The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mrs. Dot, by W. Somerset Maugham.

This play, originally called Worthley’s Entire, was produced at the Comedy Theatre on April 26, 1908, with the following cast:

MRS. DOT

CHARACTERS

MRS. DOT

THE FIRST ACT

Last time I came you said he’d be back in half an hour, and when I returned you said he’d just gone out. You don’t catch me napping a second time.

The governor don’t take impertinence lying down, Mr. Wright, and he’ll look upon it as a great liberty your dunning him in this way.

I don’t know about taking impertinence, but he’ll have to take a summons if my account is not settled at once.

Well, I’ll ring him up. I must see him on a matter of the very greatest importance. You’re on the telephone, aren’t you?

[Going towards him.] Mr. Rixon. [Rixon looks at him without recognising him.] Don’t you remember me, sir? I’m the junior partner in Andrews and Wright.

Of course I do. I saw your father on business the other day. [To Charles.] Where’s the telephone book?

I’ll just go and fetch it, sir. Mr. Halstane lent it to the gentleman upstairs.

Well, the fact is, we’ve got a very large account with Halstane, and I’m told he’s in queer street. I want to get the money before the crash comes.

That’s why I’m running all over the place to find him. You know he’s a relation of the Hollingtons. I was at her ladyship’s not half an hour ago—the Dowager, you know—my firm has acted for the whole family for the last hundred years. Well, I’d hardly arrived before a message came from the War Office to say that her grandson, the present lord, had been killed in India. So as soon as I could, I bolted round here. Mr. Halstane is the next heir, and he comes into seven thousand a year and the title.

I don’t mind telling you now that he’d pretty well come to the end of his tether. Your money was all right because he’d have paid everything up, but he wouldn’t have had much left.

Not a word. For all he knows, he’s a ruined man, and here am I trying to get him on the telephone to tell him he’s come into a peerage and a very handsome income.

7869 Gerrard, please, Miss.... What? Confound it, the line’s engaged.... I must go round to his club in a cab. I suppose you don’t want to wait here now, Wright?

I ’ope you’ll suit your own convenience, sir. [Charles shows them out and comes back.] I don’t know what these tradespeople are coming to when they expect gentlemen to pay their bills.

[He seats himself in the most comfortable chair in the room and puts his feet on the table. His back is to the door. The newspaper is lying by his side. He shuts his eyes and dozes.

[Gerald enters silently, followed immediately by Blenkinsop and Freddie Perkins.

[Gerald is a handsome man of seven or eight and twenty, simple in his manners, carefully dressed but without exaggeration. Freddie is a vivacious boy of two and twenty, Blenkinsop is an old bachelor of five and forty; he is well-preserved and takes a good deal of care of his appearance. He is dressed in the height of fashion.

[For a moment they look silently at Charles, who wakes with a start and jumps up in confusion.

[With an ironical politeness which he preserves during all his remarks to Charles.] Pray don’t let us disturb you. I shall never forgive myself if I think I’ve interrupted your nap.

[Sitting down.] By Jove, what a ripping chair! No wonder that Charles went to sleep.

[With a laugh.] I’m not sorry to miss him. One’s solicitor seldom has any good news to bring one.

To do that is one of the few principles I’ve adhered to in the course of an easy and unadventurous life.

If you can spare me two minutes of your valuable time, I should like to make a few observations to you.

Collect yourself, Charles, to receive the words of wisdom that fall from Mr. Halstane’s lips.

Charles, I have no objection to your sitting in my arm-chair and putting your feet on my table. I am willing to ignore the fact that you smoke my cigars and drink my whiskey.

I can even bear with equanimity that you should read my letters. For the most part they’re excessively tedious, and they will only show you how deplorable is the education of the upper classes. But I must insist on your not reading my paper till I’ve done with it.

A newspaper, a suit of clothes, and a bottle of wine are three things at which I prefer....

I thank you, Charles; I couldn’t have expressed my meaning more idiomatically.

You need not pour out the whiskey with such a generous hand as when you help yourself. Thank you.

You are a jewel, Charles, if besides administering to your master’s wants you advise him in his financial transactions.

Unless I’m mistaken, Charles strongly recommended me to invest my money in public-houses.

Them being frequented in peace and war, and not subject to clandestine removals. In peace men drink to celebrate their ’appiness, and in war to drown their sorrow.

[Smiling.] You are a philosopher, Charles, and it cuts me to the quick that I should be forced to deny myself the charm of your conversation.

I am endeavouring to give you notice in such a manner as not to outrage your susceptibilities.

On the contrary, you give every satisfaction. It has never been my good fortune to run across a servant who had an equal talent for blacking boots and for repartee. I am grateful for the care with which you have kept my wardrobe, and the encouragement you have offered to my attempts at humour. I have never seen you perturbed by a rebuke, or discouraged by ill-temper. Your merits, in fact, are overwhelming, but I’m afraid I must ask you to find another place.

