutes, remember! [The door opens. Vida. [To John.] Run along! [John leaves and Vida, instantly practical, makes a broad gesture to Benson.] Everything just as it was, Benson! [Benson whisks the roses out of the vase and replaces them in the box. She gives Vida scissors and empty vases, and, when Vida finds herself in precisely the same position which preceded John's entrance, she says:] There! [Brooks comes in as Vida takes a rose from basket. Brooks. [With characteristic stolidness.] Your ladyship's dressmaker! M'lady! [Enter Sir Wilfrid in morning suit, boutonniÈre, &c. Vida. [With tender surprise and busy with the roses.] Is that really you, Sir Wilfrid! I never flattered myself for an instant that you'd remember to come. Sir Wilfrid. [Moving to the head of the sofa.] Come? 'Course I come! Keen to come see you. By Jove, you know, you look as pink and white as a huntin' mornin'. Vida. [Ready to make any man as happy as possible.] You'll smoke? Sir Wilfrid. Thanks! [He watches her as she trims and arranges the flowers.] Awfully long fingers you have! Wish I was a rose, or a ring, or a pair of shears! I say, d'you ever notice what a devil of a fellow I am for originality, what? [Unlike John, is evidently impressed by her.] You've got a delicate little den up here! Not so much low livin' and high thinkin', as low lights and no thinkin' at all, I hope—eh? [By this time, Vida has filled a vase with roses and rises to sweep by him and, if possible, make another charming picture to his eyes. Vida. [Gliding gracefully past him.] You don't mind my moving about? Sir Wilfrid. [Impressed.] Not if you don't mind my watchin'. [Sitting down on the sofa.] And sayin' how wel you do it. Vida. It's most original of you to come here this morning. I don't quite see why you did. She places the roses here and there, as if to see their effect, and leaves them on a small table near the door through which her visitors entered. Sir Wilfrid. Admiration. Vida. [Sauntering slowly toward the mirror as she speaks.] Oh, I saw that you admired her! And of course, she did say she was coming here at eleven! But that was only bravado! She won't come, and besides, I've given orders to admit no one! Sir Wilfrid. [Attempting to dam the stream of her talk which flows gently but steadily on.] May I ask you— Vida. And, indeed, if she came now, Mr. Karslake has gone, and her sole object in coming was to make him uncomfortable. [She moves toward the table, stopping a half minute at the mirror to see that she looks as she wishes to look.] Very dangerous symptom, too, that passionate desire to make one's former husband unhappy! But, I can't believe that your admiration for Cynthia Karslake is so warm that it led you to pay me this visit a half hour too early in the hope of seeing— Sir Wilfrid. [Rising; most civil, but speaking his mind like a Briton.] I say, would you mind stopping a moment! [She smiles.] I'm not an American, you know; I was brought up not to interrupt. But you Americans, it's different with you! If somebody didn't interrupt you, you'd go on forever. Vida. [Passing him to tantalize.] My point is you come to see Cynthia— Sir Wilfrid. [Believing she means it.] I came hopin' to see— Vida. [Provokingly.] Cynthia! Sir Wilfrid. [Perfectly single-minded and entirely taken in.] But I would have come even if I'd known— Vida. [Evading him, while he follows.] I don't believe it! Sir Wilfrid. [Protesting whole-heartedly.] Give you my word I— Vida. [Leading him on.] You're here to see her! And of course— Sir Wilfrid. [Determined to be heard because, after all, he's a man.] May I have the—eh—the floor? [Vida sits down in a chair.] I was jolly well bowled over with Mrs. Karslake, I admit that, and I hoped to see her here, but Vida. [Talking nonsense and knowing it.] You had another object in coming. In fact, you came to see Cynthia, and you came to see