Scene—Peter Hargrave's apartment. Door R. Exit L. Narrow hall U. R. with door L. An old-fashioned bell rope overhead; double desk, two chairs, and a Venus on the wall. Enter Jack escorting Hargrave by the arm.

Jack. If it were my own father, he could not have acted in a more gentlemanly manner. Your every movement marks you the gentleman. You have a gentleman's happy faculty for doing the wrong thing at the right time. I have always feared that some day I should meet a gentleman, but never, never suspected you. (They come down stage together.) Dill said his brother was a gentleman, but no one believes Dill, no one but myself. (Hargrave is doing his best to overlook Jack's frivolity.)

Hargrave. I must confess that I am glad my brother has been found out. What did you say his social standing was?

Jack (using Venus as a mirror). A butler, father. The standing is on a par with petty theft.

Hargrave. A butler! A thief!

Jack. Yes, a menial, father, a form of man. It owes its origin to menus.

Hargrave (rubbing his hands). I haven't told you before, my boy, and an announcement of this kind should really proceed from the young lady in question, but I believe that I am engaged.

Jack. Of course, you are, father. I'm attending to that.

Hargrave. Then Kathryn has told you?

Jack. Kathryn? This is the last straw, father. (Pulls quill pen from hat.) You shall be unfrocked, sir. (Sits down at desk.) I'll write a brief to the Archbishop to that effect. (Does not write.) I had long seen the advisability of such action, and had you been my real father would have attended to it long ago. (Hargrave glares at him.) When would you be unfrocked, father? In the morning? I'll respect any preference you see fit to name. Well, some morning! Most any morning will do. Letters have to travel like other people. They would not be well read otherwise.

Hargrave (at other end of the desk). You shall go to jail, sir. (Writes furiously.) Or maybe there are many charitable organizations only too glad to take you off my hands.

Jack. That remark was cowardly, Mr. Kent. You know very well that I am not rich enough to go to jail, and that both influence and position are required today for a jail career. (Snatches pen away.) For the past fortnight a jail has been my prime ambition. I have a genius for jails, and I need not tell you, Mr. Kent, that I need rest and affection.

Hargrave. Hargrave, Jack, Hargrave! And until tonight I must be known by no other name.

Jack. Please don't call me Jack, father. It sounds so unartificial. And to think that I who have always perceived the immense superiority of a number, should have been endowed with a monosyllable like that.

Hargrave. You had a number once, Jack.

Jack. A number! Is it true, father, or do my ears deceive me?

Hargrave (piously). I shall endeavor to spare your feelings as far as possible. A young man tasting too soon of the bitter fruits of life is apt to form a very wrong impression of this world of ours, and the inhabitants above it.

Jack. Oh, people are above everything in this world, father, and in the next too, I guess. But have I got a number?

Hargrave. How little you understand! You think that I refer to some social distinction, some news of your misguided parents. I refer to your real parents, Jack. An immoral longing I have never had.

Jack. Oh, everyone's as moral and immoral as he knows how to be, father.

Hargrave (expostulating). Jack! Jack!

Jack. How often must I tell you not to call me that, sir. Even John were better.

Hargrave (devoutly). It was no desire of mine to dig up the past, to unearth that which belonged rightly to the dead. Your conduct, however, has made the telling inevitable.

Jack. A telling speech, father. But tell me, have I got a number?

Hargrave (bitterly). You have, sir! You have! Allow me to tell you, sir, that you once were, and I have no doubt still are, undutifully registered at Crapsey Hall, Canterbury, under the charge of an abominable brute by that name, as John—plain John, Disciple No. 1, in an evil establishment known as a School for Socialism.

Jack (embracing him wildly). Father! I forgive you! Everything! (Kissing him.) Turn the other cheek, father. Oh, such luck, such luck! I'll return at once. My fortune and future are assured now. (Tosses his cap into the air.) And to think that of all numbers, I should have been No. 1.

Hargrave (kindly). You are surely an odd number, Jack.

Jack. Dear Crapsey! I wonder how he came to give me that particular number, or if he knew that I thought of no one but myself?

Hargrave. I stole you from that heathen Hell—

Jack. Yes, yes, father.

Hargrave. And you were the first, last, and only little devil ever entered there.

Jack (crushed). Oh!

Hargrave. So come, let's to more serious things. You said my brother was getting married?

Jack. It's a man's malady, father.

Hargrave (suddenly). Jack! I have a thought! (Steps forward.) Could it be possible?

Jack. You slight yourself, father.