You really shouldn’t be so abrupt, Gerald. Look at him staggering under the blow.

You gave it yourself, Charles. As you justly observed, them mining shares is very low. You are sufficiently acquainted with my correspondence to be aware that my creditors have passed with singular unanimity from the stage of remonstrance to that of indignation.

If it’s just a matter of wages, sir, I shall be ’appy to wait till it suits your convenience to pay me.

[With a smile of thanks.] I’m grateful to you for that, Charles; but, honestly, do you think half-measures can be of any use to me?

Come, come, this modesty ill becomes you. Is there a bill in this room, or a solicitor’s letter, with which you are not intimately acquainted?

I’m sorry the manner in which I’m imparting to you an interesting piece of information, doesn’t meet with your approval. Would you like me to tear my hair in handfuls?

So much so that I’ve to-day sublet my rooms. In a week, Charles, I shall cast the dust of London off my feet, a victim to the British custom of primogeniture.

Well, I feel certain that during some of the many leisure moments you have enjoyed in my service, you have cast an eye upon that page in Burke upon which my name figures—insignificantly.

Begging your pardon, sir, I looked you up in the Peerage before I accepted the situation.

Well, sir, always having lived before with titled gentlemen, I felt I owed it to myself to be careful.

I am overpowered by your condescension, Charles. It never occurred to me that you were taking my character while I was taking yours.

If servants wanted as good characters from masters as masters want from servants, I ’ave an idea that many gentlemen would ’ave to clean their own boots.

I beg pardon, sir. As you was the second son of an honourable and very well connected, I didn’t mind stretching a point. If I may say so, your father was almost a nobleman.

The consequence is, however, that I was brought up without in the least knowing how to earn my living. I belong to that vast army of younger sons whose sole means of livelihood is a connection with a peer of the realm and such mother-wit as Dame Nature has provided them with.

No, I expect two ladies to tea in half an hour, but you must admit no one else. These gentlemen will be forced to deprive me of their society in twenty-five minutes.

I repeat with considerable firmness that these gentlemen will be compelled by a previous engagement to leave me in twenty minutes.

It’ll be difficult after that to make our departure seem perfectly natural, won’t it?

I say, old man, I’m awfully sorry to hear this bad news of yours. Can’t I do anything to help you?

I’m very sorry, madam. Mr. Halstane went out not five minutes ago. I almost wonder you didn’t meet him on the stairs.

[Coming forward and taking her hand.] Charles is shocked at your lack of decorum.

Run away, Charles. And don’t do it again.... I suppose you think this sort of thing isn’t done in the best families?

I saw one of my drays outside, so I thought I’d just look in to see how you liked it.

The beer, my good man, the beer! Don’t you know that I’m Worthley’s Entire?

[Gaily.] It’s fortunate I’ve just given him notice, because Charles would certainly never stay in a house where he’d been so grossly insulted.

I love shocking Charles. He’s so genteel. Whenever I come here I see him obviously trying not to show that he’s perfectly well aware that I have anything to do with trade.

The world is so degenerate that it’s only among domestic servants that you find any respect for landed gentry and any contempt for commerce.

[To Freddie.] I’m glad to see that you’re not ruining your health by working too hard as my secretary.

I’ve been lunching with Blenkinsop. I answered about fifty begging letters before I came out this morning.

Very nice! I should think it was very nice. There’s no one in London who’d venture to wear anything half so outrageous. And as for the hat....

I wish sometimes that nice women wouldn’t get themselves up as if they were no better than they should be.

Don’t be so absurd. The ideal of a woman who takes any pains about her frocks is to look as like an abandoned hussy as she possibly can.

Oh, don’t trouble. I’m perfectly capable of doing that of my own accord.... If you think I’m going before you’ve answered a hundred and fifty questions you’re very much mistaken. First, I want to know why you’ve not been near me for the last week? Then why you try to keep me out of the place? And lastly, why you show every desire to get rid of me when I’m here?

I’ve not seen you because I’ve been uncommonly busy. I said I was not at home because I’m in the worst possible temper. And I want to get rid of you because I’m expecting somebody else.

I suppose if I were a thoroughly tactful person I should now ring for my carriage?

Well, I shall neither do the one nor the other. In the first place your answers are all nonsense and in the second I want to know who’s coming? If it’s some one I know, I shall stop and say, How d’you do, and if it isn’t I want to see what it’s like.

Oh, Freddie, I quite forgot. I’ve got a pile of letters that I found on my way out this afternoon. There are three poor clergymen who can’t pay their bills, and there are five elderly spinsters who don’t know which way to turn for their quarter’s rent, and there are seven deserving ladies with a starving husband each and sixteen children.