me! What I really long to know is, why you wanted to see me! For, of course, Cynthia's to be married at three! And, if she wasn't she wouldn't have you! Sir Wilfrid. [Not intending to wound; merely speaking the flat truth.] Well, I mean to jolly well ask her. Vida. [Indignant.] To be your wife? Sir Wilfrid. Why not? Vida. [Still indignant.] And you came here, to my house—in order to ask her— Sir Wilfrid. [Truthful even on a subtle point.] Oh, but that's only my first reason for coming, you know. Vida. [Concealing her hopes.] Well, now I am curious—what is the second? Sir Wilfrid. [Simply.] Are you feelin' pretty robust? Vida. I don't know! Sir Wilfrid. [Crosses to the buffet.] Will you have something, and then I'll tell you! Vida. [Gaily.] Can't I support the news without— Sir Wilfrid. [Trying to explain his state of mind, a feat which he has never been able to accomplish.] Mrs. Phillimore, you see it's this way. Whenever you're lucky, you're too lucky. Now, Mrs. Karslake is a nipper and no mistake, but as I told you, the very same evenin' and house where I saw her— [He attempts to take her hand. Vida. [Gently rising and affecting a tender surprise.] What! Sir Wilfrid. [Rising with her.] That's it!—You're over! [He suggests with his right hand the movement of a horse taking a hurdle. Vida. [Very sweetly.] You don't really mean— Sir Wilfrid. [Carried away for the moment by so much true womanliness.] I mean, I stayed awake for an hour last night, thinkin' about you. Vida. [Speaking to be contradicted.] But, you've just told me—that Cynthia— Sir Wilfrid. [Admitting the fact.] Well, she did—she did bowl my wicket, but so did you— Vida. [Taking him very gently to task.] Don't you think there's a limit to— [She sits down. Sir Wilfrid. [Roused by so much loveliness of soul.] Now, see here, Mrs. Phillimore! You and I are not bottle babies, eh, are Vida. [With gentle reproach.] May I ask where I come in? Sir Wilfrid. Well, now, Mrs. Phillimore, I'll be frank with you, Cynthia's my favourite, but you're runnin' her a close second in the popular esteem! Vida. [Laughing, determined not to take offense.] What a delightful, original, fantastic person you are! Sir Wilfrid. [Frankly happy that he has explained everything so neatly.] I knew you'd take it that way! Vida. And what next, pray? Sir Wilfrid. Oh, just the usual,—eh,—thing,—the—eh—the same old question, don't you know. Will you have me if she don't? Vida. [A shade piqued, but determined not to risk showing it.] And you call that the same old usual question? Sir Wilfrid. Yes, I know, but—but will you? I sail in a week; we can take the same boat. And—eh—eh—my dear Mrs.—mayn't I say Vida, I'd like to see you at the head of my table. Vida. [With velvet irony.] With Cynthia at the foot? Sir Wilfrid. [Practical, as before.] Never mind Mrs. Karslake,—I admire her—she's—but you have your own points! And you're here, and so'm I!—damme I offer myself, and my affections, and I'm no icicle, my dear, tell you that for a fact, and,—and in fact what's your answer!— [Vida sighs and shakes her head.] Make it, yes! I say, you know, my dear Vida— [He catches her hands. Vida. [Drawing them from his.] Unhand me, dear villain! And sit further away from your second choice! What can I say? I'd rather have you for a lover than any man I know! You must be a lovely lover! Sir Wilfrid. I am! [He makes a second effort to catch her fingers. Vida. Will you kindly go further away and be good! Sir Wilfrid. [Quite forgetting Cynthia.] Look here, if you say yes, we'll be married— Vida. In a month! Sir Wilfrid. Oh, no—this evening! Vida. [Incapable of leaving a situation unadorned.] This evening! And sail in the same boat with you? And shall we sail to the Garden of Eden and stroll into it and lock the gate on the inside and then lose the key—under a rose-bush? Sir Wilfrid. [After a pause and some