Hargrave (meditating). He is not marrying out of love. No! My brother would never do that. He must be marrying out of his—

Jack. Out of his senses, father. All men do that.

Hargrave (gyrating in circles). The will! the will! Oh, he must know, he must! The estate was left to him on condition that he was married, and that's why he's marrying now. (Pulls large pair of colored glasses from his pocket.) The will! Show me the will!

Jack. I knew you hadn't lost them. The old rarely lose anything. They have nothing to lose.

Hargrave (teeming with excitement). The will! the will!

Jack (reaching in hip pocket, coat pocket, hip pocket). Yes, father. (Repeats the experiment.) No, father. (Subsides into chair.)

Hargrave. Oh, Jack! He has found it—we are lost.

Jack (springing to his feet). No, it's not lost. I remember, you remember, it is under the tree. I left it in the Park this morning.

Hargrave. No!

Jack. Yes. (Makes for door—returns deliberately.) You agree to behave in my absence, father? I am very popular these days, and if Jane or Kathryn should happen in—

Hargrave. Jane! Did you say Jane! I have a particular aversion to that name, Jack. I trust that no woman named Jane bears any relationship to Kathryn?

Jack. Only her mother.

Hargrave. Her mother? Her name, please! Even now I trace a resemblance, a terrible resemblance. Tell me her name!

Jack. Her name's the same as Kathryn's, of course. I only ask you to leave the whole family alone hereafter. They did not even know you existed until this afternoon. You were a creation of my fancy and had form, color and expression. And now you have ruined it all. All, father, because you will not wear your glasses.

Hargrave. I don't know Kathryn's name. She never told me and I never asked.

Jack. Kathryn's name is Kathryn Gibbs, her aunt's name is Gloria Gibbs, and her mother's name is Jane Gibbs. Jane's a jewel, Gloria's an idiot, and Kathryn's mine. Have you learned all that you want now, or must I tell you more?

Hargrave (in a most melancholy voice). Jack, this is terrible. I had never expected that. Jane Gibbs!

Jack. The name's no worse than Jack, father. Too bad Jane's not a socialist, and could exchange for a number.

Hargrave. She is a socialist, Jack. Oh, a horrible, horrible socialist! Did I never tell you of a woman? whose views of life—

Jack. Are not so antiquated as your own, sir? (There comes a tinkle of the bell, a second and a third.) But come, father, one should always give in to the inevitable, and I have chosen Jane as your most likely spouse.

Hargrave. I will not marry that woman! I will not! (Jack throws open the door and Jane enters. She has on a gown of many colors and a hat of many heights.)

Jack. Ah, Jane! So glad to see you! I've just been speaking to father about that matter we discussed and he's quite interested already. Fact is, father's always interested, though interesting he is not. I've taken him to task about that blunder, though. Father's a bull for blunders. In the morning I've suggested that he be unfrocked. You'll be there of course? Great sight. (Facing about.) Why don't you say something, father! Or should fathers be seen and not heard? But perhaps you desire an introduction. Jane—my father. My father—Jane Gibbs. (Each are about to shake hands, but Jack's body intervenes and he rambles on.) The family problem is the most important product of this age, and ranks even higher than the servant question. Of course, fathers were fashionable at one time, or I never should have had one. It's a great fault, though, I admit.

Jane (loosening wrap). My faults are my fortune, Jack. Some people are even famous for them.

Jack. Ravishing, Jane, ravishing! (Plays with dress, avoiding Hargrave.) But perhaps I should go.

Jane. Probably you should go, Jack.

Hargrave. It is not problematical at all. It is obvious, sir. (Jack runs around the table.) My son has a roving nature, Jane; it is almost poetical. I've just advised an interview with a certain tree, a rather poetical tree. He is a near poet, you know.

Jack (bowing). A minor poet only, not yet being of age.

Jane. Do not make fun of the minor poets, Jack. Leave that to the newspapers. They foster them.

Hargrave (apologetic). My son had good intentions.

Jack. Heaven is filled with good intentions, father. (To Jane.) Chesterton says that poets are a trouble to their families. But then Chesterton is always wrong. If the families of real poets are anything like mine, the trouble rests with them.

Jane. Hurry, Jack, the tree may be gone. (Crosses L. and seats herself in the armchair.)

Jack. My interview will prove a very short one. (Pulls out watch.) Before long, father, I shall expect you to have arranged everything.

Hargrave (in a conciliatory manner). You said that her sister was an idiot, did you not?

Jack. I did, father.

