Langdon Elwyn Mitchell

Scene. The same as that of Act I, but the room has been cleared of superfluous furniture, and arranged for a wedding ceremony. Mrs. Phillimore is reclining on the sofa at the right of the table, Miss Heneage at its left. Sudley is seated at the right of the table. Grace is seated on the sofa. There is a wedding-bell of roses, an arch of orange blossoms, and, girdled by a ribbon of white, an altar of calla lilies. There are cushions of flowers, alcoves of flowers, vases of flowers—in short, flowers everywhere and in profusion and variety. Before the altar are two cushions for the couple to kneel on and, on pedestals, at each side of the arch, are twin candelabra. The hangings are pink and white.

The room, first of all, and its emblems, holds the undivided attention; then slowly engaging it, and in contrast to their gay surroundings, the occupants. About each and everyone of them, hangs a deadly atmosphere of suppressed irritation.

Sudley. [Impatiently.] All very well, my dear Sarah. But you see the hour. Twenty to ten! We have been here since half-past two.

Miss Heneage. You had dinner?

Sudley. I did not come here at two to have dinner at eight, and be kept waiting until ten! And, my dear Sarah, when I ask where the bride is—

Miss Heneage. [With forced composure.] I have told you all I know. Mr. John Karslake came to the house at lunch time, spoke to Philip, and they left the house together.

Grace. Where is Philip?

Mrs. Phillimore. [Feebly, irritated.] I don't wish to be censorious or to express an actual opinion, but I must say it's a bold bride who keeps her future mother-in-law waiting for eight hours. However, I will not venture to— [Mrs. Phillimore reclines again and fades away into silence.

Grace. [Sharply and decisively.] I do! I'm sorry I went to the expense of a silver ice-pitcher.

Mrs. Phillimore sighs. Miss Heneage keeps her temper with an effort which is obvious. Thomas opens the door.

Sudley. [To Mrs. Phillimore.] For my part, I don't believe Mrs. Karslake means to return here or to marry Philip at all!

Thomas. [Coming in, and approaching Miss Heneage.] Two telegrams for you, ma'am! The choir boys have had their supper. [A slight movement ripples the ominous calm of all. Thomas steps back.

Sudley. [Rising.] At last we shall know!

Miss Heneage. From the lady! Probably!

Miss Heneage opens the first telegram and reads it at a glance, laying it on the salver again with a look at Sudley. Thomas passes the salver to Sudley, who takes the telegram.

Grace. There's a toot now.

Mrs. Phillimore. [Feebly, confused.] I don't wish to intrude, but really I cannot imagine Philip marrying at midnight. [As Sudley reads, Miss Heneage opens the second telegram, but does not read it.

Sudley. [Reading.] "Accident, auto struck"—something! "Gasoline"—did something—illegible, ah! [Reads.] "Home by nine forty-five! Hold the church!"

[A general movement sets in.

Miss Heneage. [Profoundly shocked.] "Hold the church!" William, she still means to marry Philip! and to-night, too!

Sudley. It's from Belmont Park.

Grace. [Making a great discovery.] She went to the races!

Miss Heneage. This is from Philip! [Reading the second telegram.] "I arrive at ten o'clock. Have dinner ready." [Miss Heneage motions to Thomas, who, obeying, retires. Looking at her watch.] They are both due now. [Movement.] What's to be done? [She rises and Sudley shrugs his shoulders.

Sudley. [Rising.] After a young woman has spent her wedding day at the races? Why, I consider that she has broken the engagement,—and when she comes, tell her so.

Miss Heneage. I'll telephone Matthew. The choir boys can go home—her maid can pack her belongings—and when the lady arrives—

Impudently, the very distant toot of an auto-horn breaks in upon her words, producing, in proportion to its growing nearness, an increasing pitch of excitement and indignation. Grace flies to the door and looks out. Mrs. Phillimore, helpless, does not know what to do or where to go or what to say. Sudley moves about excitedly. Miss Heneage stands ready to make herself disagreeable.

Grace. [Speaking rapidly and with excitement.] I hear a man's voice. Cates-Darby and brother Matthew.

A loud and brazenly insistent toot outrages afresh. Laughter and voices outside are heard faintly. Grace looks out of the door, and, as quickly withdraws.

Miss Heneage. Outrageous!

Sudley. Disgraceful!

Mrs. Phillimore. Shocking! [Partly rising as the voices and horn are heard.] I shall not take any part at all, in the—eh—

[She fades away.

Miss Heneage. [Interrupting her.] Don't trouble yourself.

Through the growing noise of voices and laughter, Cynthia's voice is heard. Sir Wilfrid is seen in the outer hall. He is burdened with wraps, not to mention a newspaper and parasol, which in no wise check his flow of gay remarks to Cynthia, who is still outside. Cynthia's voice, and now Matthew's, reach those inside, and, at last, both join Sir Wilfrid, who has turned at the door to wait for them. As she reaches the door, Cynthia turns and speaks to Matthew, who immediately follows her. She is in automobile attire, wearing goggles, a veil, and an exquisite duster of latest Paris style. They come in with a subdued bustle and noise. As their eyes light on Cynthia, Sudley and Miss Heneage exclaim, and there is a general movement.

Sudley. 'Pon my word!

Grace. Hah!

Miss Heneage. [Bristling up to her feet, her sensibilities outraged.] Shocking!

Grace remains standing above sofa. Sudley moves toward her, Miss Heneage sitting down again. Mrs. Phillimore reclines on sofa. Cynthia begins to speak as soon as she appears and speaks fluently to the end.

Cynthia. No! I never was so surprised in my life, as when I strolled into the paddock and they gave me a rousing reception—old Jimmy Withers, Debt Gollup, Jack Deal, Monty Spiffles, the Governor and Buckeye. All of my old admirers! They simply fell on my neck, and, dear Matthew, what do you think I did? I turned on the water main! [There are movements and murmurs of disapprobation from the family. Matthew indicates a desire to go.] Oh, but you can't go!