It would be much more immoral if they had a starving child each and sixteen husbands.

I suppose it’s never occurred to you that you do a great deal more harm than good by your indiscriminate charity?

Don’t be such an old frump. If it gives me a certain amount of pleasure to give money away, why on earth shouldn’t I? I daresay that nineteen out of every twenty people I help are thoroughly worthless, but it’s only by doing something for them all that I can be quite certain of not missing the twentieth.

[With a smile.] But that’ll only get rid of me, you know. Blenkinsop will still be here.

[Coolly.] James, do go and see that Freddie writes his letters nicely. He’s only just come down from Oxford, and his spelling is rather shaky.

You’re a ripping good sort, and we’ve had some charming times together. I’m glad that you came to-day, because it’s given me an opportunity to thank you for all your kindness to me.

Well, the fact is, I’ve been spending a good deal of money lately, and I’m rather broke.

How stupid of me! I’ve always had such lots myself it never occurs to me that any one else may be hard up. And I’ve let you pay all sorts of things for me, theatres and dinners and heaven knows what. I must owe you a perfect fortune.

Well then, in future I insist on paying for everything. I’m not going to give up our little dinners at the Savoy and our suppers and all the rest of it. Don’t be so silly. You know I have ten times more money than I know what to do with.

Yes, I can see you furtively slipping your purse into my hand so that I should pay for a luncheon, and giving me a shilling over for the cab. No, thank you.

Then we’ll economise together. It only means going to the pit of a theatre instead of taking a box. Well, I like the pit much better. You see all the women come in and you criticise their back hair. And you suck delicious oranges all the time. It makes my mouth water to think of it. And we’ll go on a bus instead of taking cabs. They’re much safer, and I like sitting on the front seat and talking to the driver. Bus-drivers are always such handsome men.

Very well. You shall walk on your flat feet, and I’ll trip along by your side on my arched instep.

Now you’re talking through your hat, my friend. You’re simply talking through your hat. I flatter myself there are few men who have a better head for business than I have. Why, since my husband died I’ve almost doubled our profits. The brewery has never been so flourishing. I’ve told the British People on fifty thousand hoardings to drink Worthley’s Half-crown Family Ale, and by Jove, the British People do.

Well, now tell me all about it, and let’s see if things can’t be put straight.

Oh, my dear, I’m afraid they’re in a most awful mess. I never had much money to start with, and I got into debt. Then I tried a flutter on the Stock Exchange, and the confounded shares went down steadily from the day I bought.

But I daresay I could have weathered that, only a pal of mine got into a hole, and I backed a bill for him.

I never knew a man yet, or a woman either for that matter, who’d stick at a thundering lie when he wanted money. And what’s the result?

Well, the result is that after I’ve paid everything up, I shall have about five hundred pounds left. I’m proposing to go out to America and rough it a bit.

Pardon my asking, but do you think a handsome face, a talent for small talk, and a certain charm of manner will enable you to earn your daily bread?

[Laughing.] I don’t want to seem vain, but although I’ve done my best to conceal them, I fancy I have two or three other qualifications which will be of more service.

I am. I can’t help it. But I think your plan of going to the States is simply foolish.

You belong to a class whose chief resource when it has squandered its money is a rich marriage. The custom is so well recognised that when a man of good family emigrates rather than have recourse to it, society is outraged and suspicious.

Don’t be so absurd. I never heard that the course of true love ran any less smoothly because a charming widow had sixty thousand a year.

My dear boy, I’m not a perfect fool. A man thinks a woman never sees anything unless she looks at it with both eyes at once wide open. Don’t you know that she can see things through the back of her head with a stone wall in between?

I’ve seen a thousand things. I’ve seen your eyes light up when I came into the room, I’ve seen you watch me when you thought I wasn’t looking. I’ve seen you scowl at any young fool who paid me an outrageous compliment. I’ve seen the pleasure it gave you to do me any trifling service. I’ve seen you watch for the opportunity of putting my cloak on my shoulders after the play. And—I’m sorry—but I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re in love with me. I dare say the fact has escaped your notice, but that’s only because men are so deplorably stupid.

But I’m not laughing at you, my dear. I’m so pleased, and so flattered and so touched. At first I thought I was only a fool, and that I saw those things only because I wanted to. And when your hand trembled a little as it took mine, I was afraid it was only my hand that was trembling. And at last when I was certain that you were just as much in love with me as I was with you, I was so glad that I cried for two hours. And I had to use a whole box of powder before I could make myself presentable again.

[Grimly.] I’m afraid you’ll think me an utter brute. I ought to have told you long ago that I’m engaged to be married.

No one was supposed to know anything about it. And—I was afraid of losing you. Oh, Dot, Dot, I love you with all my heart. And I’m so glad to be forced to tell you at last.