Hargrave (writing on cuff). It may prove of importance. (Shuts door on him. A whistling sound is heard as Jack leisurely descends the stairs. Hargrave returns to Jane. Her taking the larger chair upsets him very much. There is a moment's lapse in which they look at each other.)

Jane. How very still it is here, Peter. I feel almost as if I were in the country—in the country that we both knew so well before our hearts had learned to beat.

Hargrave (rising to the sentimentality of the occasion). My heart is bigger than its beat, Jane.

Jane. Ah, but you have been in this country many days, and you never once wrote to tell me. We should have been glad to see you, all of us, even Dill—that's my butler—but he's almost one of the family.

Hargrave (scowling). I came to America from a sense of duty, Jane, and it has completely absorbed my time. I came to find my brother.

Jane. You never told me you had a brother. You left that for your son to do.

Hargrave. Then Jack has told you.

Jane. Yes.

Hargrave. The fact is, Jane, that I have never spoken very much of my brother to anyone. The poor fellow eloped just before I met you, and our recollection of him has always been a sad one. Sadder still has been my present duty to investigate and find that he is dead.

Jane (ironically). The Peter Kent that I knew had very little sense of duty. Often I thought that he had none at all. But he was not the Peter Hargrave that I see now. He was not a minister, and he did not lie. He was not a hypocrite and he did not masquerade under a false name to swindle his own brother, his living brother whom he pretended to think dead.

Hargrave (surprised and sullen). It is not true.

Jane. It is true! Your son told me.

Hargrave. Jack is not my son. He is only mine by adoption.

Jane. He told me that too, but he also told me about your brother. You met him this very morning in the Park.

Hargrave. I admit that. But till this very morning I believed my brother was dead, as dead as my own father is today. And now how does he show himself! As a man with whom one would care to associate? (With sudden inspiration.) No, as a thief, an unrepentant, petty thief; and Jack will tell you that also.

Jane (a little taken aback). How did you happen to call him Jack, Peter? I think John were infinitesimally nicer.

Hargrave. Jack would hardly have had a name at all if it hadn't been for me. He might have had nothing but a number.

Jane. A number?

Hargrave. Yes, a number! I found him the very morning after you sailed, Jane, a babe in arms, bound heart and soul to a School for Socialism.

Jane (eagerly). A School for Socialism! Where, Peter?

Hargrave (complacently). At Canterbury, under the direction of—

Jane (beside herself with excitement). Of a most eminent man, a charming gentleman by the name of—

Hargrave. Under the direction of a wholly worthless, degraded rascal, who has dogged my footsteps from that day to this, who has even threatened my life, and who has been the one and only cause of my assuming the name of Hargrave.

Jane. His name?

Hargrave. His name is Crapsey! And he has even followed me to this country.

Jane. Oh! (Sinks into chair.)

Hargrave. When I stole him from that pernicious place, his sole mark of identification was John, plain John, Disciple No. 1, in Crapsey's School for Socialism. (Bell rings overhead.)

Jane. You stole him, Peter, and your act was as free to censure as any committed by your brother.

Hargrave. Ssh!

Jane. I won't be still. I want to tell you right now.

Hargrave (terrified). There's someone at the door.

Jane. I don't care. They can hear too if they want to. (Gets up.)

Hargrave. Consider my position, Jane. I couldn't really ... I couldn't have a woman in my rooms. There, there, now! (Takes her arm.) You are all flushed—and the rouge is beginning to come off. (Jane instantly subsides.) This is my son's room. You may rest here for a while ... or at least until my visitors have gone. (Bowing complacently.) Love lingers in the spring and doubtless they are only some happy couple tasting for the first time that desire for the fruits of marriage which is the divine purport of our youth. (Shuts door securely on her. Sighs with relief and wipes his glasses carefully. Then after a moment's conflict with his vanity, returns and places them on the table. This done he tiptoes to the door and apparently observing but one person, shouts down the stairs.) Come in, sir! (Dill's head appears immediately through the opening, quite startling Hargrave who retreats before it. Dill still wears knickerbockers and a wondrous black cape falls from his massive shoulders. On second appearance he is followed by Gloria, dressed in her very best and carrying a large colored satchel. She is somewhat out of sorts at the delay and is coaxed and fondled by Dill.)

Hargrave (bowing). Ah, two strolling minstrels, I perceive.

Dill (punctiliously). No, sir. No, sir. We understood that you were a minister, sir.

Hargrave (his hands clasped behind his back). My heart and home are ever at the disposal of my flock.