consideration.] Yes; yes, I say—that's too clever for me! [He draws nearer to her to bring the understanding to a crisis. Vida. [Interrupted by a soft knock.] My maid—come! Sir Wilfrid. [Swinging out of his chair and moving to the sofa.] Eh? Benson. [Coming in and approaching Vida.] The new footman, ma'am—he's made a mistake. He's told the lady you're at home. Vida. What lady? Benson. Mrs. Karslake; and she's on the stairs, ma'am. Vida. Show her in. Sir Wilfrid has been turning over the roses. On hearing this, he faces about with a long stemmed one in his hand. He subsequently uses it to point his remarks. Sir Wilfrid. [To Benson, who stops.] One moment! [To Vida.] I say, eh—I'd rather not see her! Vida. [Very innocently.] But you came here to see her. Sir Wilfrid. [A little flustered.] I'd rather not. Eh,—I fancied I'd find you and her together—but her— [Coming a step nearer.] findin' me with you looks so dooced intimate,—no one else, d'ye see, I believe she'd—draw conclusions— Benson. Pardon me, ma'am—but I hear Brooks coming! Sir Wilfrid. [To Benson.] Hold the door! Vida. So you don't want her to know—? Sir Wilfrid. [To Vida.] Be a good girl now—run me off somewhere! Vida. [To Benson.] Show Sir Wilfrid the men's room. [Brooks comes in. Sir Wilfrid. The men's room! Ah! Oh! Eh! Vida. [Beckoning him to go at once.] Sir Wil— [He hesitates; then as Brooks advances, he flings off with Benson. Brooks. Lady Karslake, milady! Vida. Anything more inopportune! I never dreamed she'd come— [Cynthia comes in veiled. As she walks quickly into the room, Vida greets her languorously.] My dear Cynthia, you don't mean to say Cynthia. [Rather short, and visibly agitated.] Yes, I've come. Vida. [Polite, but not urgent.] Do take off your veil. Cynthia. [Complying.] Is no one here? Vida. [As before.] Won't you sit down? Cynthia. [Agitated and suspicious.] Thanks, no—That is, yes, thanks. Yes! You haven't answered my question? [Cynthia waves her hand through the haze; glances suspiciously at the smoke, and looks about for the cigarette. Vida. [Playing innocence in the first degree.] My dear, what makes you imagine that any one's here! Cynthia. You've been smoking. Vida. Oh, puffing away! [Cynthia sees the glasses. Cynthia. And drinking—a pair of drinks? [Her eyes lighting on John's gloves on the table at her elbow.] Do they fit you, dear? [Vida smiles; Cynthia picks up the crop and looks at it and reads her own name.] "Jack, from Cynthia." Vida. [Without taking the trouble to double for a mere woman.] Yes, dear; it's Mr. Karslake's crop, but I'm happy to say he left me a few minutes ago. Cynthia. He left the house? [Vida smiles.] I wanted to see him. Vida. [With a shade of insolence.] To quarrel? Cynthia. [Frank and curt.] I wanted to see him. Vida. [Determined to put Cynthia in the wrong.] And I sent him away because I didn't want you to repeat the scene of last night in my house. Cynthia. [Looks at crop and is silent.] Well, I can't stay. I'm to be married at three, and I had to play truant to get here! [Benson comes in. Benson. [To Vida.] There's a person, ma'am, on the sidewalk. Vida. What person, Benson? Benson. A person, ma'am, with a horse. Cynthia. [Happily agitated.] It's Fiddler with Cynthia K! [She walks rapidly to the window and looks out. Vida. [To Benson.] Tell the man I'll be down in five minutes. Cynthia. [Looking down from the balcony with delight.] Oh, there she is! Vida. [Aside to Benson.] Go to the club-room, Benson, and say to the two gentlemen I can't see them at present—I'll send for them when Benson. [Listening.] I hear some one coming. Vida. Quick! [Benson leaves the door which opens and John comes in slowly, carelessly. Vida whispers to Benson. Benson. [Moving close to John and whispering.] Beg par— Vida. [Under her breath.] Go back! John. [Not understanding.] I beg pardon! Vida. [Scarcely above a