Scene—Jane's house on Gramercy Park. A living room with doors R. and L. Entrance U. R. Curtains U. C., showing an alcove which looks out on the Park. Dill, in velvet knickerbockers and jacket, is arranging service for tea. Jack, a young man of twenty, has entered. He wears green kid gloves and a green Alpine hat to match.

Jack. So you're getting married, Dill?

Dill. I am, sir. Have you any objections to offer?

Jack. None whatever, Dill. But why tea at this hour? It's only just past lunch.

Dill. It's the very latest thing, sir; all Americans are doing it now. It's to keep up with the London time, sir, and there it's tea-time already. (Examines a crumpled manuscript with his back to Jack.)

Jack (indifferently). What is that, Dill?

Dill. It's a will, sir.

Jack (observing. Dill's progress about the room). Never admit that you have a will, Dill. Where there's a will there's a conscience, you know. One must get over such things.

Dill. I'll try to, sir. (Puts manuscript back in pocket.)

Jack (with an air of importance). I've some melancholy news, Dill.

Dill. Melancholy for whom, sir?

Jack. For you, Dill, and for my father. I hope you won't take it too seriously when I say you're the living picture of my father.

Dill. Oh, I just adore pictures, sir.

Jack. My father does not adore you, Dill. He took you for his brother.

Dill (with dignity). Really, sir! Who do you say that I am, sir?

Jack (facing about). I say you're the butler, Dill.

Dill. Quite right, sir. (Attentively.) Are you a gentleman?

Jack. By no means.

Dill. Your father?

Jack. Nor he either. (Enter Jane.)

Dill. My brother was a gentleman. (Exit haughtily with tray.)

Jane is forty, a young woman of forty. If failure is the worst deformity, she must be open to that accusation, for she has compromised with life. But Jane will always be something a little better than a woman.

Jane. What is it all about, Jack? Yourself? Kathryn? Or merely me?

Jack. None of us, Jane. Dill said that he was getting married.

Jane. Oh, Dill's always getting married. He never does, though.

Jack. And then Dill was telling me about a brother of his, and I was telling him about a brother of my father's. I have never told you, Jane, but father really came here looking for a brother. Sort of a business journey on his part. That is—none of his business whatever. I tell him fathers should begin at home and stay there. But father feels differently. Have you got a husband, Jane? I know that nothing short of marriage will ever stop him.

Jane. I haven't, Jack. But I almost had an English one once.

Jack. No need to explain, Jane. They don't exist. Our men were all killed in the Wars of the Wives. Father says it was they who started that horrible Rebellion in this country, and that it's going on still. Father doesn't believe in matrimony. That's because you're the first person I've had the heart to broach the subject to. (Aside.) I don't think I shall ever marry. It's a fine opportunity for a young man.

Jane. To become your mother, Jack, I might think of it. But a minister can support anything but a wife or a sense of humor.

Jack. Ah! but if father comes into the estate—

Jane. The estate?

Jack. Yes, you see when my grandfather died he left his entire fortune to his second son, at the same time disinheriting us. Said that when father became a minister he handled enough tainted money without hoarding any of his.

Jane. That's too bad, Jack. Not a penny?

Jack. No, just died and damned us.

Jane. He might have left that to his father, mightn't he?

Jack. So he might. It doesn't make much difference now though. By the terms of the will he had to be found, or to find himself, within one year, or the estate reverted to us. (Pulls out watch.) His time's almost up I fear.

Jane. You don't think he's dead, do you?

Jack. That or strayed I guess. (Sighs.) He was always the black sheep of the family.

Jane. It was certainly very good of your father to come to America to find his brother. Where did he think he was, do you suppose, in Australia?

Jack. Well—his brother always had an antipathy for Americans. He married an American! (Enter Gloria.)

Gloria. is the ordinary middle-aged mortal. In face, figure and deportment she is like any other middle-class American woman. All American women belong to the middle class. They are not all Glorias, however.

Gloria (flouncing into a chair). Have you seen Kathryn—anyone? (Puts the finishing look to a letter; seals it; then resumes without noticing either one of them.) I have a very important letter for her.

Jack. I didn't know anything was of importance to Kathryn, now that she's in love with me.

Gloria (quietly). Kathryn in love with you? Mr. Hargrave, you must be mistaken.

Jack. No—she proposed to me yesterday.

Jane. And did you accept?

Jack. No, I wanted to surprise Kathryn by refusing, and then to startle her by proposing myself. This afternoon I have chosen for my surprise. Three o'clock I think would be the appropriate hour.

