  Difficulties. The scene is a handsomely decorated and elegantly furnished morning-room at Sir Julian Twombley’s, with every evidence of luxury and refined taste. It is a July morning. Sir Julian is playing his flute. Mr. Melton, a good-looking, well-dressed young man, enters carrying a few sheets of paper. Mr. Melton. Pardon me. [Sir Julian’s flute gives a squeak.] Sir Julian Twombley. Oh, Melton? Mr. Melton. The arrangements for this morning are quite complete, Sir Julian. Sir Julian Twombley. The arrangements? Mr. Melton. The arrangements for the opening of the new street. Sir Julian Twombley. Oh, to be sure; I open the new street to-day. Why on earth shouldn’t a new street be opened by a policeman during the night, quietly? [The Dowager Lady Drumdurris, fashionably dressed for out-of-doors, enters.] Dowager. [In a flutter.] Julian, good-morning. A glorious day for the ceremony, Mr. Melton. Is everything arranged? Mr. Melton. [Bowing.] Everything. Dowager. I have a motive for asking. I and my family accompany Sir Julian and Lady Twombley to lend weight and support. Mr. Melton. [To Sir Julian.] You leave here at twelve, reaching the new street at half-past. You speak from the cluster of lamps by St. Jude’s Church. Dowager. Your speech will be terse, elegant, and vigorous, I hope, Julian? Sir Julian Twombley. I hope so. Have you written it, Melton? [Melton hands him the sheets of paper.] Thank you. The usual thing, I suppose? Mr. Melton. Quite, quite. Sir Julian Twombley. Thank you. There’s nothing like the usual thing. [Referring to the speech.] “By opening up these majestic avenues London takes beer——” Mr. Melton. Air. Sir Julian Twombley. I beg your pardon. “——takes air into her system and keeps her place in the race with her sister cities.” Excellent. Dowager. Who will throw the bottle? Sir Julian Twombley. No one, I hope. Mr. Melton. You are thinking of the christening of a ship, Lady Drumdurris. Dowager. Pardon me. Mr. Melton. I have to see Superintendent Snudden now as to the police arrangements. Sir Julian Twombley. Dear me! You anticipate no pellets? Mr. Melton. Hardly. Sir Julian Twombley. It’s so unfortunate it isn’t a wet day. Dowager. Julian! Sir Julian Twombley. An umbrella is such a safeguard. Mr. Melton. I’ll see that the carriage closes easily. Sir Julian Twombley. Thank you. And Lady Twombley might take an extra sunshade. [Melton goes out. The Dowager closes the door carefully after him.] Sir Julian Twombley. [Reading.] “I can conceive no position more agreeable to a Minister of the Crown than that which——” Dowager. Julian! Sir Julian Twombley. Dora? Dowager. You wonder why I am with you at this early hour. I need hardly say I have a motive. Sir Julian Twombley. I suppose so. Dowager. Knowing that you were not going down to Browning Street this morning, and that Lady Twombley and Imogen were to take Euphemia shopping in Bond Street, I grasped the chance of seeing you alone. Julian, what has happened to your wife? Sir Julian Twombley. To Katherine? Dowager. There is a shocking change. Sir Julian Twombley. Recently? Dowager. It began two or three months ago. She’s not the woman she was at the commencement of the season. Sir Julian Twombley. You alarm me. In what way? Dowager. Every way. Her appearance. Sir Julian Twombley. I haven’t noticed it. Dowager. Being her husband, it is natural you should not. Her variable temperament! At one moment she looks as if she would like to bury everybody, me especially; the next she is laughing in a manner I must designate as positively provincial. Sir Julian Twombley. Dora, you quite distress me. Dowager. I came early for that purpose. Sir Julian Twombley. Thank you. Dowager. Perhaps you resent my interference. Sir Julian Twombley. No, no. Dowager. It would not deter me if you did. The grand motive of my life is a firm, undeviating, persistent policy of practical interference. I am a social warrior; the moment I scent domestic carnage I hurl myself into the mÊlÉe and plant my flag. Julian, my flag is planted in your household. Sir Julian Twombley. But I am aware of nothing disquieting to Katherine’s peace of mind. Dowager. Don’t tell me! Sir Julian Twombley. Two or three months ago there was a little difficulty—— Dowager. Ah! Sir Julian Twombley. But it was mine, not Katherine’s. Dowager. Yours? Sir Julian Twombley. Frankly, I was embarrassed for ready money. Dowager. Oh, dear! Sir Julian Twombley. But Katherine, who is really of an extremely thrifty nature, promptly placed her very considerable savings at my disposal, and the difficulty ceased. Dowager. It never struck me your wife was thrifty. Sir Julian Twombley. Nor me till that moment. Which shows how liable the most careful observer is to error. [Resuming the study of his speech.] Pray excuse me. Dowager. [To herself.] Um! [She goes up to the window.] Sir Julian Twombley. [Studying.] “I can conceive no position more agreeable to a Minister of the Crown——” I’ll go upstairs, quietly. “——than that which I occupy upon this occasion.” [He moves softly toward the door. The Dowager turns suddenly.] Dowager. Julian! Sir Julian Twombley. Dora? Dowager. I don’t like your wife’s great friendship for Mrs. Gaylustre. Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine finds her a bright companion. Dowager. Katherine has my companionship. It’s true I can’t cut a sleeve like that lady. Sir Julian Twombley. It is to be regretted that poor Mrs. Gaylustre is forced to follow the modern fashion of increasing her income by devices formerly practised only by the lower middle-classes. Dowager. She sticks pins in her bosom as though she relished it. Sir Julian Twombley. But, after all, Dora, Madame Mauricette, of Plunkett Street, and Mrs. Gaylustre, widow of Lord Bulpitt’s son, are two very distinct persons. Excuse me. [He continues studying his speech.] Dowager. But what was she before her marriage? Sir Julian Twombley. You must really give me notice of that question—I beg your pardon—I don’t know. Dowager. This lady now walks into your house as if it were her own! Sir Julian Twombley. Ah! Dowager. Your wife is positively canvassing for invitations for her! Julian! Sir Julian Twombley. I shall be unprepared with my speech! Dowager. My family comes before everything! [Probyn enters.] Probyn. Lord and Lady Drumdurris are inquiring for you, my lady. Dowager. Beg them to come here. [Probyn retires.] Sir Julian Twombley. Ah, then, if you’ll allow me—— Dowager. No, Julian. This is another family matter of terrible importance. Sir Julian Twombley. My dear Dora! Dowager. Keith and Egidia approach you at this early hour at my instigation. I have a painful motive. Sir Julian Twombley. Oh, dear me! [Egidia enters, dressed in fashionable walking costume, her face pale and troubled.] Egidia. [Sadly.] Sir Julian. Sir Julian Twombley. My dear Egidia, there is nothing amiss, I hope? Egidia. Ah! Everything is amiss, Sir Julian. Dowager. Julian, the relations between my son and his wife have become terribly strained. Sir Julian Twombley. No, no! Egidia. Indeed, yes! Dowager. I have done all in my power to relieve the horrible tension—if anything, I have made matters worse. My hope is now centred in you. Here is Keith. Egidia. Ah! [Egidia sits upon a settee staring before her. Drumdurris enters, looking much worried.] Earl of Drumdurris. Ah, mother. [Grasping Sir Julian’s hand with feeling.] Sir Julian. [He and his wife look severely at one another and draw themselves up.] Sir Julian Twombley. My dear Keith, what can I do for you? Earl of Drumdurris. Ha! Explain, mother. Dowager. Julian, my son and his wife have cordially agreed to refer their grave differences to your judgment. Egidia. Without binding ourselves to abide by Sir Julian’s decision. Earl of Drumdurris. Naturally. Sir Julian Twombley. Pray tell me the cause of dispute. Dowager. The future of their child. Egidia. Ah, yes. Dowager. The adjustment of the career he is to follow. Earl of Drumdurris. That is precisely it. Dowager. [To Drumdurris.] Where is Fergus? Earl of Drumdurris. He accompanied us. Egidia. He is with AngÈle in the next room. Dowager. [Calling at the door.] AngÈle! AngÈle! AngÈle. [Outside.] Miladi? Dowager. Bring Lord Aberbrothock here. [AngÈle a French nurse, characteristically attired, enters, carrying a richly-dressed infant. Drumdurris and Egidia look into its face together.] AngÈle. Figurez-vous, milord, qu’il a dormi pendant tout le trajet! et puis quand je suis descendue de voiture, il s’est rÉveillÉ en pleurant ... ah mais, en pleurant! Dowager. Give me Lord Aberbrothock. [She takes the child from AngÈle.] Wait in the next room, AngÈle. AngÈle. Yes, miladi. J’espÈre bien que Monsieur le Vicomte ne va plus crier, car Ça pourrait faire de la peine À sa grand’maman. [AngÈle goes out.] Dowager. Now, Julian, this is the point. You see Fergus. Politics or the Army? Egidia. Politics. Earl of Drumdurris. The Army. Dowager. Pray speak, Julian. Sir Julian Twombley. Er—um—perhaps it would be rather precipitate—— Egidia. I differ entirely. The child’s intelligence must be directed into a particular channel from the beginning. Earl of Drumdurris. In that I heartily concur. For instance, the question of toys is already most urgent. Egidia. He is without playthings at present, so his mind is quite open. Dowager. You appear to have no views, Julian. Egidia. Lady Drumdurris, let Sir Julian look at the height and character of Fergus’s brow. Earl of Drumdurris. Pray do. It’s a soldier’s forehead. Dowager. Julian. [She hands the infant to Sir Julian.] Sir Julian Twombley. Thank you. Politics or the Army? [Addressing the child in his arms.] My dear Fergus, take my advice, not, not politics. Egidia. Ah! Sir Julian Twombley. If you attach any trifling importance to veracity as a habit, not politics. If you would care at any time upon any subject to form your own opinions, and having formed them, would wish to maintain them, not politics. If you desire to be of the smallest service to your fellow man, and if you would sleep as peacefully at sixty as you now sleep at six months, not politics. Egidia. Sir Julian! Earl of Drumdurris. The Army! Egidia. Never! Dowager. This is most distressing. [Calling at the open door.] AngÈle! AngÈle! Lady Twombley. [Heard outside.] Why, Dora! Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine. [Lady Twombley enters with Imogen and Lady Euphemia in walking costumes.] Lady Twombley. How good of you to come early! [Kissing Egidia.] Egidia, dearest! [To Drumdurris.] Good-morning, Keith. Ah! you’ve brought Fergus to see me! The angel! [With cries of delight Lady Twombley, Imogen, and Lady Euphemia gather round Sir Julian and the baby.] Lady Twombley. The pet! Imogen. The mite! Lady Euphemia Vibart. He is too sweet! The Three. Oh—h—h! [Brooke enters.] Brooke Twombley. [Shaking hands with Drumdurris.] Hallo, what’s the matter? Earl of Drumdurris. [With dignity.] They are looking at my son. [AngÈle has entered. She takes the infant from Sir Julian.] Lady Twombley. We’ve enjoyed a splendid hour in Bond Street—in and out of twenty shops, eh, girls? Lady Euphemia Vibart. Yes, Aunt Kate. Imogen. Yes, mamma. Lady Twombley. Bought all we could think of and ordered the rest. Sir Julian Twombley. My dear! Lady Twombley. Then why don’t they abolish Bond Street? It’s the crucible of London—set your foot in it and everything about you that’s metal dissolves. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Aunt has been too extravagant this morning. Lady Twombley. Extravagant! I! Oh, no—only I dearly wish there was no such plague as money. If the little words “thank you” were the one universal current coin, what anxieties, what cravings, what follies some poor women would be spared! Why can’t we buy choice stuffs at three-and-a-half thank-yous a yard? Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh, Aunt Kate! Imogen. Mamma! Lady Twombley. It’s nothing to laugh at. Ah, girls, if “thank you” paid for everything, being out of breath would be our only bankruptcy! Oh, my poor brain! Imogen. [To Sir Julian.] Mamma has a bad headache to-day, papa. Lady Twombley. A headache! never! Girls, what is it we bought and brought home with us? I forget. Imogen. We didn’t buy him, mamma—we met him. You mean Cousin Valentine. Lady Twombley. [Looking round.] Of course—Valentine. Where is he? [Calling.] Valentine! [Valentine enters very plainly dressed.] Sir Julian Twombley. Mr. White! [Bowing stiffly.] How do you do? Brooke Twombley. Why, Val! What? Lady Twombley. We met the poor boy outside the tourists’ ticket office in Piccadilly. He’s off again to-morrow. Brooke Twombley. Off! Where to? Valentine White. Egypt. Lady Twombley. We shan’t see him again for another ten years, I suppose. Imogen. Oh, mamma! Lady Twombley. The odd creature has heard of a congenial tribe who reside in excavations cut in a rock. It’ll end in my having a nephew who’s a mummy. Imogen. [Tearfully.] Oh, don’t! Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine, this child is not well. Imogen. Yes, I am, papa—but I don’t like—the idea—of parting—with anybody or anything—even a k-k-kitten. Lady Twombley. [Soothingly.] Imogen, my dear! Imogen. Be quiet, mamma! [The Dowager, Lady Euphemia, Egidia, and AngÈle with the baby go out. Imogen runs after them. Sir Julian resumes the study of his speech. Lady Twombley opens some letters which are lying on the table.] Brooke Twombley. [To Valentine.] I never knew such a queer chap! Come upstairs and tell us all about it—what! [Brooke, Valentine, and Drumdurris go out.] Lady Twombley. Oh! Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine? Lady Twombley. It’s all right, pa—it’s nothing. [To herself.] Gaylustre! [Reading a letter.] “I will accompany you and dear Sir Julian to the interesting ceremony of this morning. Pray keep me a seat in your carriage.” [Crushing the letter in her hand.] The demon! The relentless demon! Sir Julian Twombley. “I can conceive no position more agreeable to a Minister of the Crown——” Lady Twombley. Pa, dear, Mrs. Gaylustre will go with us to the opening of the new street. Sir Julian Twombley. H’m! Katherine, are you sure that Mrs. Gaylustre is quite—— Lady Twombley. Oh, quite. Sir Julian Twombley. If I were you I should really think twice— Lady Twombley. Oh, I can’t. Sir Julian Twombley. Can’t think twice? Lady Twombley. I can’t risk offending such a—dear friend. Sir Julian Twombley. But, Katherine—— Lady Twombley. Understand me, pa—she will sit in our carriage. Sir Julian Twombley. Then understand me, Katherine, I will not have my knees cramped by a lady whose social status is equivocal. Lady Twombley. Ah! Julian! Don’t attempt to come between me and Mrs. Gaylustre. Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine! Lady Twombley. You will assist her into the carriage, you will help her to alight; when she arrives you will be charmed to see her, when she leaves you will be a mass of regret. You hear me! Sir Julian Twombley. This is a most extraordinary friendship! Lady Twombley. It is an exceptional friendship. Pa, say you’re delighted this great friend of mine is to be one of us to-day. Sir Julian Twombley. Well, to please you, my dear, of course, I—— Lady Twombley. Yes? Sir Julian Twombley. I am delighted. Lady Twombley. Ah! Sir Julian Twombley. [To himself.] I see—I see the change in my wife that Dora spoke of. [Probyn enters with cards on a salver. At the same moment the Dowager enters and looks out of the window.] Dowager. [To herself.] They are punctual! Lady Twombley. [Looking at the cards.] Lady Macphail and Sir Colin. Not at home. If ever a woman was out I am. Dowager. [To Probyn.] Stop! [To Lady Twombley.] Kate, what are you doing? This visit is planned by me! Lady Twombley. Why? Dowager. I have a motive. Lady Twombley. Oh, Dora! Dowager. [To Probyn.] Lady Twombley will see Sir Colin and Lady Macphail here. [Probyn goes out.] Sir Julian Twombley. Ah! then, if you’ll allow me—— Dowager. No, Julian. This is another family matter. Sir Julian Twombley. Another! Dowager. These people have called to formally propose for the hand of Imogen. Lady Twombley. To propose! Dowager. Last night, at the ball of the Perth Highlanders, I danced the Strathspey and Reel with Sir Colin. In the excitement I wrung from him an admission of his affection. Lady Twombley. Pa, what shall we do? Dowager. Do? The head of the Clan Macphail! Eighty thousand acres! Julian? Lady Twombley. [To herself.] If it would provide for Imogen before the smash! Dowager. If Imogen is a high-minded girl she will be mad with delight. Lady Twombley. Will she? [To herself.] Ah! and will she learn to look down on pa and me when we’re aged paupers? [Probyn enters.] Probyn. Sir Colin Macphail—Lady Macphail. [Lady Macphail enters, dressed simply and quaintly in an old-fashioned silk gown, followed closely by Macphail, whose clothes are capacious and clumsy, and who seems very ill at ease. Probyn withdraws.] Dowager. Dear Lady Macphail—Sir Colin! Lady Twombley. [Shaking hands with Lady Macphail and Macphail.] How do you do? [Eyeing Macphail.] Oh, dear! Sir Julian Twombley. [Shaking hands.] Delighted. Lady Twombley. [To Macphail.] Pray sit down. You must be fatigued with last night’s dance. Lady Macphail. No Macphail is ever fatigued. But the poor lad feels like a caged eagle in the dress of the South. Lady Twombley. I am sure it is—most becoming. Lady Macphail. Sit, lad. [Macphail sits, hitching up his trousers unhappily.] You know the object of our visit, Sir Julian? Sir Julian Twombley. Lady Drumdurris has hinted—— Lady Macphail. The boy is here to pour out the passionate torrent of his love for your child Imogen. Speak, Colin. [Macphail rouses himself, rises, and looks round.] Macphail. Mother, you do it. [He resumes his seat.] Lady Macphail. Ah, if we were at Castle Ballocheevin, with the wind roaring round Ben Muchty, and the sound of the pipers playing by the shores of Loch-na-Doich, then you would hear Colin’s voice rise loud and high. Sir Julian Twombley. As we are denied these obvious advantages, it is almost necessary to ask you to explain— Lady Macphail. The lad has met your child on but three or four occasions. Macphail. Just three occasions and a bit, mother. Lady Macphail. But he loves her with a love that only a Macphail can experience. Lady Twombley. Of course one would like to know precisely the kind of affection that is. Lady Macphail. Naturally. Speak, Colin. [Macphail rises, embarrassed.] Macphail. I love her well enough. Lady Macphail. Bravely said! Dowager. Delightful. [To Sir Julian and Lady Macphail.] A grand nature. Lady Macphail. Go on, Colin. Macphail. That’s all, mother. [He resumes his seat.] Lady Macphail. [To Lady Twombley.] You have heard the lad? Lady Twombley. Distinctly. Lady Macphail. As we are all to meet next month as Lord Drumdurris’s guests at Drumdurris Castle, it would be well if this engagement were settled at once. Dowager. Without delay. Sir Julian Twombley. The question, of course, is whether Imogen—h’m! Lady Twombley. Whether Imogen can return the affection—— Sir Julian Twombley. Which Sir Colin honours her by entertaining. Lady Macphail. Has the lad your permission to pour into her ear such impassioned words as he has just uttered to us? Lady Twombley. I think there can be no objection to that. Dowager. Certainly not. Lady Macphail. When will your daughter grant him an hour for that purpose? Lady Twombley. An hour? Macphail. Three-quarters will be enough, mother. Lady Macphail. Bravely said! Dowager. Charming! Lady Twombley. When, Julian? Sir Julian Twombley. H’m! when? Dowager. When? [Imogen’s voice is heard outside.] Imogen. [Calling.] Mamma, dear! Dowager. When? I suggest, now. Here is Imogen. [Macphail rises hastily and awkwardly. Imogen enters.] Imogen. Oh, I didn’t know you had visitors. [Shaking hands with Sir Colin and Lady Macphail.] Sir Colin—Lady Macphail. Dowager. Now, Julian, leave them together! Katherine! Sir Julian Twombley. Imogen, my dear. [Imogen comes to Sir Julian. Lady Twombley, the Dowager, Lady Macphail, and Macphail talk together.] Sir Julian Twombley. Talk to Sir Colin for a few moments while I look through my speech. Imogen. Certainly, papa. [Sir Julian goes out.] What an awful task! [Taking a book from the table.] Lady Macphail. [Quietly to Macphail.] Colin, let her hear how a Macphail can love. [Kissing him.] My boy! [To the Dowager and