whisper.] Go back! John. [Dense.] Can't! I've a date! With the sheriff! Vida. [A little cross.] Please use your eyes. John. [Laughing and flattering Vida.] I am using my eyes. Vida. [Fretted.] Don't you see there's a lovely creature in the room? John. [Not knowing what it is all about, but taking a wicked delight in seeing her customary calm ruffled.] Of course there is. Vida. Hush! John. [Teasingly.] But what I want to know is— Vida. Hush! John. [Enjoying his fun.] —is when we're to stroll in the Garden of Eden— Vida. Hush! John. —and lose the key. [To put a stop to this, she lightly tosses her handkerchief into his face.] By George, talk about attar of roses! Cynthia. [At window, excited and moved at seeing her mare once more.] Oh, she's a darling! [Turning.] A perfect darling! [John starts up; he sees Cynthia at the same instant that she sees him.] Oh! I didn't know you were here. [After a pause, with "take-it-or-leave-it" frankness.] I came to see you! [John looks extremely dark and angry; Vida rises. Vida. [To Cynthia, most gently, and seeing there's nothing to be gained of John.] Oh, pray feel at home, Cynthia, dear! [Stopping by the door to her bedroom; to John.] When I've a nice street frock on, I'll ask you to present me to Cynthia K. [Vida opens the door and goes out. Cynthia and John involuntarily exchange glances. Cynthia. [Agitated and frank.] Of course, I told you yesterday I was coming here. John. [Irritated.] And I was to deny myself the privilege of being here? Cynthia. [Curt and agitated.] Yes. John. [Ready to fight.] And you guessed I would do that? Cynthia. No. John. What? Cynthia. [Speaks with agitation, frankness and good will.] Jack—I mean, Mr. Karslake,—no, I mean, Jack! I came because—well, you see, it's my wedding day!—and—and—I—I—was rude to you last evening. I'd like to apologize and make peace with you before I go— John. [Determined to be disagreeable.] Before you go to your last, long home! Cynthia. I came to apologize. John. But you'll remain to quarrel! Cynthia. [Still frank and kind.] I will not quarrel. No!—and I'm only here for a moment. I'm to be married at three, and just look at the clock! Besides, I told Philip I was going to Louise's shop, and I did—on the way here; but, you see, if I stay too long he'll telephone Louise and find I'm not there, and he might guess I was here. So you see I'm risking a scandal. And now, Jack, see here, I lay my hand on the table, I'm here on the square, and,—what I want to say is, why—Jack, even if we have made a mess of our married life, let's put by anger and pride. It's all over now and can't be helped. So let's be human, let's be reasonable, and let's be kind to each other! Won't you give me your hand? [John refuses.] I wish you every happiness! John. [Turning away, the past rankling.] I had a client once, a murderer; he told me he murdered the man, and he told me, too, that he never felt so kindly to anybody as he did to that man after he'd killed him! Cynthia. Jack! John. [Unforgiving.] You murdered my happiness! Cynthia. I won't recriminate! John. And now I must put by anger and pride! I do! But not self-respect, not a just indignation—not the facts and my clear memory of them! Cynthia. Jack! John. No! Cynthia. [With growing emotion, and holding out her hand.] I give you one more chance! Yes, I'm determined to be generous. I forgive everything you ever did to me. I'm ready to be friends. I wish you every happiness and every—every—horse in the world! I can't do more than that! [She offers it again.] You refuse? John. [Moved but surly.] I like wildcats and I like Christians, but I don't like Christian wildcats! Now I'm close hauled, trot out your tornado! Let the Tiger loose! It's the tamer, the man in the cage that has to look lively and use the red hot crowbar! But, by Jove, I'm out of the cage! I'm a mere spectator of the married