Jane. The surprise, Jack, may be yours, but the romance remains with Kathryn. Eve will out, you know, and Kathryn has proposed again.

Jack. Again! May I ask who it is who has been so bold as to be proposed to?

Jane. Oh, it's still in the family.

Jack. The family?

Jane. Yes, Kathryn has proposed to your father. She said her love for you was of no import, that her love for your father was based upon degrees of reverential confidence which marriage alone could be trusted to dispel.

Jack (rising). I presume, Jane, that you refer to somebody else's father.

Jane. Your very own.

Jack. Impossible!

Jane. She recognized him at once.

Jack. How so?

Jane. By his resemblance to you.

Jack. Improbable.

Jane. Why so?

Jack (seating himself). I have no father.

Jane. Of course if you have no father, that settles it. You have often spoken to us of one, just the same.

Jack. So I have. But he's not a real father.

Gloria. What sort of a father is it that's not a real father?

Jack. Oh, mine's adopted.

Jane. You mean that you're an orphan, an adopted son, or something of the sort?

Jack. Yes; father found me; on a Friday.

Jane. Found you? On a Friday?

Gloria (rising). I don't see anything peculiar in the day at all, Jane. It is one of the seven, and to be found in all the best calendars. (Brusquely.) Have you found Kathryn, Jack? (Enter Dill.)

Jack. I think I have. I think she's in the next room. (Edges off C.)

Dill. Pardon the contradiction, sir, but Miss Kathryn is in the Park. Picking convolvulus I think. Convolvulus very sweet today, sir.

Jack. Was she alone, Dill?

Dill (gaily). No, sir; no, sir. I think she's with your father, sir. (Retreats before Jack's glance.)

Jack (wheeling about). Foolish father! foolish father! Really I cannot begin to account for such conduct on my parent's part. The sense of family obligation in the old is appallingly on the wane. But perhaps he's forgotten his glasses. Father's been wearing glasses for twenty years and performs the most revolting capers whenever he's without them. He becomes a boy all over again. (Stands in curtain way.) Have you got a book on fathers, Jane? Or perhaps I'll see him from the window. (Stretches himself out in inner room where he may be observed throughout remainder of scene.)

Gloria (matter-of-factly). I think a book on daughters is what you really need, Jane. (Fans herself.) I need not say that Kathryn has never been a daughter to you. (They sit facing each other.)

Jane. Of course not, Gloria. How could she have been? But Kathryn is my adopted daughter.

Gloria (very determinedly). Kathryn is not your daughter at all! Kathryn is my daughter.

Jane. How unexpected, Gloria! Since when did you discover this?

Gloria. I have never discovered it at all, of course. I have known it from the first.

Jane. Then that Friday, that biblical Friday, twenty years ago, when you came to me with tears in your eyes—and a basket and a baby—

Gloria. I did it for your sake, Jane. I thought it would add to your character.

Jane. Why didn't you adopt Kathryn yourself, Gloria? You might have done that for your daughter.

Gloria. For reasons of my own, and my husband's, I thought it best to allow you to.

Jane. Your child is quite your treasure, Gloria, you hide it so cleverly. As for your husband, I think you must have buried him.

Gloria. We were married on our trip to London—yours and mine. My husband's father did not approve of the match and our marriage was annulled. Events which have since transpired allow us to be reunited.

Jane. It seems very strange this, your marrying your own husband.

Gloria (radiantly). It is strange, beautifully, idealistically strange. Oh, you never could believe me, never!

Jane. I believed you once, Gloria.

Gloria (turning quickly). In the exact spot where I said I had found the basket—

Jane. And with which Kathryn picks posies now—

Gloria. It was there that I found the will!

Jane. What will, Gloria?

Gloria. The will leaving everything to my husband—on condition that we were married—that is, left it to us as man and wife.

Jane. So you think the will won't hold?

Gloria. Not unless we are married, and immediately.

Jane. It is a great temptation, Gloria, I admit.

Gloria. More than that; my husband takes a title.

Jane. Oh, I detest titles—American titles at any rate. In America a title is the conventional crown to which the rich and poor alike must bow. Every professional man, every silly doctor and scientist holds some title by the hand with which he is clubbing us on the head. Once we assert ourselves, feel instinctively that which he never could comprehend, down comes the cudgel.

Gloria. You don't think my husband is going to beat me?

Jane. I don't know, I can't say.

Gloria (proudly). My husband is a baronet.