Matthew. I'll return in no time!

Cynthia. I'm all ready to be married. Are they ready? [Matthew waves a pious, polite gesture of recognition to the family.] I beg everybody's pardon! [Taking off her wrap and putting it on the back of a chair.] My goggles are so dusty, I can't see who's who! [To Sir Wilfrid.] Thanks! You have carried it well! [She takes the parasol from Sir Wilfrid.

Sir Wilfrid. [Aside to Cynthia.] When may I—?

Cynthia. See you next Goodwood!

Sir Wilfrid. [Imperturbably.] Oh, I'm coming back!

Cynthia. [Advancing a bit toward the family.] Not a bit of use in coming back! I shall be married before you get here! Ta! Ta! Goodwood!

Sir Wilfrid. [Not in the least affected.] I'm coming back. [He goes out quickly. There are more murmurs of disapprobation from the family. There is a slight pause.

Cynthia. [Beginning to take off her goggles, and moving nearer "the family."] I do awfully apologize for being so late!

Miss Heneage. [Importantly.] Mrs. Karslake—

Sudley. [Importantly.] Ahem! [Cynthia lays down goggles, and sees their severity.

Cynthia. Dear me! [Surveying the flowers and for a moment speechless.] Oh, good heavens! Why, it looks like a smart funeral!

Miss Heneage moves; then speaks in a perfectly ordinary natural tone, but her expression is severe. Cynthia immediately realizes the state of affairs in its fullness.

Miss Heneage. [To Cynthia.] After what has occurred, Mrs. Karslake—

Cynthia. [Glances quietly toward the table, and then sits down at it, composed and good-tempered.] I see you got my wire—so you know where I have been.

Miss Heneage. To the race-course!

Sudley. With a rowdy Englishman. [Cynthia glances at Sudley, uncertain whether he means to be disagreeable, or whether he is only naturally so.

Miss Heneage. We concluded you desired to break the engagement!

Cynthia. [Indifferently.] No! No! Oh! No!

Miss Heneage. Do you intend, despite of our opinion of you—

Cynthia. The only opinion that would have any weight with me would be Mrs. Phillimore's.

[She turns expectantly to Mrs. Phillimore.

Mrs. Phillimore. I am generally asleep at this hour, and, accordingly, I will not venture to express any—eh—any—actual opinion. [She fades away. Cynthia smiles.

Miss Heneage. [Coldly.] You smile. We simply inform you that as regards us, the alliance is not grateful.

Cynthia. [Affecting gaiety and unconcern.] And all this because the gasoline gave out.

Sudley. My patience has given out!

Grace. So has mine. I'm going.

[She makes good her word.

Sudley. [Vexed beyond civility. To Cynthia.] My dear young lady: You come here, to this sacred—eh—eh—spot—altar!— [Gesture.] odoriferous of the paddock!—speaking of Spiffles and Buckeye,—having practically eloped!—having created a scandal, and disgraced our family!

Cynthia. [Affecting surprise at this attitude.] How does it disgrace you? Because I like to see a high-bred, clean, nervy, sweet little four-legged gee play the antelope over a hurdle!

Miss Heneage. Sister, it is high time that you—

[She turns to Cynthia with a gesture.

Cynthia. [With quiet irony.] Mrs. Phillimore is generally asleep at this hour, and accordingly she will not venture to express—

Sudley. [Spluttering with irritation.] Enough, madam—I venture to—to—to—to say, you are leading a fast life.

Cynthia. [With powerful intention.] Not in this house! For six heavy weeks have I been laid away in the grave, and I've found it very slow indeed trying to keep pace with the dead!

Sudley. [Despairingly.] This comes of horses!

Cynthia. [Indignant.] Of what?

Sudley. C-c-caring for horses!

Miss Heneage. [With sublime morality.] What Mrs. Karslake cares for is—men.

Cynthia. [Angry and gay.] What would you have me care for? The Ornithorhyncus Paradoxus? or Pithacanthropus Erectus? Oh, I refuse to take you seriously. [Sudley begins to prepare to leave; he buttons himself into respectability and his coat.

Sudley. My dear madam, I take myself seriously—and madam, I—I retract what I have brought with me [Feeling in his waistcoat pocket.] as a graceful gift,—an Egyptian scarab—a—a—sacred beetle, which once ornamented the person of a—eh—mummy.

Cynthia. [Scoring in return.] It should never be absent from your pocket, Mr. Sudley! [Sudley walks away in a rage.

Miss Heneage. [Rising, to Sudley.] I've a vast mind to withdraw my— [Cynthia moves.

Cynthia. [Interrupts; maliciously.] Your wedding present? The little bronze cat!

Miss Heneage. [Moves, angrily.] Oh! [Even Mrs. Phillimore comes momentarily to life, and expresses silent indignation.

Sudley. [Loftily.] Sarah, I'm going.

Grace, who has met Philip, takes occasion to accompany him into the room. Philip looks dusty and grim. As they come in, Grace speaks to him, and Philip shakes his head. They pause near the door.

Cynthia. [Emotionally.] I shall go to my room! However, all I ask is that you repeat to Philip— [As she moves toward the door, she comes suddenly upon Philip, and speaks to him in a low voice.

Sudley. [To Miss Heneage, determined to win.] As I go out, I shall do myself the pleasure of calling a hansom for Mrs. Karslake— [Philip moves slightly from the door.

Philip. As you go out, Sudley, have a hansom called, and when it comes, get into it.

Sudley. [Furious.] Eh,—eh,—my dear sir, I leave you to your fate. [Philip angrily points him the door and Sudley leaves in great haste.