circus! [He puffs vigorously. Cynthia. Be a game sport then! Our marriage was a wager; you wagered you could live with me. You lost; you paid with a divorce; and now is the time to show your sporting blood. Come on, shake hands and part friends. John. Not in this world! Friends with you, no! I have a proper pride. I don't propose to put my pride in my pocket. Cynthia. [Jealous and plain spoken.] Oh, I wouldn't ask you to put your pride in your pocket while Vida's handkerchief is there. [John looks angered.] Pretty little bijou of a handkerchief! [Pulling out the handkerchief.] And she is charming, and divorced, and reasonably well made up. John. Oh, well, Vida is a woman. [Toying with the handkerchief.] I'm a man, a handkerchief is a handkerchief, and, as some old Aristotle or other said, whatever concerns a woman, concerns me! Cynthia. [Not oblivious of him, but in a low voice.] Insufferable! Well, yes. [She sits down. She is too much wounded to make any further appeal.] You're perfectly right. There's no possible harmony between divorced people! I withdraw my hand and all good feeling. No wonder I couldn't stand you. Eh? However, that's pleasantly past! But at least, my dear Karslake, let us have some sort of beauty behaviour! If we cannot be decent, let us endeavour to be graceful. If we can't be moral, at least we can avoid being vulgar. John. Well— Cynthia. If there's to be no more marriage in the world— John. [Cynically.] Oh, but that's not it; there's to be more and more and more! Cynthia. [With a touch of bitterness.] Very well! I repeat then, if there's to be nothing but marriage and divorce, and re-marriage, and re-divorce, at least, at least, those who are divorced can avoid the vulgarity of meeting each other here, there, and everywhere! John. Oh, that's where you come out! Cynthia. I thought so yesterday, and to-day I know it. It's an insufferable thing to a woman of any delicacy of feeling to find her husband— John. Ahem—former! Cynthia. Once a husband always— John. [In the same cynical tone.] Oh, no! Oh, dear, no. Cynthia. To find her—to find the man she has once lived with—in the house of—making love to—to find you here! [John smiles and rises.] You smile,—but I say, it should be a social axiom, no woman should have to meet her former husband. John. [Cynical and cutting.] Oh, I don't know; after I've served my term I don't mind meeting my jailor. Cynthia. [As John takes chair near her.] It's indecent—at the horse-show, the opera, at races and balls, to meet the man who once—It's not civilized! It's fantastic! It's half baked! Oh, I never should have come here! [He sympathizes, and she grows irrational and furious.] But it's entirely your fault! John. My fault? Cynthia. [Working herself into a rage.] Of course. What business have you to be about—to be at large. To be at all! John. Gosh! Cynthia. [Her rage increasing.] To be where I am! Yes, it's just as horrible for you to turn up in my life as it would be for a dead person to insist on coming back to life and dinner and bridge! John. Horrid idea! Cynthia. Yes, but it's you who behave just as if you were not dead, just as if I'd not spent a fortune on your funeral. You do; you prepare to bob up at afternoon teas,—and dinners—and embarrass me to death with your extinct personality! John. Well, of course we were married, but it didn't quite kill me. Cynthia. [Angry and plain spoken.] You killed yourself for me—I divorced you. I buried you out of my life. If any human soul was ever dead, you are! And there's nothing I so hate as a gibbering ghost. John. Oh, I say! Cynthia. [With hot anger.] Go gibber and squeak where gibbering and squeaking are the fashion! John. [Laughing and pretending to a coldness he does not feel.] And so, my dear child, I'm to abate myself as a nuisance! Well, Cynthia. Oh! John. And now, may I ask you a very simple question? Mere