Lady Twombley.] I’ll drive round to Lady Macwhirter’s and return. Leave them! Ah, the pipers shall play to the home-coming of a bride at Castle Ballocheevin! [She goes out.] Dowager. Come, Katherine. Think of it! To be the mother-in-law of the head of the Clan Macphail! Lady Twombley. Dora, what’s the use of a head with no tongue in it? [The Dowager and Lady Twombley go out. Macphail looks round uneasily.] Macphail. [To himself.] Where’s mother? Imogen. [To herself.] Oh, why do they leave us! [To Macphail.] Were you at the dance of the Perth Highlanders last night, Sir Colin? Macphail. Aye, I was. Imogen. Did you dance much? Macphail. Aye, I did. Imogen. [To herself.] He must make the next remark. Macphail. [Nerving himself and rising suddenly.] Miss Twombley! Imogen. Sir Colin! Macphail. I—I just wish you had been there. Imogen. Do you? Why? Macphail. Because—because—because I’m thinking there was room for more people. Imogen. Oh, of course. [She goes to the window and looks out.] Lady Macphail is just driving away. Macphail. No! Imogen. Yes, there she goes. [Macphail goes hastily to the window and looks out.] Macphail. [To himself.] Oh! Mother! [He goes out quickly unnoticed by Imogen.] Imogen. She has turned the corner, Sir Colin. Did you see her? Why, where is he? [Valentine enters. She does not see him.] Valentine White. Good-bye, Imogen. [She turns to him.] Imogen. Ah! [Falteringly.] Why will you go away, Val? Valentine White. You know my craze. Everything in this country is so stuck-up. Imogen. Mamma’s not—stuck-up, as you call it. Valentine White. Her gowns frighten me. My first recollection of anything is Aunt Kitty in a print-skirt at a wash-tub. Imogen. Hush! don’t, Val! Valentine White. There now! you’re horrified! Imogen. One doesn’t wish everybody to know. Valentine White. Then that’s being stuck-up, Imogen. Imogen. Then we differ. Valentine White. Of course. Everybody does differ from me in this stuck-up country. Wish me good-bye. Imogen. [Looking away.] I presume my brother Brooke is stuck-up also? Valentine White. Well, he appears to have fallen into the starch after that wash of Aunt Kitty’s. Imogen. Indeed. And papa? Valentine White. Oh, of course, he’s ironed out by the House of Commons. Imogen. How very rude! [Laying her hand on his arm.] And am I—altered, Val? Valentine White. Altered! The change is heart-breaking! Imogen. Oh, how cruel! Valentine White. Altered! Where are the tiny tea-things with which you once played at making tea in your old school-room? Where is the hoop you used to trundle in Portman Square—the skipping-rope Brooke and I turned for you till our arms nearly dropped from our shoulders? Where are the marbles I gave you—the top I taught you to spin? I say, where are these things and the jolly little girl who delighted in them? Imogen. [With much dignity.] I think you’re so violent that it isn’t safe to speak to you. But I’ll ask you one question. Valentine White. Pray do. Imogen. Where is the good-tempered, curly-headed boy for whom I used to make the tea; the boy who taught me, very patiently, how to play the marbles and to spin the top? Valentine White. You see him. Imogen. Oh, no. No, Val, no. Valentine White. Imogen! You don’t mean, at any rate, that I’m stuck-up? Imogen. No, indeed, I think you’re shockingly stuck-down. [He turns away, hanging his head. She comes to him.] There, now I’ve made you ashamed of yourself. Valentine White. No, you haven’t! Imogen. Then I will do so. Remain here. I will return in a moment. Don’t stir! [She runs out.] Valentine White. Shall I run away? Ah, if she only knew how ardently I wish that she had changed still more—how I wish that she had grown quite unlovable or I had forgotten how to love her! It’s hopeless; I will run away. [He opens the door and the Dowager peeps in.] Dowager. May I come in? Valentine White. Eh? Oh, certainly. [The Dowager enters.] Dowager. [To herself.] What has become of them? [To Valentine.] Pardon me, have you seen my niece, Imogen? Valentine White. She has just left this room. Dowager. With Sir Colin Macphail? Valentine White. Oh, no. [A cab whistle is heard. Valentine looks out of the window.] Dowager. [To herself.] Where is he? I shan’t sleep till I know it is settled. Valentine White. Here’s Sir Colin—hailing a cab. Dowager. Ah! Something must have happened! [She goes hastily towards the door; Valentine is in her way.] Let me pass, please! I have a motive! [She goes out as Imogen enters by another door carrying a large old-fashioned box.] Imogen. Valentine. Valentine White. Why, what have you there? Imogen. A modern young lady’s jewel casket. Open it, please. [Kneeling, he opens the box.] Valentine White. [Looking into the box.] Imogen! The tea-things! I recognize them! Imogen. You see, I’ve never parted with my playthings, Val. Valentine White. [Dragging out a large, faded, once gaudy doll.] And here’s Rosa! I helped to cut out Rosa’s mantle. Battered old Rosa! Imogen. [Taking the doll from him.] Don’t! Old she may be, but her sex should protect her from insult. Valentine White. And here are my marbles! and the