Miss Heneage. [With weight.] Philip, you've not heard—

Philip. [Interrupting.] Everything—from Grace! My sister has repeated your words to me—and her own! I've told her what I think of her. [Philip looks witheringly at Grace.

Grace. I shan't wait to hear any more.

[She flounces out of the room.

Philip. Don't make it necessary for me to tell you what I think of you. [Philip moves to the right, toward his mother, to whom he gives his arm. Miss Heneage immediately seeks the opposite side.] Mother, with your permission, I desire to be alone. I expect both you and Grace, Sarah, to be dressed and ready for the ceremony a half hour from now. [As Philip and Mrs. Phillimore are about to go out, Miss Heneage speaks.

Miss Heneage. I shall come or not as I see fit. And let me add, my dear brother, that a fool at forty is a fool indeed. [Miss Heneage, high and mighty, goes out, much pleased with her quotation.

Mrs. Phillimore. [Stupid and weary as usual, to Philip, as he leads her to the door.] My dear son—I won't venture to express— [Cynthia, in irritation, moves to the table.

Philip. [Soothing a silly mother.] No, mother, don't! But I shall expect you, of course, at the ceremony. [Mrs. Phillimore languidly retires. Philip strides to the centre of the room, taking the tone, and assuming the attitude of, the injured husband.] It is proper for me to tell you that I followed you to Belmont. I am aware—I know with whom—in fact, I know all! [He punctuates his words with pauses, and indicates the whole censorious universe.] And now let me assure you—I am the last man in the world to be jilted on the very eve of—of—everything with you. I won't be jilted. [Cynthia is silent.] You understand? I propose to marry you. I won't be made ridiculous.

Cynthia. [Glancing at Philip.] Philip, I didn't mean to make you—

Philip. Why, then, did you run off to Belmont Park with that fellow?

Cynthia. Philip, I—eh—

Philip. [Sitting down at the table.] What motive? What reason? On our wedding day? Why did you do it?

Cynthia. I'll tell you the truth. I was bored.

Philip. [Staggered.] Bored? In my company?

Cynthia. I was bored, and then—and besides, Sir Wilfrid asked me to go.

Philip. Exactly, and that was why you went. Cynthia, when you promised to marry me, you told me you had forever done with love. You agreed that marriage was the rational coming together of two people.

Cynthia. I know, I know!

Philip. Do you believe that now?

Cynthia. I don't know what I believe. My brain is in a whirl! But, Philip, I am beginning to be—I'm afraid—yes, I am afraid that one can't just select a great and good man [Indicating him.] and say: I will be happy with him.

Philip. [With complacent dignity.] I don't see why not. You must assuredly do one or the other: You must either let your heart choose or your head select.

Cynthia. [Gravely.] No, there's a third scheme: Sir Wilfrid explained the theory to me. A woman should marry whenever she has a whim for the man, and then leave the rest to the man. Do you see?

Philip. [Furious.] Do I see? Have I ever seen any thing else? Marry for whim! That's the New York idea of marriage.

Cynthia. [Observing cynically.] New York ought to know.

Philip. Marry for whim and leave the rest to the divorce court! Marry for whim and leave the rest to the man. That was the former Mrs. Phillimore's idea. Only she spelled "whim" differently; she omitted the "w." [He rises in his anger.] And now you—you take up with this preposterous— [Cynthia moves uneasily.] But, nonsense! It's impossible! A woman of your mental calibre—No. Some obscure, primitive, female feeling is at work corrupting your better judgment! What is it you feel?

Cynthia. Philip, you never felt like a fool, did you?

Philip. No, never.

Cynthia. [Politely.] I thought not.

Philip. No, but whatever your feelings, I conclude you are ready to marry me.

Cynthia. [Uneasy.] Of course, I came back. I am here, am I not?

Philip. You are ready to marry me?

Cynthia. [Twisting in the coils.] But you haven't had your dinner.

Philip. Do I understand you refuse?

Cynthia. Couldn't we defer—?

Philip. You refuse?

Cynthia. [Desperately thinking of an escape from her promise, and finding none.] No, I said I'd marry you. I'm a woman of my word. I will.

Philip. [Triumphant.] Ah! Very good, then. Run to your room. [Cynthia turns to Philip.] Throw something over you. In a half hour I'll expect you here! And Cynthia, my dear, remember! I cannot cuculate like a wood-pigeon, but—I esteem you!

Cynthia. [Hopelessly.] I think I'll go, Philip.

Philip. I may not be fitted to play the love-bird, but—

Cynthia. [Spiritlessly.] I think I'll go, Philip.

Philip. I'll expect you,—in half an hour.

Cynthia. [With leaden despair.] Yes.

Philip. And, Cynthia, don't think any more about that fellow, Cates-Darby.

Cynthia. [Amazed and disgusted by his misapprehension.] No. [As Cynthia leaves, Thomas comes in from the opposite door.

Philip. [Not seeing Thomas, and clumsily defiant.] And if I had that fellow, Cates-Darby, in the dock—!

Thomas. Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby.

Philip. Sir what—what—wh-who? [Sir Wilfrid enters in evening dress. Philip looks Sir Wilfrid in the face and speaks to Thomas.] Tell Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby I am not at home to him. [Thomas is embarrassed.

Sir Wilfrid. [Undaunted.] My dear Lord Eldon—

Philip. [Again addressing Thomas.] Show the gentleman the door. [There is a pause. Sir Wilfrid, with a significant gesture, glances at the door.

Sir Wilfrid. [Moving to the door, he examines it and returns to Philip.] Eh,—I admire the door, my boy! Fine, old carved mahogany panel; but don't ask me to leave by it, for Mrs. Karslake made me promise I'd come, and that's why I'm here.

[Thomas does not wait for further orders.

Philip. Sir, you are—impudent—!

Sir Wilfrid. [Interrupting.] Ah, you put it all in a nutshell, don't you?