curiosity on my part, but, why did you come here this morning? Cynthia. I have already explained that to you. John. Not your real motive. Permit me! Cynthia. Oh! John. But I believe I have guessed your real—permit me—your real motive! Cynthia. Oh! John. [With mock sympathy.] Cynthia, I am sorry for you. Cynthia. H'm? John. Of course we had a pretty lively case of the fever—the mutual attraction fever, and we were married a very short time. And I conclude that's what's the matter with you! You see, my dear, seven months of married life is too short a time to cure a bad case of the fancies. Cynthia. [In angry surprise.] What? John. [Calm and triumphant.] That's my diagnosis. Cynthia. [Slowly and gathering herself together.] I don't think I understand. John. Oh, yes, you do; yes, you do. Cynthia. [With blazing eyes.] What do you mean? John. Would you mind not breaking my crop! Thank you! I mean [With polite impertinence.] that ours was a case of premature divorce, and, ahem, you're in love with me still. He pauses. Cynthia has one moment of fury, then she realizes at what a disadvantage this places her. She makes an immense effort, recovers her calm, thinks hard for a moment more, and then, has suddenly an inspiration. Cynthia. Jack, some day you'll get the blind staggers from conceit. No, I'm not in love with you, Mr. Karslake, but I shouldn't be at all surprised if she were. She's just your sort, [She looks at him. John. Why are you here? [She laughs and begins to play her game.] Why are you here? Cynthia. Guess! [She laughs. John. Why are you— Cynthia. [Quickly.] Why am I here! I'll tell you. I'm going to be married. I had a longing, an irresistible longing to see you make an ass of yourself just once more! It happened! John. [Uncertain and discomfited.] I know better! Cynthia. But I came for a serious purpose, too. I came, my dear fellow, to make an experiment on myself. I've been with you thirty minutes; and— [She sighs with content.] It's all right! John. What's all right? Cynthia. [Calm and apparently at peace with the world.] I'm immune. John. Immune? Cynthia. You're not catching any more! Yes, you see, I said to myself, if I fly into a temper— John. You did! Cynthia. If I fly into a temper when I see him, well, that shows I'm not yet so entirely convalescent that I can afford to have Jack Karslake at my house. If I remain calm I shall ask him to dinner. John. [Routed.] Ask me if you dare! [He rises. Cynthia. [Getting the whip hand for good.] Ask you to dinner? Oh, my dear fellow. [John rises.] I'm going to do much more than that. [She rises.] We must be friends, old man! We must meet, we must meet often, we must show New York the way the thing should be done, and, to show you I mean it—I want you to be my best man, and give me away when I'm married this afternoon. John. [Incredulous and impatient.] You don't mean that! [He pushes back his chair. Cynthia. There you are! Always suspicious! John. You don't mean that! Cynthia. [Hiding her emotion under a sportswoman's manner.] Don't I? I ask you, come! And come as you are! And I'll lay John. [Determined not to be worsted.] I take it! Cynthia. Done! Now, then, we'll see which of us two is the real sporting goods! Shake! [They shake hands on it.] Would you mind letting me have a plain soda? [John goes to the table, and, as he is rattled and does not regard what he is about, he fills the glass three-fourths full with whiskey. He gives this to Cynthia who looks him in the eye with an air of triumph.] Thanks. [Maliciously, as Vida enters.] Your hand is a bit shaky. I think you need a little King William. [John shrugs his shoulders, and, as Vida immediately speaks, Cynthia defers drinking. Vida. [To Cynthia.] My dear, I'm sorry to tell you your husband—I mean, my husband—I mean Philip—he's asking for you over the 'phone. You must have said you were coming here. Of