Gloria. (motioning Dill to be still). You'll excuse the nature of our visit, sir, but you see my husband (blushes a little)—or rather I should have said the man who is to be my husband—

Dill (to Gloria). Both, my love, both.

Gloria (bluntly). There was no time to be lost and we must get married.

Hargrave. Ah, love is a tender thing, and her call is always urgent.

Dill. I overheard your son observe that you are to be unfrocked, sir—and so we just thought we'd take you while there was still time. (Aside.) There's only one time for marriage, and that's when the lady gives her consent.

Hargrave (now scowling and suspicious). My son?

Gloria. Dillingham, you are always rendering the most unpleasant surprises. (At mention of his brother's name, Hargrave stands stupefied, then with a fleeting glance over his shoulder, rushes back to the table and adjusts his glasses.) Perhaps Mr. Hargrave does not care to acknowledge that he has a son, and what you said about being unfrocked was ungentlemanly. (Hargrave glares at Dill and stations himself in front of Jane's door.)

Hargrave (trembling with emotion). Do I understand, sir, that you trespass upon my hearth entertaining visions of matrimony? (Dill and Gloria are stupefied by Hargrave's peculiar behavior.)

Dill (very sweetly). That's it, sir.

Hargrave. Then I take pleasure to inform you, sir, that it cannot be done.

Dill. But it must be done, sir. I have made a careful canvass of the ministry, and I find them all to be extinct at present, sir. They're like the birds and butterflies, sir, and are forever migrating at this season of the year. You're the only one that hasn't wings at present, sir.

Gloria. Be quiet, Dill. It's love that makes the world go around, Mr. Hargrave.

Hargrave. It's love that makes the world stand still, I say. Besides, in this country at least marriage is illegal. The Constitution expressly provides that no man shall be deprived of the right of health, happiness, and the pursuit of freedom.

Gloria. That's why we are going to change the Constitution, Mr. Hargrave.

Hargrave. Anyway there's no room here. A correct marriage requires space for tears and relatives.

Dill (in the corner). I think we might try it here, sir.

Hargrave (superciliously). I am not in favor of trial marriages. Marriage itself is responsible for the alarming decrease in the birth-rate so prevalent throughout the world.

Gloria (sweetly). I think Mr. Hargrave is superstitious, dear.

Hargrave (snatching at the straw). I am. I am.

Dill. I always try to harbor superstitions in the heart, sir, and to remove them as far from the mind as possible.

Hargrave (advancing with a crafty smile). Ah, well! So be it then. My own experience with marriage is limited. However I will say this much for it. If it weren't for marriage a man could not honorably part with a woman.

Gloria (in a low voice). I said Mr. Hargrave was the proper person to apply to, Dill.

Hargrave. We will first examine the license.

Gloria. License?

Hargrave (in the most insulting manner). All women are not licensed in this country I am sorry to say. In that the continental custom is far better. However, before they are married they must be licensed. At any rate do you think we should have them running around at large?

Dill. Here is the license, sir.

Hargrave (examining it critically). I don't see your ages here.

Dill. We are both forty. (Gloria is about to remonstrate.)

Hargrave. Hm—really, sir, I must object to that. I myself am forty and should not dream of marrying yet. You are both far too young.

Dill. If you insist, sir, I am a little over forty.

Hargrave (squinting). And your names are?

Gloria. Gloria Gibbs.

Dill. Sir John Dillingham Kent.

Hargrave. Do I infer that you are a gentleman?

Dill. Oh, yes, sir. Even my brother was that.

Hargrave. And your social standing?

Gloria (whispering loudly). Bart, Dill, Bart!

Dill. Br ... butler.

Hargrave. That settles it. I cannot marry a butler posing as a gentleman. (Acts as if about to show them out.)

Gloria. There is nothing in the Bible which says anything against marrying a butler, Mr. Hargrave. Pharaoh's chief adviser was a butler, as you yourself know. (There is no Bible to be seen and she stares at Hargrave deprecatingly.)

Hargrave (eyeing Dill as if choking would be a pleasure). And Pharaoh hung him by the neck, if I am not mistaken.

Dill. The baker, sir, the baker. Very mixing indeed, sir.

Hargrave. As God is my baker—I mean my maker—I swear that I will have nothing further to do with the case. Under the most favorable conditions I can imagine my marrying a butler, or even a baker, for that matter, but with due respect to you, Miss Gibbs, I must (glances at cuff) decline to marry a butler, or even Pharaoh himself, to an idiot. The laws of hygiene govern that.