Philip. To show your face here, after practically eloping with my wife!

Sir Wilfrid. [Affecting ignorance.] When were you married?

Philip. We are as good as married.

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, pooh, pooh! You can't tell me that grace before soup is as good as a dinner! [He takes out his cigar-case and, in the absence of a match, enjoys a smokeless smoke.

Philip. Sir—I—demand—

Sir Wilfrid. [Calmly carrying the situation.] Mrs. Karslake is not married. That's why I'm here. I am here for the same purpose you are; to ask Mrs. Karslake to be my wife.

Philip. Are you in your senses?

Sir Wilfrid. [Pricking his American cousin's pet vanity.] Come, come, Judge—you Americans have no sense of humour. [Taking a small jewel-case from his pocket.] There's my regards for the lady—and [Reasonably.], if I must go, I will. Of course, I would like to see her, but—if it isn't your American custom—

Thomas. [Opens the door and announces.] Mr. Karslake.

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, well, I say; if he can come, I can!

John Karslake, in evening dress, comes in quickly, carrying a large and very smart bride's bouquet, which he hands to Philip, who stands transfixed. Because it never occurs to him to refuse it or chuck it away, Philip accepts the bouquet gingerly, but frees himself of it at the first available moment. John walks to the centre of the room. Deep down he is feeling wounded and unhappy. But, as he knows his coming to the ceremony on whatever pretext is a social outrage, he carries it off by assuming an air of its being the most natural thing in the world. He controls the expression of his deeper emotion, but the pressure of this keeps his face grave, and he speaks with effort.

John. My compliments to the bride, Judge.

Philip. [Angry.] And you, too, have the effrontery?

Sir Wilfrid. There you are!

John. [Pretending ease.] Oh, call it friendship—

[Thomas leaves.

Philip. [Puts bouquet on table. Ironically.] I suppose Mrs. Karslake—

John. She wagered me I wouldn't give her away, and of course—

Throughout his stay John hides the emotions he will not show behind a daring irony. Under its effects, Philip, on his right, walks about in a fury. Sir Wilfrid, sitting down on the edge of the table, is gay and undisturbed.

Philip. [Taking a step toward John.] You will oblige me—both of you—by immediately leaving—

John. [Smiling and going to Philip.] Oh, come, come, Judge—suppose I am here? Who has a better right to attend his wife's obsequies! Certainly, I come as a mourner—for you!

Sir Wilfrid. I say, is it the custom?

John. No, no—of course it's not the custom, no. But we'll make it the custom. After all,—what's a divorced wife among friends?

Philip. Sir, your humour is strained!

John. Humour,—Judge?

Philip. It is, sir, and I'll not be bantered! Your both being here is—it is—gentlemen, there is a decorum which the stars in their courses do not violate.

John. Now, Judge, never you mind what the stars do in their divorces! Get down to earth of the present day. Rufus Choate and Daniel Webster are dead. You must be modern. You must let peroration and poetry alone! Come along now. Why shouldn't I give the lady away?

Sir Wilfrid. Hear! Hear! Oh, I beg your pardon!

John. And why shouldn't we both be here? American marriage is a new thing. We've got to strike the pace, and the only trouble is, Judge, that the judiciary have so messed the thing up that a man can't be sure he is married until he's divorced. It's a sort of marry-go-round, to be sure! But let it go at that! Here we all are, and we're ready to marry my wife to you, and start her on her way to him!

Philip. [Brought to a standstill.] Good Lord! Sir, you cannot trifle with monogamy!

John. Now, now, Judge, monogamy is just as extinct as knee-breeches. The new woman has a new idea, and the new idea is—well, it's just the opposite of the old Mormon one. Their idea is one man, ten wives and a hundred children. Our idea is one woman, a hundred husbands and one child.

Philip. Sir, this is polyandry.

John. Polyandry? A hundred to one it's polyandry; and that's it, Judge! Uncle Sam has established consecutive polyandry,—but there's got to be an interval between husbands! The fact is, Judge, the modern American marriage is like a wire fence. The woman's the wire—the posts are the husbands. [He indicates himself, and then Sir Wilfrid and Philip.] One—two—three! And if you cast your eye over the future you can count them, post after post, up hill, down dale, all the way to Dakota!

Philip. All very amusing, sir, but the fact remains—

John. [Going to Philip who at once moves away.] Now, now, Judge, I like you. But you're asleep; you're living in the dark ages. You want to call up Central. "Hello, Central! Give me the present time, 1906, New York!"

Sir Wilfrid. Of course you do, and—there you are!

Philip. [Heavily.] There I am not, sir! And— [To John.] as for Mr. Karslake's ill-timed jocosity,—sir, in the future—

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, hang the future!

Philip. I begin to hope, Sir Wilfrid, that in the future I shall have the pleasure of hanging you! [To John.] And as to you, sir, your insensate idea of giving away your own—your former—my—your—oh! Good Lord! This is a nightmare! [He turns to go in despair. Matthew, coming in, meets him, and stops him at the door.

Matthew. [To Philip.] My dear brother, Aunt Sarah Heneage refuses to give Mrs. Karslake away, unless you yourself,—eh—

Philip. [As he goes out.] No more! I'll attend to the matter! [The Choir Boys are heard practising in the next room.

Matthew. [Mopping his brow.] How do you both do? My aunt has made me very warm. [Ringing the bell.] You hear our choir practising—sweet angel boys! H'm! H'm! Some of the family will not be present. I am very fond of you, Mr. Karslake, and I think it admirably Christian of you to have waived your—eh—your—eh—that is, now that I look at it more narrowly, let me say, that in the excitement of pleasurable anticipation, I forgot, Karslake, that your presence might occasion remark— [Thomas responds to his ring.] Thomas! I left, in the hall, a small hand-bag or satchel containing my surplice.

Thomas. Yes, sir. Ahem!