top! Ah, ah! the skipping-rope! Imogen—perhaps—I—I’ve done you an injustice. Imogen. Do you think so? Valentine White. I feared fashion had put your bright little nature into tight corsets—but—I see—I see—— Imogen. [Replacing the toys in the box.] You see, Val. Valentine White. I see you have some affection for the time when you were not Miss Twombley, but only—little Jenny. Imogen. Ah! Valentine White. Not that these old dumb things prove much. Imogen. Oh, Val! Valentine White. They prove their own existence—not the existence of little Jenny. Imogen. [Crying.] How unjust you are! Valentine White. Perhaps. But your words and actions are so unlike. Imogen. [Wiping her eyes upon the doll’s frock.] No, no. Valentine White. I fancy we are children again when I hear you; but when I see your prim figure and stately walk I miss the little girl whose hair never submitted to a ribbon or a hairpin—— Imogen. Oh! [Impulsively she lets down her hair and disorders it wildly.] Valentine White. [Not observing her.] I miss the little Jenny with a tumbled frock, [She quickly disarranges her bow and sash.] the thoughtless romp who was generally minus one shoe! Imogen. [Fiercely.] Valentine! [She takes off a shoe and flings it away.] Valentine White. Jenny! Imogen. Now! play! play marbles! Valentine White. What! Imogen. Play marbles! [They go down upon their knees, she deliberately arranges the marbles for the game, he staring at her blankly.] Imogen. My mark—play. Valentine White. I beg your pardon, Jenny—I’ve been all wrong. Imogen. You have indeed, Val. Play. [He plays seriously.] Not within a mile of it. Valentine White. My eye is quite out. Imogen. My turn. Valentine White. By Jupiter, you’re still a crack at it! Imogen. Am I? Then which of us has changed—you or I? [She lays her hand on his.] Val, don’t go away and live in a rock. Valentine White. What am I to do? I’m poor, Jenny, and I suppose I’m crazy. Imogen. Any sort of horrid life would suit you, wouldn’t it? Valentine White. I suppose it would. Imogen. Then ask Lord Drumdurris to make you a bailiff or a head gamekeeper at Drumdurris. Valentine White. Not rough enough. Imogen. Why, you could get dreadfully dirty and wet through there every day. Valentine White. That’s true. Imogen. And, Val, we’re all going up to Drumdurris next month. Valentine White. Are you? Imogen. Yes, and if you like, I—I’ll bring the marbles. [Brooke enters.] Brooke Twombley. Imogen! Oh, I say! what? Valentine White. Do you ever play marbles now, Brooke? [Drumdurris enters.] Brooke Twombley. Marbles, no! Billiards. [Valentine collects the marbles, and puts them into the box.] Imogen. [To Drumdurris.] Keith! Oh, Keith, do me a favour! Earl of Drumdurris. Certainly. Imogen. Offer my poor cousin, Mr. White, some post in or about Drumdurris Castle. Earl of Drumdurris. What kind of post? Imogen. Some wretched, inferior position in which he needn’t be very polite. Earl of Drumdurris. What will he say if I propose such a thing? Imogen. He’ll be extremely rude, I think. But, oh, I shall be so grateful, Keith. [Lady Twombley enters.] Lady Twombley. Imogen! Child, what has happened to your head? Imogen. I—I’ve been playing marbles, mamma. Lady Twombley. Not on your head? Imogen. No, mamma, upon the floor. Lady Twombley. With Sir Colin? Imogen. Certainly not, mamma; I don’t know Sir Colin nearly well enough to sit with him upon the floor. [Putting up her hair.] Lady Twombley. Darling, has Sir Colin made any remark of an interesting nature? Imogen. No—he stammered a little, and, while my back was turned, he ran away after his mammy. Lady Twombley. [To herself.] I knew it! Why didn’t we lock him in till he had provided for my poor child’s future? [Probyn enters.] Probyn. Mrs. Gaylustre is here, my lady. Imogen. Oh, that person! [Imogen snatches up the box of playthings and hurries out. Mrs. Gaylustre enters. Probyn retires.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [To everybody.] How d’ye do? How d’ye do? Lord Drumdurris, charmed to see you. How are you, Brooke? Brooke Twombley. [To himself.] Brooke! Impudence! Mrs. Gaylustre. You look bilious, Kate. [She kisses Lady Twombley, who sinks on to the settee.] Brooke Twombley. [To Drumdurris.] It’s too bad of the Mater! Fancy a fellow making a chum of his tailor—what? Earl of Drumdurris. Mr. White, may I speak to you? [Brooke, Drumdurris, and Valentine go out.