Well, three years ago we were staying at the same place in the country, and I was a young fool.

You mean that there was no other girl there, and so you flirted with her. But you need not have asked her to marry you.

[Apologetically.] It was the merest accident. It came to pieces in my ’ands, so to speak.

We were taking a walk in the garden after dinner, and a perfectly absurd moon was shining. It seemed the obvious thing to do.

I’m not so sure. If she’d given us her blessing and told us to do as we liked, we should probably have broken it off in three weeks. But she was really rather offensive about it. She refused to let Nellie see me, and the result was that we were always running across one another in Bond Street tea-shops.

Some time ago Lady Sellenger found out that we were writing to one another and so on, so she came to see me and said she’d made up her mind to take Nellie abroad for a year. She made me promise to hold no communication with her during that time, and agreed that if we were still of the same mind when they came back, she would withdraw the opposition and let us be properly engaged.

They came back last week. But I haven’t had a chance of speaking to Nellie yet. The year is up to-day, and this morning I had a note from Lady Sellenger asking if they might come to tea.

Good heavens! What can I say? I was poor enough a year ago, but now I’m penniless. I’m bound to ask for my release.

You know, I don’t want to seem an awful prig, but I don’t think I should much like doing anything shabby. If Nellie wants me to keep my promise I shan’t draw back.

A year ago three lives stood between me and the peerage. It seemed impossible that I could ever come into anything.

But last winter my cousin George unfortunately broke his neck in the hunting-field, and his poor old father died of the shock. If anything happened to my cousin Charles everything would come to me.

Even her best friend would hesitate to call her disinterested. But why should anything happen to Lord Hollington? He’s quite young, isn’t he? I saw his engagement announced in the Morning Post a little while ago.

He’s out in India at this moment. He’s a soldier, you know. It appears there’s some trouble on the North-West Frontier, and he’s in command of the expedition.

You know, you’ve got to marry me. I insist upon it. After all, you’ve been trifling with my affections shamefully. Oh, we shall be so happy, Gerald. And we’ll never grow any older than we are now. You know, I’m an awfully good sort, really. I talk a lot of nonsense, but I don’t mean it. I very seldom listen to it myself. I’m sick of society. I want to settle down and be domesticated. I’ll sit at home and darn your socks. And I shall hate it, and I shall be so happy. And if you want to be independent you can have a job at the brewery. We want a smart energetic man to keep us up to the times. And we’ll have a lovely box at the opera, and you can always get away for the shooting.

I don’t want to disturb you, but if you’ve quite finished your conversation perhaps you’d like to come and have tea.

Not at all. I rather like sitting in an arctic room without a fire, with a window looking on a blank wall, and the society of your nephew and the Sporting Times of the week before last as my only means of entertainment.

Because you’re a cynic, a millionaire, and a bachelor. And no man has the right to be all three.

A grossly over-rated place. So many marriageable daughters and so few eligible men.

Dear Mrs. Worthley, what a charming gown! You always wear such—striking things.

I wish I could drink it, Mrs. Worthley, but it’s so fattening. I understand you always have it on your table.

I think that’s the least I can do, as it’s only on account of the beer that I can have a table at all.

Come and sit by me, Gerald. I’ve not had a word with you since we came back from Italy.

My dear boy, it’s the little difficulties of life which prevent it from being dull. We should be no better than the beasts of the field if we had no anxieties about our soul and our position in society.

[Rather impatiently.] My dear Gerald, why don’t you help me? What I have to say is so very unpleasant. You know I have always had a most sincere affection for you. Under other circumstances I would have wanted no better son-in-law.

I’ve assured you for the last three years that a marriage was absurd, and now I want to tell you that it’s impossible. Love is all very well in its way, but it doesn’t make up for a shabby house in the suburbs.

My dear, when you reach my age you’ll agree with me that it’s only the matter of fact which really signifies. Love in a cottage is a delusion of youth. It’s difficult enough after ten years of solid matrimony in Grosvenor Square.

I’m anxious that my daughter shouldn’t make the same mistake. Now let us be quite frank with one another.... Are you sure they’re not listening?

[Glancing at the others.] They seem very much occupied with their own affairs. What is your ultimatum?

Well, Gerald, I’m not in the least mercenary. I know that money can’t give happiness. But I do feel that unless you have at least two thousand a year you can’t make my daughter even comfortable.

It’s not love in a cottage. It’s not love in a palace. It’s just—matrimony in Onslow Gardens.

I may as well tell you at once that I’ve had very bad luck. I wanted to make money, and I’ve come an absolute cropper.

Dear me, that’s very sad. But, of course, it simplifies matters, doesn’t it?

Enormously. It puts marriage entirely out of the question and leaves only one course open to me. I’ll take the earliest opportunity to ask Nellie for my release.