Matthew. You must really find the hand-bag at once.

[Thomas turns to go, when he stops startled.

Thomas. Yes, sir. [Announcing in consternation.] Mrs. Vida Phillimore. [Vida Phillimore, in full evening dress, steps gently up to Matthew.

Matthew. [Always piously serene.] Ah, my dear child! Now this is just as it should be! That is, eh— [He walks to the centre of the room with her, Vida, the while, pointedly disregarding Sir Wilfrid.] That is, when I come to think of it—your presence might be deemed inauspicious.

Vida. But, my dear Matthew,—I had to come. [Aside to him.] I have a reason for being here.

[Thomas, who has left the room, again appears.

Matthew. [With a helpless gesture.] But, my dear child—

Thomas. [With sympathetic intention.] Sir, Mr. Phillimore wishes to have your assistance, sir—with Miss Heneage immediately!

Matthew. Ah! [To Vida.] One moment! I'll return. [To Thomas.] Have you found the bag with my surplice?

He goes out with Thomas, speaking. Sir Wilfrid moves at once to Vida. John, moving to a better position, watches the door.

Sir Wilfrid. [To Vida.] You're just the person I most want to see!

Vida. [With affected iciness.] Oh, no, Sir Wilfrid, Cynthia isn't here yet! [She moves to the table, and John, his eyes on the door, coming toward her, she speaks to him with obvious sweetness.] Jack, dear, I never was so ravished to see any one.

Sir Wilfrid. [Taken aback.] By Jove!

Vida. [Very sweet.] I knew I should find you here!

John. [Annoyed but civil.] Now don't do that!

Vida. [Sweeter than ever.] Jack! [They sit down.

John. [Civil but plain spoken.] Don't do it!

Vida. [In a voice dripping with honey.] Do what, Jack?

John. Touch me with your voice! I have troubles enough of my own. [He sits not far from her; the table between them.

Vida. And I know who your troubles are! Cynthia!

[From this moment Vida abandons John as an object of the chase and works him into her other game.

John. I hate her. I don't know why I came.

Vida. You came, dear, because you couldn't stay away—you're in love with her.

John. All right, Vida, what I feel may be love—but all I can say is, if I could get even with Cynthia Karslake—

Vida. You can, dear—it's as easy as powdering one's face; all you have to do is to be too nice to me!

John. [Looking at her inquiringly.] Eh!

Vida. Don't you realize she's jealous of you? Why did she come to my house this morning? She's jealous—and all you have to do—

John. If I can make her wince, I'll make love to you till the Heavenly cows come home!

Vida. Well, you see, my dear, if you make love to me it will [Delicately indicating Sir Wilfrid.] cut both ways at once!

John. Eh,—what! Not Cates-Darby? [Starting.] Is that Cynthia?

Vida. Now don't get rattled and forget to make love to me.

John. I've got the jumps. [Trying to follow her instructions.] Vida, I adore you.

Vida. Oh, you must be more convincing; that won't do at all.

John. [Listening.] Is that she now?

[Matthew comes in and passes to the inner room.

Vida. It's Matthew. And, Jack, dear, you'd best get the hang of it before Cynthia comes. You might tell me all about your divorce. That's a sympathetic subject. Were you able to undermine it?

John. No. I've got a wire from my lawyer this morning. The divorce holds. She's a free woman. She can marry whom she likes. [The organ is heard, very softly played.] Is that Cynthia? [He rises quickly.

Vida. It's the organ!

John. [Overwhelmingly excited.] By George! I should never have come! I think I'll go.

[He makes a movement toward the door.

Vida. [Rises and follows him remonstratingly.] When I need you?

John. I can't stand it.

Vida. Oh, but, Jack—

John. Good-night!

Vida. I feel quite ill. [Seeing that she must play her last card to keep him, pretends to faintness; sways and falls into his arms.] Oh!

John. [In a rage, but beaten.] I believe you're putting up a fake.

Cynthia. [Speaking as she comes in, to Matthew.] Here I am. Ridiculous to make it a conventional thing, you know. Come in on the swell of the music, and all that, just as if I'd never been married before. Where's Philip? [She looks for Philip and sees John with Vida in his arms. She stops short.

John. [Uneasy and embarrassed.] A glass of water! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Karslake— [The organ plays on.

Cynthia. [Ironical and calm.] Vida!

John. She has fainted.

Cynthia. [Cynically.] Fainted? [Without pausing.] Dear, dear, dear, terrible! So she has. [Sir Wilfrid takes the flowers from a vase and prepares to sprinkle Vida's forehead with the water it contains.] No, no, not her forehead, Sir Wilfrid, her frock! Sprinkle her best Paquin! If it's a real faint, she will not come to!

Vida. [Coming quickly to her senses as her Paris importation is about to suffer.] I almost fainted.

Cynthia. Almost!

Vida. [Using the stock phrase as a matter of course, and reviving rapidly.] Where am I? [John glances at Cynthia sharply.] Oh, the bride! I beg every one's pardon. Cynthia, at a crisis like this, I simply couldn't stay away from Philip!

Cynthia. Stay away from Philip? [John and Cynthia exchange glances.

Vida. Your arm, Jack; and lead me where there is air.

Sir Wilfrid. I've come back.

Cynthia. [To Sir Wilfrid.] Asks for air and goes to the greenhouse. [Cynthia crosses the room and Sir Wilfrid offers her a seat.] I know why you are here. It's that intoxicating little whim you suppose me to have for you. My regrets! But the whim's gone flat! Yes, yes, my gasoline days are over. I'm going to be garaged for good. However, I'm glad you're here; you take the edge off—

Sir Wilfrid. Mr. Phillimore?

Cynthia. [Sharply.] No, Karslake. I'm just waiting to say the words [Thomas comes in unnoticed.] "love, honour and obey" to Phillimore— [Looking back.] and at Karslake! [Seeing Thomas.] What is it? Mr. Phillimore?