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [Examining the flute.] Pa has been tootling again, Kate—we must buy him a drum. Lady Twombley. Ah—h—h—h! Mrs. Gaylustre. Hullo! What’s the matter? Lady Twombley. As if you didn’t know! Oh, those awful bits of paper! Mrs. Gaylustre. Still worrying about those little Bills of yours which my brother Joseph holds, eh? Lady Twombley. Those Bills! Why doesn’t the ink fade that’s on them, or the house burn that holds ’em? Mrs. Gaylustre. Impossible. Joseph and I have been taught to believe that there is a special Providence watching over all Bills of Exchange. Come, don’t fume—Bill Number One doesn’t fall due till next month. Lady Twombley. Oh, Gaylustre, I shan’t be able to meet it. Mrs. Gaylustre. Shan’t you? Well, I dare say Jo and I will renew—if you make much of us and pet us. Meanwhile, don’t think of the Bills. Lady Twombley. Think of ’em! I eat them—they’re on every mÉnu; I drink them—they label the champagne. My pillows are stuffed with them, for I hear their rustle when I turn my restless head. Small as those strips of blue are, they paper every wall of my home! Mrs. Gaylustre. I should drive out, then, as much as possible. Lady Twombley. When I do the sky is blue! Mrs. Gaylustre. [Carelessly taking up a newspaper.] At what time do we leave here? Lady Twombley. Sir Julian and I start at twelve. Mrs. Gaylustre. See that I’m not squeezed up in the carriage. I don’t play at sardines in this gown. Lady Twombley. Oh! Mrs. Gaylustre. Talking of sardines, I shall lunch here to-day, en famille. Lady Twombley. Gaylustre! you fiend! I—I can’t stand it. Mrs. Gaylustre. Don’t quite see how you’re going to get out of it. Lady Twombley. It’s true I owe that brother of yours thousands. Mrs. Gaylustre. Well, we have kept your establishment going for some time. Lady Twombley. But I don’t owe you as much as a linen button! Mrs. Gaylustre. Jo and I are one. Lady Twombley. No! I’ll never believe that a man—even a money-lender—would dance a set of devilish quadrilles on a lady when she’s down, as you’re doing. Mrs. Gaylustre. Ha, ha! Lady Twombley. I saw your brother on that one fatal night. Common person that he is, he must have a heart under his vulgar waistcoat. Mrs. Gaylustre. Be careful! Don’t insult my Jo! Lady Twombley. I compliment him! I will appeal to him to protect me from your claws, Gaylustre! Mrs. Gaylustre. Oh, you will, will you? Lady Twombley. I will. Mrs. Gaylustre. Very well then—do it! Kate Twombley, go to that door and call my brother Jo! Lady Twombley. What! Mrs. Gaylustre. Do it! Lady Twombley. What—do you—mean? Mrs. Gaylustre. Open that door and call Jo! Lady Twombley. No, no! [She opens the door and looks out.] You are only frightening me! Mrs. Gaylustre. Call—Mr. Lebanon! Lady Twombley. Mr. Lebanon! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Outside.] Heah! [Lady Twombley utters a cry of horror as Mr. Joseph Lebanon enters—a smartly dressed, unctuous, middle-aged person, of a most pronounced common Semitic type, with a bland manner and a contented smile.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady Twombley, delighted to find myself in your elegant ’ouse. Most recherchÉ. Lady Twombley. How do you come here? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Fan brought me. Lady Twombley. How dare she? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. ’Ow dare she? H’m! Fan, I ’ope and trust not a coolness between you and Lady T. [Lady Twombley sinks into a chair.] Mrs. Gaylustre. She was dying to see you—there’s no pleasing her. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Dyin’ to see me! Flattered—flattered. [He sits in close proximity to Lady Twombley.] Deah Lady T, you and I and nobody by, eh? Excuse my humour. ’Ow can I ’ave the honour of servin’ you? Don’t ’esitate, Lady T, don’t ’esitate. Lady Twombley. I only wanted—to beg you—to rid me of that viper. Mrs. Gaylustre. That’s going a little too far! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. There is a coolness—a triflin’, temporary coolness. Fan, be reasonable—Lady T, be forgivin’. Kiss and be friends. Lady Twombley. I know that you’ve got me—what’s the expression?—on something or another. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I ’ope “toast” is not the word you requiah, Lady Twombley? Lady Twombley. Oh, yes, on toast. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, Lady T.! Lady T.! Lady Twombley. I know that if I can’t meet those awful Bills you can drag my name into the papers, and set all London grinning for a month. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh! Oh, Fan, is that my way of doin’ business? Lady Twombley. If you’re a nice, honest man—as you look—you’ll take her away, and never, either of you, show your ugl—show your faces here again. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Ah, Lady T., now we come to the aim and object of the mornin’ call which I have the ’appiness of making on you. Fan, you haven’t explained to Lady T. You really must cut in. Mrs. Gaylustre. I shan’t. Explain yourself. [Lebanon rises, replacing his chair.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. My dear Lady T., the long and the short of it is that Fan and I have considerable social ambition. Lady Twombley. You too! Not you! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. And why not? Fanny, cut in! Mrs. Gaylustre. Go on, Jo dear. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady Twombley, it has been the desiah of Fan and self, ever since that period of our lives which I may describe as our checkered child’ood, to reach the top of the social tree. Lady Twombley. Hah! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady Twombley, you’ll pardon my remarking that you are a little trying. I say, Fan and I desiah to reach the top of the social tree, where the cocoanuts are. Excuse my humour. Fan’s had a whirl or two in the circles of fashion. Lady Twombley. She! A hanger-on to the skirts of Society! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. And very good skirts too when she makes ’em. Mrs. Gaylustre. Jo, drop that. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Excuse my humour, Fan. As for me, from those early boy’ood’s days when I made temporary ad Lady Twombley. Finance! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. But now, Lady T—to use a poetic figure—I am prepared to cut an eight on the frozen lake of gentility. Lady Twombley. Man! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I ignore the innuendo. Lady Twombley, I am aware that for a successful entrÉe into Society I requiah a—ha—a substantial guarantee. I ’ave, therefore, the honour and the ’appiness to put myself under your sheltering and I ’ope sympathetic wing. Lady Twombley. You—you will drive me mad! You won’t dare to call here, to contaminate my bell-handle, to send up your hideous name! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, Fan, I really can’t! This is descendin’ to a mere wrangle. Pray cut in. Mrs. Gaylustre. No, Lady Twombley, as the Season is drawing to a close, Joseph certainly does not intend to attach himself to your London establishment. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Not for Joseph—excuse my humour. Mrs. Gaylustre. But he and I do mean to take our flight from town with the rest of the swallows. [Pointing to a paragraph in the journal she still carries.] Look here, we saw this paragraph in the paper yesterday. Read it. [Lady Twombley knocks the paper to the ground.] Lady Twombley. Insolent! Mrs. Gaylustre. Jo, pet—read it. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Fanny, this is really most trying. [Picking up the paper and reading.] “There are already signs of an exodus from town. Among the first of the notabilities to turn their faces northward are Sir Julian and Lady Twombley, who will spend the autumn at Drumdurris Castle as the guests of their nephew, Lord Drumdurris.” Lady Twombley. What is this to you? Mrs. Gaylustre. What’s that to us! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Fan, what’s that to us! Lady Twombley, we entertain a not unreasonable desiah to spend our autumn at Drumdurris Castle. Lady Twombley. In the kitchen? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, Fan, I really can’t! You must cut in again. Mrs. Gaylustre. As the guests of Lord Drumdurris. Lady Twombley. Never! Mrs. Gaylustre. Bill Number One falls due next month when you are at Drumdurris Castle! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. No, no! Fan, do not mix up business with friendship. You know my rule. Mrs. Gaylustre. Get us to Drumdurris and we renew! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, Fanny, how plainly you put it! Don’t! Lady Twombley. Never! [Mr. Melton enters.] Mr. Melton. The carriages are here, Lady Twombley. Lady Twombley. I—I’ll come. [Drumdurris enters talking to Valentine. Imogen, Lady Euphemia, and Brooke follow; then Egidia and AngÈle with the infant.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [To Lady Twombley.] Introduce me! Lady Twombley. Never! Mrs. Gaylustre. [To Lady Twombley.] Introduce him! Lady Twombley. I will not! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady Twombley! [He produces his pocketbook, opens it, and gives her a glimpse of the Bills.] Lady Twombley. The Bills! Oh! [She makes a futile snatch at the pocketbook.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady Twombley, introduce me! [Sir Julian enters, intent upon his speech, the MS. of which he carries in his hand.] Sir Julian Twombley. [To himself.] “I can conceive no position more agreeable to a Minister of the Crown——” [Seeing Lebanon.] Eh? Mrs. Gaylustre. [Whispering to Lady Twombley.] Now! Lady Twombley. Julian, Lord Drumdurris, Brooke, let me introduce to you—Mr. Lebanon. Mrs. Gaylustre. [Triumphantly to herself.] Ah! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Triumphantly to himself.] Ah! [Lebanon grasps Sir Julian’s hand warmly.] De-lighted to find myself in your elegant ’ouse. Most recherchÉ. [Shaking hands with all the others.] You all know my sister Fan. Elegant ’ouse this. Most recherchÉ. [Mrs. Gaylustre runs to Sir Julian and taking a flower from her dress fastens it in his coat.] Dowager. [Outside.] Katherine! [The Dowager enters with her arm through Macphail’s, Lady Macphail following.] Dowager. I’ve found the truant. He had a motive. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Quietly to Mrs. Gaylustre.] Who’s the Judy? Mrs. Gaylustre. [To Lebanon.] Old Lady Drum. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Ah! [Turning to the Dowager and seizing her hand.] De-lighted! ’Ope to have the pleashah of meetin’ you up North. Dowager. Katherine! [There is a general expression of astonishment, and Lady Twombley sinks upon the settee.] END OF THE SECOND ACT. |
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