Jane. Then probably he will.

Gloria. I tell you frankly that my husband is not going to beat me. The English haven't beaten anybody in years, and I'm not going to be the first. (Going closer to her.) Jane, why do you insist upon calling yourself Jane Gibbs? Would not your husband's name, or even Mrs. Gibbs, be better? You must think of Kathryn and your husband.

Jane. My husband?

Gloria. Your husband! (Drawing still closer, her curiosity lending a tone of affection.) Who is your husband, Jane? I have always been most curious.

Jane (shrugging her shoulders). Indeed I am sorry, Gloria. I know that curiosity never should be allowed to go unanswered, but I have no husband.

Gloria (at the point of tears). Jane, this is terrible! I sanctioned Kathryn's adoption believing you at least had that. What of her? What of your son? I thought that constant association with my daughter might arouse some affection for him whom you have evidently disowned. Have you never thought that he might want to visit this country, that he might feel the neglect of the only mother he can call his own? What of your son!

Jane. My son?

Gloria. Your son!

Jane. I have no son.

Gloria. Ever since your return from London I have been told that you had a husband, and you have told me that you had a son. You said his name was John.

Jane. Suit yourself, Gloria. I have a son.

Gloria. And John is now?

Jane (hesitating—then with real enthusiasm). At a School for Socialism in Canterbury.

Gloria. A School for Socialism!

Jane. Yes, and until John's twentieth year there is completed he must remain in socialistic hands.

Gloria. You are not for socialism, Jane?

Jane. I am not enough interested in myself, Gloria, to be interested in others. However, I am for socialism till the advent of socialism, then I shall be for something else.

Gloria. And this school—had it a founder?

Jane. Yes, a Col. Christopher Crapsey. A really lovable man. The idea was wholly his, and wholly original too. The school has prospered and is now one of the largest in England. From all that I hear John is its prize pupil.

Gloria. But are you sure, Jane, that Crapsey is quite, quite reliable?

Jane. I am never sure of anything, Gloria. But Crapsey is in this country now and you may judge for yourself. He wrote me yesterday to say that he was coming to see me on a matter of importance, of the very first importance. I suppose he had reference to John.

Gloria. I should never trust any man, Jane. They give us children and suffering and that is all. Pain has ever been the path of woman.

Jane. They talk a lot about the pain of women, Gloria, but it's not so. Slender waists are still the style.

Gloria. Nevertheless I should investigate for myself.

Jane. And Kathryn—what would you do about her?

Gloria (holding up letter). Kathryn will understand when she has read this. It is from her father and explains everything.

Jane. I am glad that Kathryn's father is a man of letters. Few Englishmen can boast of that. But is Kathryn to become your daughter, or will she remain with me?

Gloria. For twenty years Kathryn has been your daughter. She has been your daughter and nobody else's. Kathryn thinks she is your daughter. She acts like your daughter. (Rises.) And now—when I had expected some vast upheaval of your nature, some evidence of more than a petty affection, you cast her off for a son whom you have scarcely seen. You have no maternal instinct whatever.

Jane. I am sorry, Gloria. But when one puts money into a thing one expects some return—even if it is a son. And I have spent a great deal of dollars on John's education.

Gloria. How mercenary you are! And here Kathryn has barely a stitch on her back. (Enter Dill.)

Jane. That's due to the new fashions, Gloria. (Clock strikes. ReËnter Jack.)

Dill (to Gloria). There's a bit of Convolvulus in the air, my lady. (Kathryn steals in unnoticed.)

Jane. A bit of what, Dill? I've heard that name before. Have you ever heard of the Convolvulus, Jack? It sounds as round as a race-track.

Jack (watch in hand). I don't know, Jane. I haven't followed the flowers for years.

Gloria. Oh, it's only an ordinary flower that grows in the Park. I don't think it even has a smell, but Dill says I'm named after it.

Jack. That's not true, Gloria. There's only one Convolvulus, and that's Kathryn. I named her that yesterday. Besides, who ever heard of a Convolvulus Gloria or a Gloria Convolvulus? It's absurd.

Kathryn (emptying flowers over Jack's head). Well, here are some anyway. A flower for you, Jack. And mother, a flower for you, too. A Convolvulus for each of you.

Kathryn. is picturesque and pretty. A little too young to be anything but herself, she is nicely original. Her favorite books are Brieux and Browning, with a little Tennyson in the summer. She believes in the soul, and has one.