Thomas. Mr. Phillimore will be down in a few minutes, ma'am. He's very sorry, ma'am [Lowering his voice and coming nearer to Cynthia, mindful of the respectabilities], but there's a button off his waistcoat.

Cynthia. [Rising. With irony.] Button off his waistcoat!

[Thomas goes out.

Sir Wilfrid. [Delightedly.] Ah! So much the better for me. [Cynthia looks into the other room.] Now, then, never mind those two! [Cynthia moves restlessly.] Sit down.

Cynthia. I can't.

Sir Wilfrid. You're as nervous as—

Cynthia. Nervous! Of course I'm nervous! So would you be nervous if you'd had a runaway and smash up, and you were going to try it again. [She is unable to take her eyes from Vida and John, and Sir Wilfrid, noting this, grows uneasy.] And if some one doesn't do away with those calla lilies—the odor makes me faint! [Sir Wilfrid moves.] No, it's not the lilies! It's the orange blossoms!

Sir Wilfrid. Orange blossoms.

Cynthia. The flowers that grow on the tree that hangs over the abyss! [Sir Wilfrid promptly confiscates the vase of orange blossoms.] They smell of six o'clock in the evening. When Philip's fallen asleep, and little boys are crying the winners outside, and I'm crying inside, and dying inside and outside and everywhere.

Sir Wilfrid. [Returning to her side.] Sorry to disappoint you. They're artificial. [Cynthia shrugs her shoulders.] That's it! They're emblematic of artificial domesticity! And I'm here to help you balk it. [He sits down and Cynthia half rises and looks toward John and Vida.] Keep still now, I've a lot to say to you. Stop looking—

Cynthia. Do you think I can listen to you make love to me when the man who—who—whom I most despise in all the world, is reading poetry to the woman who—who got me into the fix I'm in!

Sir Wilfrid. [Leaning over her chair.] What do you want to look at 'em for? [Cynthia moves.] Let 'em be and listen to me! Sit down; for damme, I'm determined.

Cynthia. [Now at the table and half to herself.] I won't look at them! I won't think of them. Beasts! [Sir Wilfrid interposes between her and her view of John. Thomas opens the door and walks in.

Sir Wilfrid. Now, then— [He sits down.

Cynthia. Those two here! It's just as if Adam and Eve should invite the snake to their golden wedding. [Seeing Thomas.] What is it, what's the matter?

Thomas. Mr. Phillimore's excuses, ma'am. In a very short time— [Thomas goes out.

Sir Wilfrid. I'm on to you! You hoped for more buttons!

Cynthia. I'm dying of the heat; fan me.

[Sir Wilfrid fans Cynthia.

Sir Wilfrid. Heat! No! You're dying because you're ignorin' nature. Certainly you are! You're marryin' Phillimore! [Cynthia appears faint.] Can't ignore nature, Mrs. Karslake. Yes, you are; you're forcin' your feelin's. [Cynthia glances at him.] And what you want to do is to let yourself go a bit—up anchor and sit tight! I'm no seaman, but that's the idea! [Cynthia moves and shakes her head.] So just throw the reins on nature's neck, jump this fellow Phillimore and marry me!

[He leans toward Cynthia.

Cynthia. [Naturally, but with irritation.] You propose to me here, at a moment like this? When I'm on the last lap—just in sight of the goal—the gallows—the halter—the altar, I don't know what its name is! No, I won't have you! [Looking toward Karslake and Vida.] And I won't have you stand near me! I won't have you talking to me in a low tone! [Her eyes glued on John and Vida.] Stand over there—stand where you are.

Sir Wilfrid. I say—

Cynthia. I can hear you—I'm listening!

Sir Wilfrid. Well, don't look so hurried and worried. You've got buttons and buttons of time. And now my offer. You haven't yet said you would—

Cynthia. Marry you? I don't even know you!

Sir Wilfrid. [Feeling sure of being accepted.] Oh,—tell you all about myself. I'm no duke in a pickle o' debts, d'ye see? I can marry where I like. Some o' my countrymen are rotters, ye know. They'd marry a monkey, if poppa-up-the-tree had a corner in cocoanuts! And they do marry some queer ones, y' know. [Cynthia looks beyond him, exclaims and turns. Sir Wilfrid turns.

Cynthia. Do they?

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, rather. That's what's giving your heiresses such a bad name lately. If a fellah's in debt he can't pick and choose, and then he swears that American gals are awfully fine lookers, but they're no good when it comes to continuin' the race! Fair dolls in the drawin'-room, but no good in the nursery.

Cynthia. [Thinking of John and Vida and nothing else.] I can see Vida in the nursery.

Sir Wilfrid. You understand when you want a brood mare, you don't choose a Kentucky mule.

Cynthia. I think I see one.

Sir Wilfrid. Well, that's what they're saying over there. They say your gals run to talk [He plainly remembers Vida's volubility.] and I have seen gals here that would chat life into a wooden Indian! That's what you Americans call being clever.—All brains and no stuffin'! In fact, some of your American gals are the nicest boys I ever met.

Cynthia. So that's what you think?

Sir Wilfrid. Not a bit what I think—what my countrymen think!

Cynthia. Why are you telling me?

Sir Wilfrid. Oh, just explaining my character. I'm the sort that can pick and choose—and what I want is heart.

Cynthia. [Vida and John ever in mind.] No more heart than a dragon-fly! [The organ begins to play softly.

Sir Wilfrid. That's it, dragon-fly. Cold as stone and never stops buzzing about and showin' off her colours. It's that American dragon-fly girl that I'm afraid of, because, d'ye see, I don't know what an American expects when he marries; yes, but you're not listening!

Cynthia. I am listening. I am!