course, I told him you were not here, and hung up. Benson. [Entering hurriedly and at once moving to Vida.] Ma'am, the new footman's been talking with Mr. Phillimore on the wire. [Vida, gesture of regret.] He told Mr. Phillimore that his lady was here, and, if I can believe my ears, ma'am, he's got Sir Wilfrid on the 'phone now! Sir Wilfrid. [Making his appearance, perplexed and annoyed.] I say, y' know—extraordinary country; that old chap, Phillimore, he's been damned impertinent over the wire! Says I've run off with Mrs. Karslake—talks about "Louise!" Now, who the dooce is Louise? He's comin' round here, too—I said Mrs. Karslake wasn't here— [Seeing Cynthia.] Hello! Good job! What a liar I am! Benson. [Coming to the door. To Vida.] Mr. Fiddler, ma'am, says the mare is gettin' very restive. [John hears this and moves at once. Benson withdraws. John. [To Vida.] If that mare's restive, she'll break out in a rash. Vida. [To John.] Will you take me? John. Of course. [They go to the door. Cynthia. [To John.] Tata, old man! Meet you at the altar! If I don't, the mare's mine! [Sir Wilfrid looks at her amazed. Vida. [To Cynthia.] Do the honours, dear, in my absence! John. Come along, come along, never mind them! A horse is a horse! John and Vida go out gaily and in haste. At the same moment Cynthia drinks what she supposes to be her glass of plain soda. As it is whiskey straight, she is seized with astonishment and a fit of coughing. Sir Wilfrid relieves her of the glass. Sir Wilfrid. [Indicating the contents of the glass.] I say, do you ordinarily take it as high up—as seven fingers and two thumbs. Cynthia. [Coughing.] Jack poured it out. Just shows how groggy he was! And now, Sir Wilfrid— [She gets her things to go. Sir Wilfrid. Oh, you can't go! [Brooks appears at the door. Cynthia. I am to be married at three. Sir Wilfrid. Let him wait. [Aside to Brooks, whom he meets near the door.] If Mr. Phillimore comes, bring his card up. Brooks. [Going.] Yes, Sir Wilfrid. Sir Wilfrid. To me! [Tipping him. Brooks. [Bowing.] To you, Sir Wilfrid. [Brooks goes. Sir Wilfrid. [Returning to Cynthia.] I've got to have my innings, y' know! [Looking at her more closely.] I say, you've been crying!— Cynthia. King William! Sir Wilfrid. You are crying! Poor little gal! Cynthia. [Tears in her eyes.] I feel all shaken and cold. [Brooks returns with a card. Sir Wilfrid. [Astonished and sympathetic.] Poor little gal. Cynthia. [Her eyes wet.] I didn't sleep a wink last night. [With disgust.] Oh, what is the matter with me? Sir Wilfrid. Why, it's as plain as a pikestaff! You— [Brooks has carried in the card to Sir Wilfred, who picks it up and says aside, to Brooks:] Phillimore? [Brooks assents. Aloud to Cynthia, calmly deceitful.] Who's Waldorf Smith? [Cynthia shakes her head. To Brooks, returning card to salver.] Tell the gentleman Mrs. Karslake is not here! [Brooks leaves the room. Cynthia. [Aware that she has no business where she is.] I thought it was Philip! Sir Wilfrid. [Telling the truth as if it were a lie.] So did I! [With cheerful confidence.] And now, Mrs. Karslake, I'll tell you Cynthia. That's a very good reason. Sir Wilfrid. There's only one good reason for marrying, and that is because you'll die if you don't! Cynthia. Oh, I've tried that! Sir Wilfrid. The Scripture says: "Try! try! again!" I tell you, there's nothing like a w'im! Cynthia. What's that? W'im? Oh, you mean a whim! Do please try and say Whim! Sir Wilfrid. [For the first time emphasizing his H in the word.] Whim. You must have a w'im—w'im for the chappie you marry. Cynthia. I had—for Jack. Sir Wilfrid. Your w'im wasn't wimmy enough, my dear! If you'd had more of it, and tougher, it would ha' stood, y'know! Now, I'm not proposin'! Cynthia. [Diverted at last from her own distress.] I hope not! Sir Wilfrid. Oh, I will later! It's not time yet! As I was