Dill. Sir!

Hargrave. My son has already informed me, Miss Gibbs, that you are an idiot, and I for one refuse to perform at any ceremony in which you are the principal.

Gloria (opening satchel). Mediocrity may be the foundation of my family, sir, but idiocy is not. However, I was prepared for that. I have found your son something of a clever idiot himself, and first accurate deductions led me to the belief that his father would be also. (Pulls out paper.) I have here complete and accurate credentials to certify that I have never suffered from Christian Science, Mental Science, Physical Science, Woman Suffrage, Eugenics, or any of the other seven deadly diseases so prevalent amongst my sex. I have also fully recorded a memorandum of the character and chief events of my life, including ventilation, vivisection, vaccination, marriage—

Hargrave. Marriage! (He gazes profoundly at them.)

Gloria. This is my second marriage, Mr. Hargrave.

Dill (apologetically). We have both been married before, sir. You see, sir—

Hargrave. I see. Are you calling attention to my glasses?

Dill. The fact is that we have each been married to each other, sir.

Hargrave (drawing himself haughtily together). Am I to gather that that is any evidence of her sanity? I say it's absurd. Any scientist in the country will tell you that a perfectly sane, healthy, well-organized marriage must end somewhere. All things do, and marriages have the habit, good or otherwise, of ending in divorce. It's their affinity.

Dill. Ah! But our marriage was annulled, sir. (Looks about him confident that victory is won.)

Hargrave. To you, sir, I owe an apology. When I informed Miss Gibbs of my decision in this important case, I had entirely overlooked you. Your marriage was annulled, you say?

Dill. I do, sir.

Hargrave. And you are starting proceedings all over again?

Dill (now dubious of his mastery of the situation). Yes, sir.

Hargrave. In that event I substantially alter my original assertion. I said she was an idiot, did I not?

Gloria. And I can prove to the contrary, Mr. Hargrave.

Hargrave. Any man or woman, not willing, but eager—as you have both shown yourselves to be—to repeat so dangerous an experiment, is clearly removed from that extremity of the body which we call mind. It is not a question of one idiot—you are both idiots.

Dill. Is not that a bit of an exaggeration, sir?

Hargrave. I think not.

Dill. I am sorry that Mr. Hargrave's son is not here, love. I know he would marry us.

Gloria. It's no use, Dill. Show Mr. Hargrave the will, and explain why we must be married. (Sound of Jack on the stairs.)

Hargrave. Yes, the will! Show me the will! (Reaches out for it.)

Jack. Father! I cannot find it! The will is lost! (Bursts upon them.)

Gloria (after a painful pause). What will, Mr. Hargrave? You seem extremely nervous. Can there be any relation between your will and ours? (Hargrave looks very faint.)

Dill. I don't know if there is any relation between the wills, my dear, but Mr. Jack said that his father took me for his brother. Of course Mr. Hargrave didn't know that my name was Kent. However, I had an uncle named Hargrave, and in case my brother is dead, one half of the estate shall be his.

Hargrave (buoyant at this turn of affairs). I am Peter Kent, your brother, your long missing brother! (Embraces him.)

Gloria. When a woman does not change her name for love she does so for money. It is true sometimes of a man. I see now why Mr. Hargrave changed his name and why he refuses to marry us. He shall not get a cent. (To Dill.) I think that you knew all the while that Mr. Hargrave was your brother, and that you chose to be married by a thief. (Hargrave's expression has changed.)

Jane (stepping out). Mr. Hargrave changed his name solely for my sake. We are going to be married, and I preferred Hargrave to Kent. That may be remedied, however. As for his brother—he did think him dead for he told me so himself.

Jack. You have done this for my sake?

Gloria. For whoever's sake you did it, Jane, I am glad you have got a husband at last—even if you did it for your own. Come, Dill.

Dill. I should like to spend a few moments with my brother, my own.

Gloria. Well, not more than a very few moments. (To Jane.) The two dears look absolutely alike, and when you get tired of yours we might change them around a bit.

Jane. Are you coming, Jack?

Jack. I'm tired of all this moving around, Jane. I haven't sat down for five minutes.

Jane. Well, just to the door. (They go out. Dill seats himself comfortably in the big chair.)

Dill. Charming little artificial nook here. Shaw says—

Hargrave. Do not jest about artificial things, sir. Browne avers that all things are artificial, nature being only the art of God.