Sir Wilfrid. [Speaking directly to her.] An Englishman, ye see, when he marries expects three things: love, obedience, and five children.

Cynthia. Three things! I make it seven!

Sir Wilfrid. Yes, my dear, but the point is, will you be mistress of Traynham?

Cynthia. [Who has only half listened to him.] No, Sir Wilfrid, thank you, I won't. [She turns to see John walk across the drawing-room with Vida, and apparently absorbed in what she is saying.] It's outrageous!

Sir Wilfrid. Eh? Why you're cryin'?

Cynthia. [Almost sobbing.] I am not.

Sir Wilfrid. You're not crying because you're in love with me?

Cynthia. I'm not crying—or if I am, I'm crying because I love my country. It's a disgrace to America—cast-off husbands and wives getting together in a parlour and playing tag under a palm-tree. [John, with intention and determined to stab Cynthia, kisses Vida's hand.

Sir Wilfrid. Eh! Oh! I'm damned! [To Cynthia.] What do you think that means?

Cynthia. I don't doubt it means a wedding here, at once—after mine! [Vida and John leave the drawing-room and walk slowly toward them.

Vida. [Affecting an impossible intimacy to wound Cynthia and tantalize Sir Wilfrid.] Hush, Jack—I'd much rather no one should know anything about it until it's all over!

Cynthia. [Starting and looking at Sir Wilfrid.] What did I tell you?

Vida. [To Cynthia.] Oh, my dear, he's asked me to champagne and lobster at your house—his house! Matthew is coming! [Cynthia starts, but controls herself.] And you're to come, Sir Wilfrid. [Intending to convey the idea of a sudden marriage ceremony.] Of course, my dear, I would like to wait for your wedding, but something rather—rather important to me is to take place, and I know you'll excuse me. [The organ stops.

Sir Wilfrid. [Piqued at being forgotten.] All very neat, but you haven't given me a chance, even.

Vida. Chance? You're not serious?

Sir Wilfrid. I am!

Vida. [Striking while the iron is hot.] I'll give you a minute to offer yourself.

Sir Wilfrid. Eh?

Vida. Sixty seconds from now.

Sir Wilfrid. [Uncertain.] There's such a thing as bein' silly.

Vida. [Calm and determined.] Fifty seconds left.

Sir Wilfrid. I take you—count fair. [He hands her his watch and goes to where Cynthia stands.] I say, Mrs. Karslake—

Cynthia. [Overwhelmed with grief and emotion.] They're engaged; they're going to be married to-night, over champagne and lobster at my house!

Sir Wilfrid. Will you consider your—

Cynthia. [Hastily, to get rid of him.] No, no, no, no! Thank you, Sir Wilfrid, I will not.

Sir Wilfrid. [Calm, and not to be laid low.] Thanks awfully. [Cynthia walks away. Returning to Vida.] Mrs. Phillimore—

Vida. [Returning his watch.] Too late! [To Karslake.] Jack, dear, we must be off.

Sir Wilfrid. [Standing and making a general appeal for information.] I say, is it the custom for American girls—that sixty seconds or too late? Look here! Not a bit too late. I'll take you around to Jack Karslake's, and I'm going to ask you the same old question again, you know. [To Vida.] By Jove, you know in your country it's the pace that kills.

[Sir Wilfrid follows Vida out the door.

John. [Gravely to Cynthia, who has walked away.] Good-night, Mrs. Karslake, I'm going; I'm sorry I came.

Cynthia. Sorry? Why are you sorry? [John looks at her; she winces a little.] You've got what you wanted. [After a pause.] I wouldn't mind your marrying Vida—

John. [Gravely.] Oh, wouldn't you?

Cynthia. But I don't think you showed good taste in engaging yourselves here.

John. Of course, I should have preferred a garden of roses and plenty of twilight.

Cynthia. [Rushing into speech.] I'll tell you what you have done—you've thrown yourself away! A woman like that! No head, no heart! All languor and loose—loose frocks—she's the typical, worst thing America can do! She's the regular American marriage worm!

John. I have known others—

Cynthia. [Quickly.] Not me. I'm not a patch on that woman. Do you know anything about her life? Do you know the things she did to Philip? Kept him up every night of his life—forty days out of every thirty—and then, without his knowing it, put brandy in his coffee to make him lively at breakfast.

John. [Banteringly.] I begin to think she is just the woman—

Cynthia. [Unable to quiet her jealousy.] She is not the woman for you! A man with your bad temper—your airs of authority—your assumption of—of—everything. What you need is a good, old-fashioned, bread-poultice woman!

[Cynthia comes to a full stop and faces him.

John. [Sharply.] Can't say I've had any experience of the good old-fashioned bread-poultice.

Cynthia. I don't care what you say! If you marry Vida Phillimore—you sha'n't do it. [Tears of rage choking her.] No, I liked your father and, for his sake, I'll see that his son doesn't make a donkey of himself a second time.

John. [Too angry to be amused.] Oh, I thought I was divorced. I begin to feel as if I had you on my hands still.

Cynthia. You have! You shall have! If you attempt to marry her, I'll follow you—and I'll find her—I'll tell Vida— [He turns to her.] I will. I'll tell Vida just what sort of a dance you led me.

John. [Quickly on her last word but speaking gravely.] Indeed! Will you? And why do you care what happens to me?

Cynthia. [Startled by his tone.] I—I—ah—

John. [Insistently and with a faint hope.] Why do you care?

Cynthia. I don't. Not in your sense—

John. How dare you then pretend—

Cynthia. I don't pretend.

John. [Interrupting her; proud, serious and strong.] How dare you look me in the face with the eyes that I once kissed, and pretend the least regard for me? [Cynthia recoils and looks away. Her own feelings are revealed to her clearly for the first time.] I begin to understand our American women now. Fire-flies—and the fire they gleam with is so cold that a midge couldn't warm his heart at it, let alone a man. You're not of the same race as a man! You married me for nothing, divorced me for nothing, because you are nothing!