saying— Cynthia. And pray, Sir Wilfrid, when will it be time? Sir Wilfrid. As soon as I see you have a w'im for me! [Rising, looks at his watch.] And now, I'll tell you what we'll do! We've got just an hour to get there in, my motor's on the corner, and in fifty minutes we'll be at Belmont Park. Cynthia. [Her sporting blood fired.] Belmont Park! Sir Wilfrid. We'll do the races, and dine at Martin's— Cynthia. [Tempted.] Oh, if I only could! I can't! I've got to be married! You're awfully nice; I've almost got a "w'im" for you already. Sir Wilfrid. [Delighted.] There you are! I'll send a telegram! [She shakes her head. He sits and writes at the table. Cynthia. No, no, no! Sir Wilfrid. [Reading what he has written.] "Off with Cates-Darby to Races. Please postpone ceremony till seven-thirty." Cynthia. Oh, no, it's impossible! Sir Wilfrid. [Accustomed to have things go his way.] No more than breathin'! You can't get a w'im for me, you know, unless we're together, so together we'll be! [John Karslake opens the door, and, unnoticed, walks into the room.] And to-morrow you'll wake up with a jolly little w'im—, [Reading.] "Postpone ceremony till seven-thirty." There. [He puts on her cloak and turning, sees John.] Hello! John. [Surly.] Hello! Sorry to disturb you. Sir Wilfrid. [Cheerful as possible.] Just the man! [Giving him the telegraph form.] Just step round and send it, my boy. Thanks! [John reads it. Cynthia. No, no, I can't go! Sir Wilfrid. Cockety-coo-coo-can't. I say, you must! Cynthia. [Positively.] No! John. [Astounded.] Do you mean you're going— Sir Wilfrid. [Very gay.] Off to the races, my boy! John. [Angry and outraged.] Mrs. Karslake can't go with you there! Cynthia starts, amazed at his assumption of marital authority, and delighted that she will have an opportunity of outraging his sensibilities. Sir Wilfrid. Oho! John. An hour before her wedding! Sir Wilfrid. [Gay and not angry.] May I know if it's the custom— John. [Jealous and disgusted.] It's worse than eloping— Sir Wilfrid. Custom, y' know, for the husband, that was, to dictate— John. [Thoroughly vexed.] By George, there's a limit! Cynthia. What? What? What? [Gathering up her things.] What did I hear you say? Sir Wilfrid. Ah! John. [Angry.] I say there's a limit— Cynthia. [More and more determined to arouse and excite John.] Oh, there's a limit, is there? John. There is! I bar the way! It means reputation—it means— Cynthia. [Enjoying her opportunity.] We shall see what it means! Sir Wilfrid. Aha! John. [To Cynthia.] I'm here to protect your reputation— Sir Wilfrid. [To Cynthia.] We've got to make haste, you know. Cynthia. Now, I'm ready— John. [To Cynthia.] Be sensible. You're breaking off the match— Cynthia. [Excitedly.] What's that to you? Sir Wilfrid. It's boots and saddles! John. [Taking his stand between them and the door.] No thoroughfare! Sir Wilfrid. Look here, my boy—! Cynthia. [Catching at the opportunity of putting John in an impossible position.] Wait a moment, Sir Wilfrid! Give me the wire! [Facing him.] Thanks! [Taking the telegraph form from him and tearing it up.] There! Too rude to chuck him by wire! But you, Jack, you've taken on yourself to look after my interests, so I'll just ask you, old man, to run down to the Supreme Court and tell Philip—nicely, you know—I'm off with Sir Wilfrid and where! Say I'll be back by seven, if I'm not later! And make it clear, Jack, I'll marry him by eight-thirty or nine at the latest! And mind you're there, dear! And now, Sir Wilfrid, we're off. John. [Staggered and furious, giving way as they pass him.] I'm not the man to—to carry— Cynthia. [Quick and dashing.] Oh, yes, you are. John. —a message from you. Cynthia. [Triumphant.] Oh, yes, you are; you're just exactly the man! [Cynthia and Sir Wilfrid whirl out. John. Great miracles of Moses! Curtain. |
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