Jack. You are just in time, Kathryn. I have something of importance to tell you.

Gloria. And I have an important letter for you.

Kathryn. Oh, mother—you know how I have always wanted one. Do you think it could be from—father?

Jane. I don't know, dear. I'm going to look for a book on mothers and I'll know more about parents in general when I come back. (Goes out C.)

Kathryn (to herself). Of course not; how silly of me. Why it hasn't even a postage stamp, to say nothing of a foreign one.

Gloria. I shouldn't read it now, dear, anyhow. (Prepares to go.)

Jack. I shouldn't read it at all. I think Gloria wrote it herself.

Gloria. If you have any intention of marrying Mr. Hargrave, Kathryn, I should advise you to teach his son better manners. (Exit.)

Kathryn. I'm afraid you're too young, Jack, for me to ever teach you anything. (Turns her back on him.)

Jack (with his back to her). I'm old enough to be thoroughly cross—and rebellious, Kathryn.

Kathryn (facing about). Jack, you're not, and such remarks are thoroughly disrespectful. One of the first lessons in life a young man must learn is never to rebel against a woman.

Jack. I distinctly rebel against your proposing to my father. I was with father most of the morning and took especial pains that he should meet no one. Where did you find him?

Kathryn. I discovered him in the Park, Jack. He was wandering about as aimlessly as a child, and I am sure had no earthly idea of where he was going.

Jack. Yes, father moves very much like a planet at times, doesn't he? But then I'm not responsible for his defects. (Nestles beside her.)

Kathryn. I don't think your father has any defects.

Jack (continuing). And then father's a terrible failure. But one expects that. The old are all failures. It is only from a very young man that one demands immediate, impossible success.

Kathryn. Before you talk so much about others, Jack, you might educate yourself a little.

Jack. Oh, I don't believe in education, Kathryn. What has education done for this country? One-hundred-million Philistines?

Kathryn. What a silly thing to say, Jack. (Strokes his hair.)

Jack. It makes no difference what one says, Kathryn, so long as one says something.

Kathryn. You're very irreverent, Jack. (Pushes him aside.)

Jack. Please don't call me Jack! I'd so much prefer a number.

Kathryn. A number?

Jack. Yes, a number. I know Shakespeare was thinking of me when he said there was nothing in a name.

Kathryn. You're always comparing yourself to Shakespeare, Jack, and I don't like it. Shakespeare was a great poet, and you're not even a poet at all. (Moves away.)

Jack (with mock gallantry). The earth should not always be told it cannot rival the sun.

Kathryn. That's better.

Jack. But seriously, I do wish I had a number.

Kathryn. You're not a futurist, Jack?

Jack. I'm far too futile for that. But I believe in numbers in place of names.

Kathryn. That's just nonsense, Jack.

Jack. It's not nonsense. Numbers are necessary and convenient. Moreover, I for one am entirely in accord with the socialistic idea of the separation of parent and child. (Rises.) A School for Socialism is the one thing most needed today—some place a child may be put and not molested by its parents, adopted or otherwise. Each child should have a number, a perfectly reliable number, one that was all his own and inherited from no one.

Kathryn. I don't think your father would like to hear you talk that way, Jack.

Jack. No, but then you must remember that father is a back number.

Kathryn. I don't care.

Jack. No woman ever does. Lack of care is their distinction.

Kathryn. And lack of character a man's.

Jack. Then you are no longer my Convolvulus?

Kathryn. It's too late. You had your chance and didn't take it. Never overlook an opportunity with a woman, you might change your mind.

Jack. Gloria said she was named after that flower, and I of course denied it. I said that you were my Convolvulus—my white Convolvulus.

Kathryn. I am your father's Convolvulus now, Jack. What's more, he's coming to tea. (ReËnter Jane.)

Jack. Well, of all that's outrageous! Tea? At this hour? It's three-fifteen, and they're deep in their dinners in London by now.

Jane. The clock may be set back, Jack. (A pause.)

Kathryn. Jack's father was telling me about his poor lost brother.

Jack. Oh, I'm not so sure that he's poor, or lost either—at least not till tomorrow.

Jane. Why what do you mean, Jack? You said he was dead, to me these few minutes ago.

Kathryn. And your father isn't even looking for him any longer.

Jack. Looking for him? I should say not! When people look for things they find them. When they look for children they are successful. And the same rule applies to brothers. Parents are harder to locate and it is their redeeming feature. But father has found his brother! He found him this morning in the Park—found him with his own eyes, or rather his glasses. Father can see anywhere with his glasses, and nowhere with his eyes. If it were not for his glasses he'd be like other people.