She’s so reserved, poor dear! She never speaks of her feelings. But after three London seasons most girls have learnt to bow to the inevitable. And how is Lord Hollington?

It was dreadfully sad that his uncle and his cousin should die within a year. If anything happened to him you’d be in very different circumstances. But, of course, it would be wicked to wish it. I hope you never do.

And I daresay he’ll have fifteen children. Those delicate men often do.... Why don’t you speak to Nellie now and get it over?

No woman can afford to be sentimental when she has a marriageable daughter.... For heaven’s sake don’t make Nellie cry, we’re dining out to-night.

I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you. I’d just been to the War Office to inquire if there was any news of those fellows out in India. By the way, Halstane, isn’t Hollington a relation of yours?

A small force was sent out to punish some local people up in the hills, who’d been making themselves troublesome, and it hasn’t been heard of since. The idea is that there may have been some trouble and they’ve all got cut up.

I thought you knew. I’d forgotten for the moment that Hollington had anything to do with you. He’s a very distant relation, isn’t he?

I can quite understand you’re a little upset, but after all he was only a very distant relation of yours.

Wouldn’t you like us to leave you alone? I’m sure you want to think things out a bit?

[Unctuously.] It’s very fortunate. Now you’ll have much pleasanter things to talk about.

Good-bye, old man, I’m sorry your cousin has had such an awful death. But after all, we none of us knew him and we do know you. I can’t tell you how glad I am that all your difficulties are at an end.

Nellie accepted me when I was poor and of no account. Now that I’m well off I can’t go to her and say: I’ve changed my mind and don’t want to marry you.

I must be honest, Dot.... I don’t want to seem a snob, but I’ve got an ancient name, and it’s rather honourable. I’m by way of being the head of the family now. I don’t want to begin by acting like a cad.

You know, I’m much nicer than Nellie. I’m more amusing, and I’m better dressed, and I’ve got five motor cars. It’s true she’s younger than I am, but I don’t feel a day more than seventeen. [With a little look at him.] And if you had any sense of decency at all you’d say I looked it. You said you loved me just now. Say it again, Gerald. It’s so good to hear.

[Beginning to lose her temper.] I suppose you just want to finish an awkward scene? I don’t want to harrow you. Why don’t you go to the War Office?

Now, I declare he wants to sentimentalise. Isn’t it enough that you’ve made me frightfully unhappy? D’you want me to say it doesn’t matter at all, as if you’d spilt a cup of tea on me? D’you think I like being utterly wretched?

For heaven’s sake, don’t talk like that. You’re tearing my heart to pieces.

Your heart? I should like to bang it on the floor and stamp on it. You must expect to suffer a little. You can’t put it all on me.

[In a temper.] You were willing enough to marry me when you hadn’t got sixpence to bless yourself with. How fortunate your cousin didn’t die a week later!

Oh, you needn’t take it as a compliment. I’d much sooner have to deal with a clever knave than an honest fool.

If you don’t mind, I won’t answer that question. Unless she asks for her freedom, I propose to marry her.

And has experience taught you that when a woman wants a thing she generally gets it?

THE SECOND ACT

My dear, why don’t you sit down and rest yourself? I’m sure you’ve walked at least ten miles up and down this terrace.

I’ve tried to, but as you’ve spent most of the morning in stamping on it, I haven’t had much success.

Then I beg you to listen to this: [Taking up a “Morning Post” and reading it.] A marriage has been arranged between Lord Hollington and Eleanor, only daughter of the late General Sir Robert Sellenger.

That’s the twenty-third time you’ve read this announcement to me. I assure you that it’s beginning to lose its novelty.

You can’t deny that it’s rather annoying to take up your paper in the morning and discover an official announcement that the man you’ve made up your mind to marry is taking serious steps to marry somebody else.

That is a question to which during the fifty-five years of my life I’ve been totally unable to discover an answer.

Of course he isn’t. He’s as stupid as an owl. I’ve told him so till I’m blue in the face.

Because I am. That’s the most conclusive reason possible. And I’ve set my heart on marrying him. And the more obstacles there are the more I mean to marry him.

I can’t imagine why you hadn’t the sense to fall in love with one of the various eligible persons who want to marry you.

I should have thought he could find a better way of showing it than by getting engaged to somebody else.

He’s a sentimentalist, like all his sex. Good heavens, what a mess the world would get into if it weren’t for the practical common sense of the average women.

That’s just it. I don’t in the least know. They’ll all be here in half an hour, and I haven’t the shadow of a scheme. I lie awake all night racking my brains, and I can’t think of anything.