Dill. Browne! Browne! No relation to Browning, sir? Pardon me. Of course; Browning's the diminutive, Browne naturally the father.

Hargrave. Of no relationship whatever. I had reference to Sir Thomas Browne.

Dill. Ah! A man with a title. One of God's favorites, sir, and possibly some relation of my own. (Enter Kathryn. She is very much out of breath and holds an open letter in her hand.)

Kathryn (between gasps). Of course, I always knew I had a father. Every young girl has, and it would be considered most unnatural not to. (She is shielded by the angle of the room from Dill.) And I always knew he was a horrid, horrid, man, too. Aunt Gloria confessed that. (Dill, hearing Kathryn's voice, has risen.) But at least I thought he was a gentleman (Dill takes a step toward her), and I never, never dreamed it could be Dill. (They come face to face.) Oh! (Turns away.)

Hargrave (turning threateningly). What is your social standing, Dill, I forget?

Dill (abashed and discomforted). A butler, sir.

Hargrave. Don't cry, dear, Dill is only a butler after all, and not at all responsible for what he does. (Kathryn had not thought of crying—but Hargrave thought she should have.) It is your mother who is to blame—your mother! That will do, Dill. (Forcing him back.) This is the servant's exit.

Dill (absolutely unhappy). Miss Kathryn, let me explain!

Hargrave. You may explain to Miss Gibbs, Dill; perhaps she will defer marrying you now. (Pushes him out. Dill carries a wounded look away with him.)

Dill (clattering down the stairs). My brother was a gentleman. (Jane and Jack enter leisurely by the front.)

Jack (taking in situation at a glance). Is this your work, sir? Have you proposed to her again, or what?

Hargrave (to Jane). Kathryn is for the first time aware of her father. I need not say that neither butler nor baker is considered the thing in a family way. To find such a man one's brother is indeed an unpleasant surprise, but to find him one's father must be a tragedy. We both feel the blow more deeply than you think.

Kathryn (very haughtily). You need not feel the blow at all, Mr. Hargrave. I am already half resigned to my parent, and by tomorrow I have no doubt that he will be in good standing again. My only regret from the first was that you cannot take his place, and that Dill can now be nothing more than a father to me.

Jack (taking her arm). There, there, my dear! All fathers are terrible, and I know yours could never be as bad as mine. (He regards no one but her.) I positively never think of anything he says unless by accident, nor must you either. And should the very worst come to pass you must always console yourself by remembering that we are none of us responsible for the species, either adopted or otherwise. (They go out.)

Hargrave. Kathryn took her father very nicely. (Sets himself for a scene.) I am sorry I do not share her strength.

Jane. One-half of strength is weakness.

Hargrave. And the other half?

Jane. That is weakness.

Hargrave. It is obvious, Jane, that you are incorrigible. Your daughter did not bid you good-bye. Can you blame her? This social evil, Jane, is far more than a harmless pleasure, as you once expressed it.

Jane (languidly). Kathryn is not my daughter. She is my adopted daughter. Gloria is her mother.

Hargrave (beside her). Jane, forgive me! How could I have guessed?

Jane. You are far too serious, Peter. Perhaps it is something that you eat.

Hargrave. I swallowed a whole tooth yesterday. I don't know just what the consequences are going to be.

Jane. You may get a tooth-ache, Peter. And again you may go to the dentist's.

Hargrave. I'd rather go to the dogs, Jane. I have already a hundred holes in my head that were made by those fellows.

Jane (running her hands through his hair). Your hair is long, Peter; far too long for married life. I have a marvellous tonic. It was recommended to me by no less than three physicians, and is guaranteed to make your hair fall out so quickly that you will positively never have to have it cut.

Hargrave. I remember it all now, Jane—the fields that we wandered together—and the Convolvulus, that little white flower that we picked and loved.

Jane. Recite that about the lilies of the field, and the birds of the sky, will you, Peter? It was always my favorite.

Hargrave. I didn't suppose you knew so much about the Bible, Jane.

Jane. I know something of birds, Peter.

Hargrave. You have always been my Convolvulus, Jane. Can you believe that?

Jane. It's a funny thing, Peter, but in love one never doubts, and the loved one never tells the truth.

Hargrave (suddenly). How beautiful you are, Jane! You look just as you did in the days of old—with your little hands and feet.

Jane (jumping up and covering them). Oh, my feet have grown, Peter.

Hargrave. I remember, Jane; in the olden days you would do anything but marry me.

Jane. Now that is the only thing I will do for you. (Puts chair between them.)

Curtain.