Cynthia. [Wounded to the heart.] Jack! What are you saying?

John. [With unrestrained emotion.] What,—you feigning an interest in me, feigning a lie—and in five minutes— [With a gesture, indicating the altar.] Oh, you've taught me the trick of your sex—you're the woman who's not a woman!

Cynthia. [Weakly.] You're saying terrible things to me.

John. [Low and with intensity.] You haven't been divorced from me long enough to forget—what you should be ashamed to remember.

Cynthia. [Unable to face him and pretending not to understand him.] I don't know what you mean?

John. [More forcibly and with manly emotion.] You're not able to forget me! You know you're not able to forget me; ask yourself if you are able to forget me, and when your heart, such as it is, answers "no," then— [The organ is plainly heard.] Well, then, prance gaily up to the altar and marry that, if you can!

Matthew. [As he enters.] I am sure you will do your part, Sarah—in a spirit of Christian decorum. [To Philip.] It was impossible to find my surplice, Philip, but the more informal the better.

Philip. [With pompous responsibility.] Where's Cynthia?

[Matthew gives a glance around the room.

Matthew. Ah, here's the choir! [He moves forward to meet it. Choir Boys come in very orderly; divide and take their places, an even number on each side of the altar of flowers. Matthew vaguely superintends. Philip gets in the way of the bell and moves out of the way. Thomas comes in.] Thomas, I directed you—One moment, if you please. [He indicates the tables and chairs which Thomas hastens to push against the wall.

Philip. [Walking forward and looking around him.] Where's Cynthia? [Cynthia rises, and, at the movement, Philip sees her and moves toward her. The organ grows suddenly silent.

Cynthia. [Faintly.] Here I am.

[Matthew comes down. Organ plays softly.

Matthew. [To Cynthia.] Ah, my very dear Cynthia, I knew there was something. Let me tell you the words of the hymn I have chosen:

I'm afraid you feel—eh—eh!

Cynthia. [Desperately calm.] I feel awfully queer—I think I need a scotch.

Matthew. Really, my dear, in the pomp and vanity—I mean—ceremony of this—this unique occasion, there should be sufficient exhilaration.

Cynthia. [With extraordinary control.] But there isn't!

[Feeling weak, she sits down.

Matthew. I don't think my Bishop would approve of—eh—anything before!

Cynthia. [Too agitated to know how much she is moved.] I feel very queer.

Matthew. [Piously sure that everything is for the best.] My dear child—

Cynthia. However, I suppose there's nothing for it—now—but—to—to—

Matthew. Courage!

Cynthia. [Desperate and with a sudden explosion.] Oh, don't speak to me. I feel as if I'd been eating gunpowder, and the very first word of the wedding service would set it off!

Matthew. My dear, your indisposition is the voice of nature. [Cynthia speaks more rapidly and with growing excitement. Matthew makes a movement toward the Choir Boys.

Cynthia. Ah,—that's it—nature! [Matthew shakes his head.] I've a great mind to throw the reins on nature's neck.

Philip. Matthew! [He moves to take his stand for the ceremony.

Matthew. [Looks at Philip. To Cynthia.] Philip is ready. [Philip comes forward and the organ plays the wedding march.

Cynthia. [To herself, as if at bay.] Ready? Ready? Ready?

Matthew. Cynthia, you will take Miss Heneage's arm. [Miss Heneage moves stiffly nearer to the table.] Sarah! [He waves Miss Heneage in the direction of Cynthia, at which she advances a joyless step or two. Matthew goes over to give the choir a low direction.] Now please don't forget, my boys. When I raise my hands so, you begin, "Enduring love, sweet end of strife," etc. [Cynthia has risen. On the table by which she stands is her long lace cloak. Matthew assumes sacerdotal importance and takes his position inside the altar of flowers.] Ahem! Philip! [He signs to Philip to take his position.] Sarah! [Cynthia breathes fast, and supports herself against the table. Miss Heneage, with the silent air of a martyr, goes toward her and stands for a moment looking at her.] The ceremony will now begin.

Miss Heneage. Mrs. Karslake!

Philip. Ahem! [Matthew walks forward two or three steps. Cynthia stands as if turned to stone.

Matthew. My dear Cynthia. I request you—to take your place. [Cynthia moves one or two steps as if to go up to the altar. She takes Miss Heneage's hand and slowly they walk toward Matthew.] Your husband to be—is ready, the ring is in my pocket. I have only to ask you the—eh—necessary questions,—and—eh—all will be blissfully over in a moment.

[The organ grows louder.

Cynthia. [At this moment, just as she reaches Philip, stops, faces round, looks him, Matthew, and the rest in the face, and cries out in despair.] Thomas! Call a hansom! [Thomas goes out, leaving the door open. Miss Heneage crosses the room quickly; Mrs. Phillimore, shocked into action, rises. Cynthia catches up her cloak from the table. Philip turns and Cynthia comes forward and stops.] I can't, Philip—I can't. [Whistle of hansom is heard off; the organ stops.] It is simply a case of throwing the reins on nature's neck—up anchor—and sit tight! [Matthew moves to Cynthia.] Matthew, don't come near me! Yes, yes, I distrust you. It's your business, and you'd marry me if you could.

Philip. [Watching her in dismay as she throws on her cloak.] Where are you going?

Cynthia. I'm going to Jack.

Philip. What for?

Cynthia. To stop his marrying Vida. I'm blowing a hurricane inside, a horrible, happy hurricane! I know myself—I know what's the matter with me. If I married you and Miss Heneage—what's the use of talking about it—he mustn't marry that woman. He sha'n't. [Cynthia has now all her wraps on and walks toward the door rapidly. To Philip.] Sorry! So long! Good-night and see you later.

Curtain.