I thought I might hit upon something if they were under my eyes. Gerald had promised to spend Whitsun with me and, so that he shouldn’t put me off, I asked the Sellengers, too. Lady Sellenger was only too glad to get a week’s board and lodging for nothing. [The sound is heard of a motor stopping.] There’s Jimmie Blenkinsop. I told you he was going to motor down in time for luncheon, didn’t I? [Blenkinsop comes in with Freddie. Freddie has on a gay tweed suit.] Jimmie!

I perceive that the tender passion hasn’t in the least interfered with your appetite.

Yes, but it’s one of my principles not to drink it. I seem to remember that you have some particularly fine hock.

Because I have a considerable gift for repartee. I discovered in my early youth that men propose not because they want to marry, but because on certain occasions they are entirely at a loss for topics of conversation.

No sooner had I made it than I began to cultivate my power of small talk. I felt that my only chance was to be ready with appropriate subjects at the shortest notice, and I spent a considerable part of my last year at Oxford in studying the best masters.

I never played for brilliancy. I played for safety. I flatter myself that when prattle was needed I have never been found wanting. I have met the ingenuity of sweet seventeen with a few observations on Free Trade, while the haggard efforts of thirty have struggled in vain against a brief exposition of the higher philosophy. The skittish widow of uncertain age has retired in disorder before a complete acquaintance with the restoration dramatists, and I have routed the serious spinster with religious leanings by my remarkable knowledge of the results of missionary endeavour in Central Africa. Once a dowager sought to ask me my intentions, but I flung at her astonished head an entire article from the “Encyclopædia Britannica.” These are only my serious efforts. I need not tell you how often I have evaded a flash of the eyes by an epigram or ignored a sigh by an apt quotation from the poets.

I don’t believe a word you say. I believe you never married for the simple reason that nobody would have you.

Do me the justice to acknowledge that I’m the only man who’s known you ten days without being tempted by your preposterous income to offer you his hand and heart.

I don’t believe my income has anything to do with it. I put it down entirely to my very considerable personal attractions.

[Sitting down at table.] I regard it as part of my duties as your secretary to look nice.

I don’t know that I think it essential for you to put on seven different suits a day.

Oh, that’s rot. Gerald’s an awfully good sort, but he’s not the sort of chap a girl’s desperately fond of.

Oh, I don’t know. [Taking up a spoon and looking at himself, twisting an infinitesimal moustache.] I should think some one a bit younger than Gerald.

[To Aunt Eliza pointing with a scornful finger at Freddie.] Do you think any one could possibly fall in love with that?

[To Blenkinsop.] If you were a young and lovely maiden would you fall in love with Freddie?

[Looking at him doubtfully.] Well, if you ask me point blank I don’t think I should.

Look here, you shut up. I bet I could cut you out with any girl you like to mention.

Pooh! I wouldn’t waste my time on whispering nonsense. I’d just send my pass-book round by a messenger boy.

Well, I flatter myself Miss Sellenger will be much more pleased to see me than to see anybody else down here.

You needn’t be set up about it, because she squeezed mine, too. It’s evidently a habit.

It’s no good, you know. You’re my aunt, and the prayer book wouldn’t let you marry me.

Now I come to think of it, I daresay you’re quite grown up to any one who didn’t know you in Etons.

I suppose a girl might quite easily fall in love with you. It had never occurred to me.

Which means that you’ve found him a wife, and you’re going to marry him to some one whether he likes it or not.

The delightful age when it’s still possible to feel desperately wicked. But you are old enough to have learnt that the moods of women are inscrutable.

You know, they talk about the incomprehensibility of women, but it’s all humbug.

When you see a blank wall, does it ever occur to you that there’s anything on the other side?

We had a delightful journey. Oh, how beautiful your garden is! So romantic. I love romance.

There’s nothing the world loves more than a ready-made description which they can hang on to a man, and so save themselves all trouble in future. When I was quite young it occurred to some one that I was a cynic, and since then I’ve never been able to remark that it was a fine day without being accused of odious cynicism.

My dear Mr. Blenkinsop, what every one says is always true. That is one of the foundations of society.

I gained my reputation by remarking once that it was possible for a penniless young man who married a very rich woman old enough to be his mother to be genuinely in love with her.

I was so delighted to see the announcement in the morning’s paper. I offer my very warmest congratulations.

I’ve known Gerald for ages. I’m delighted to see him on the way to such a happy marriage. I couldn’t have wished him to get engaged to any one nicer than you.

It’s all so romantic, isn’t it? It ought to be an answer to a cynical creature like you to see the course of true love run so smoothly.

[To Gerald.] I offer you also my best congratulations. I think you’re very lucky.

Are you, by Jove? That alters the matter. In that case the answer is in the negative.

It’s a little disconcerting to have a pistol put to your head in the form of a proposal of marriage.