Kathryn. I don't believe this imputation against your father. You think you can win my love by foully maligning his character and making him appear as wicked as yourself. But you cannot. I don't believe one word you have spoken, not one! (Throws herself on sofa.) Your father doesn't wear glasses! You have tried to deceive me. (Enter Gloria.)

Gloria. He has deceived me too. But my charge is of a more serious nature. Jane herself could not have been guilty of such conduct. You have tampered with the dearest thing it is a woman's privilege to possess. You have mocked that which was only mine to give and yours to take. You have sullied a woman's name. (Jack looks appealing to Jane and Kathryn. Both scorn him.)

Jack (on bended knees). Gloria! (His hands are uplifted in prayer.)

Gloria (holding flower). When I said I was named after that flower you denied it. But my name is Gloria and the Convolvulus is mine by baptism. (Bell rings. Dill goes out.)

Jane. He has been guilty of the grossest deception.

Kathryn. Of the very grossest deception. We could never trust him now. (They lock arms and saunter across the stage together.)

Gloria. He has! The Convolvulus is nothing but a Morning Glory, and I was named after it. If I were not so very stationary I should pick some now. I should pick a whole bundle of them.

Kathryn (most severely). Your father does not wear glasses. You must promise never to say such a thing again.

Jack. And to think that of all days father should have chosen this one to forget his glasses.

Jane. Love is blind, Jack. (Enter Dill out of breath.) Perhaps that explains it.

Dill. Mr. Hargrave, Miss Kathryn.

A white flower peeps clumsily from Hargrave's buttonhole. He wears the usual vest and has the unusual voice of a member of the clergy. His hair is long, and as he has apparently forgotten his glasses, he stands in the doorway quite, quite confused.

Kathryn (running up to him). Oh, you dear, dear man! (Takes his hand.) Of course you don't wear them, do you? (Calling.) Jack, let me introduce you to your father. Mr. Hargrave, let me introduce you to your son.

Hargrave (groping about and wiping his forehead uneasily). My son?

Kathryn. Jack—your father!

Jack. I am not his son, and he is not my father. I consider his presence an intrusion, a disgrace. You shall be unfrocked, sir, at the first opportunity.

Hargrave (marching up to Jane). How dare you, sir! How dare you speak so disrespectfully of your father!

Jane. Mr. Hargrave, I am not your son—although you certainly do look familiar. (Hargrave has floundered to the other end of the room and is being cared for by Dill, who mops his face with a big handkerchief.)

Jack. I know, father, there's great suffering among the rich in this hot weather. Do you think you'd still care to marry him, Jane?

Jane. I'm not sure, Jack. Your father looks very much like someone I almost married before.

Jack. Ah, in that case you'd hardly care to repeat the experiment. (Waves to them.) Goodbye, Kathryn. Come soon and find his glasses.

Kathryn. No, I'd rather read my letter.

Jane. I'm not a bad looker, Jack. And I have a new high hat which reaches to Heaven.

Jack. No more than mine, Jane. It's from the Alps. (Takes his arm.) This way, father. You don't drink tea anyway. (They go out. Jane strolls off.)

Kathryn (to Dill). Do you think, Dill, do you think that a man could ever be a success in life, I mean a real success like you have, who wore glasses?

Dill. In my capacity, Miss Kathryn, I have often wished I wore them. There are so many things it's best not to see too clearly.

Kathryn (with a relieved sigh). Oh, that's all right then. (She disappears. Gloria and Dill are left quite, quite alone.)

Dill (after a pause). Your debut—and that about the Convolvulus—was very sweet, my dear.

Gloria. Thank you, Dill.

Dill. On the contrary, Mr. Hargrave's entrance failed to come up to expectations.

Gloria (sternly). No, Dill. But men never do, and Mr. Hargrave can render us a distinct service later. You forget that we must be married.

Dill. Is it really to come true, love?

Gloria. Of course, Dill. And now are you quite ready?

Dill. Quite, my love.

Gloria. Are your hands clean?

Dill (taking hers in his). No man's could be cleaner.

Gloria (smoothing his hair). I don't think you brushed your hair, Dill.

Dill. It's a pleasure to hear you say that, dear. I have always noticed that when men and women tire of each other they become very careless of each other's appearance.

Gloria. Then you do love me, Dill?

Dill. Oh, my love. (Embraces her passionately.)

Curtain.