Ah, here’s Aunt Eliza. The very person I wanted. [Aunt Eliza comes on the terrace from the house. Impulsively.] Aunt Eliza, will you be a perfect brick? Will you do something for me, that’s an awful nuisance?

My dear, why on earth are you so excited? Of course I’ll do anything in reason for you.

[Catching sight of his face.] Get two special licences. They’re always useful things to have in a house.

Must they? How stupid! Well, have one made out for Frederick Perkins and Eleanor Sellenger.

Now don’t argue, but do as I tell you. If two young things are thrown together with a certain amount of skill they always marry.

If people waited to know one another before they married, the world wouldn’t be so grossly over-populated as it is now.

No, I’m not. I shall never get Gerald to break his word. My only chance is with Nellie.

Make the second one out in the names of James Blenkinsop and Frances Annandale Worthley.

It’s all very fine to invoke the claims of friendship, but it’s carrying it rather far when you pay three guineas for a special licence.

But don’t you see, you idiot, that I want to marry Gerald Hollington? And I’m eating my heart out.

[Crossly.] It’s evidently a diet that agrees with you. You’re growing fat on it.

And how on earth are you going to get Freddie and Nellie Sellenger to use this licence?

I perceive you are inclined to think that the serious cannot fail to be improper, Lady Sellenger.

My dear, it’s so unfortunate, but my nephew has fallen head over ears in love with you.

I can’t understand it. After all, he’s only seen you once, and you can’t have exchanged more than a dozen words.

And it’s so unexpected, because he’s not at all the sort of boy who falls in and out of love with every pretty girl he meets. I think you’re his first passion, and he’s inclined to take it very seriously.

Poor boy, I can afford to sympathise with him now that Nellie is safely engaged to Gerald Hollington.

He tells me everything. You see I’ve always tried to be his friend as well as his aunt. He has no secrets from me.

You’ll tell us next that a boy who’s been to Eton and Oxford has a pure and innocent mind.

My dear child, he simply raves about you. He’s been talking of nothing else ever since you met.

But doesn’t he know that Nellie is going to be married at the end of the season?

Of course, he does. I’ve dinned it into his ears, but it seems to have no effect on him. He’s the sort of lover that will hear of no obstacles. It’s really quite pathetic to hear the passionate harangues that he pours into my ears.

I’m very glad he’s not. He’s going to be your husband, and that’s more satisfactory than any amount of pretty speeches.

I could wish that he talked to me of something besides the weather and the Royal Academy.

My dear child, what are you saying? Gerald has a charming nature and the very highest principles.

[Imitating her pompous manner.] To say nothing of a peerage and a considerable income.

He certainly has every advantage over poor Freddie, who is nobody in particular and hasn’t a penny to bless himself with.

Well, that’s just what I don’t want you to think. I shouldn’t have said anything to you about his—mad infatuation, only I want you to be very careful.

Well, I want you to be very good and sweet and help me to cure him. I’d send him away, only it would have no effect. I thought if he saw you again he might find out that you have at least one or two faults. At present he thinks you too perfect for words.

I didn’t think you were. I want you to promise that you’ll do nothing that he can in the least take as encouragement. I want you to be very distant and very cold.

You’d be doing him a real kindness if you could snub him at every opportunity. Then you must avoid him as much as you can. Of course, you’ll be very much with Gerald while you’re down here.

Of course. The dears, they’ve not seen one another for a year, and they have an infinity of things to discuss.

It’ll be quite easy for you to show my poor Freddie that he’s only making a prodigious fool of himself.

I know you have the sweetest nature in the world, but if you could be really brutal to him at once, it would cure him instantly.

And now I think we really might take a little turn in the garden before tea. [Seeing that Nellie, instead of accompanying her, strolls towards the house.] Where are you going, Nellie?

[Stopping.] I’ve just remembered I must write a letter. I’ll join you in five minutes.

[To Blenkinsop and Mrs. Dot who are getting up.] Oh, don’t let me disturb you, I shall enjoy wandering about and looking at the flowers by myself.

Freddie, I’ve come to the conclusion that you want a holiday. I wish you to pack up your things at once and go to Brighton for a week. You’re looking pale and tired. I’m sure you’ve been working too hard.

But I can’t go away when you’ve got people in the house. Besides, who’s to look after your correspondence?

My dear boy, your health is the chief thing. I should never forgive myself if you came to any harm while you were my secretary. I’ll write my letters myself.

Well, the fact is, Freddie, a dreadful thing has happened. Poor Nellie Sellenger is desperately in love with you.

Good lord, man, don’t be so self-satisfied. Aren’t you surprised, aren’t you dumfounded that a pretty girl should fall in love with you?

At all events, you see now the necessity for depriving us for a time of your charming society.

Nothing will induce me to desert a post of danger. I’m going to face the music.

Don’t be such an ass. It’s not you we’re thinking of, it’s that unfortunate girl.

But, my dear boy, she’s engaged to Gerald Hollington. Don’t you see how serious the whole thing is? The only chance is for you to go away. We must try and make her forget you.

I don’t want to do anybody a bad turn. I wouldn’t do anything to queer Gerald’s pitch for worlds.

There’s no use in her eating her heart out for you, when she must inevitably marry Gerald.

Poor old Gerald, I told you he wasn’t the sort of chap a girl would be desperately in love with.

Still, you know, I don’t think it’s wise for me to go away. Don’t you think it would be rather marked? And they always say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

What else can you suggest? The fact remains that Nellie must be cured of this—of this passion.

My own idea is that the best thing is for me to hang on here as if I knew nothing about it. I’ll take care to be very distant. I’ll ignore her as much as I can.

Don’t let her think you’re too great a devil with the ladies, or that’ll be the last straw. If there’s one thing a woman likes it’s a really bad man. She’ll start reforming you, and then there’ll be no holding her back.

No, you must seem rather dull and stupid. Let her think you’re a bit of a milksop.

I don’t believe a word of what you’ve told me. Why should she care for me? You’ve simply been humbugging me right and left.

Here’s Lady Sellenger. You won’t accuse her of trying to make a fool of you. [Lady Sellenger and Gerald appear.] I’ve just been talking to Freddie about—about your girl.

I really feel for you very much. You’ll want a great deal of tact and a great deal of courage. But you must do your duty.

But I’ve always been as sentimental as a schoolgirl in my heart. Only, so long as Nellie’s future was unarranged, I was obliged to keep a tight hand on myself.

Have you never watched the gentle sex fight and push and scramble as it gets into the Hammersmith bus? I assure you, the unlucky man who finds himself in that seething feminine crowd is fortunate if he escapes without losing an eye or half his teeth. And have you seen the fury of the gentle sex at a sale as they seize some worthless fragment, and the bitterness with which they haggle? The other day I was in the Army and Navy Stores, and two women were standing on the stairs, discussing their servants, so that no one could pass up and down. I took off my hat and said: Excuse me, would you allow me to pass. They moved barely two inches, and one of them said in a loud voice to the other: What an impertinent man. The gentle sex! Yesterday I was hanging on a strap in a crowded train coming from the city, and I saw a pale-faced weary clerk give up his seat to a strong and bouncing girl. She took it without saying thank you, because she was a lady and he wasn’t a gentleman. Then a tired old woman came in and stood, but the bouncing girl never thought of giving up the seat to her. The gentle sex! They have such tender hearts they couldn’t bear to hurt a fly. Have you ever seen a woman get out of a bus ten yards before her destination in order to save the wretched horses another start? Not much. Have you ever known a woman of fashion who sends her maid to bed when she knows she won’t be in till four in the morning? Not much. And is there anything like the insolence with which a woman treats her social inferiors of the same sex? Is it men who put on their backs the sealskins that are torn off the living bodies of helpless brutes? Is it men who put on their hats the beautiful birds of the forest? It’s the gentle sex. Boys are taught manners. They are taught to take off their hats and hold open the door for their sisters. They are taught to fetch and carry for women, and to give up the front seat in life to women. But what are girls taught? Girls are taught etiquette, and that, I suppose, makes them in due course the gentle sex.

Every one knows you’re a horrible cynic, so there can’t be a word of truth in anything you say.

[With a laugh, whispering to Blenkinsop.] They’ve both changed their clothes.

Personally, I must walk. I sacrifice all my inclinations to my fear of growing too stout. I often wonder if we shall get our good dinners in heaven that we’ve done without on earth.

You know, you’re awfully easy to get on with. Sometimes I feel dreadfully shy and nervous with women, but I can think of all sorts of things I want to say to you.

What a picture they make, don’t they? I can’t tell you how much I like Nellie.

Ah, you mustn’t recall what I said when I was in a temper. You know, I’m rather touched by her obvious affection for you.

I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to think Nellie was so much in love with me as all that.

Because I’m of a hospitable turn of mind. Didn’t you want to come? I’m so sorry.

[Ironically.] Much as I should have liked to devote myself exclusively to your entertainment, I’ve been really obliged to remember that my other guests had equal claims upon me.

I should very much like to take you by the shoulders and give you a good shaking.

You certainly ought to be with the prospect of spending a week in almost uninterrupted tête-à-tête with the object of your affections.

Really, you couldn’t wish me to continue eating my heart out for a young man, however charming, who is going to marry somebody else.

But why should you think it when you took the greatest pains to assure me that you didn’t care two straws for me?

Anyhow, whatever your sentiments were, it would gratify your self-esteem to think that I was languishing with a hopeless passion.

My dear boy, I’m not keeping you from spending an idyllic afternoon with Nellie. You’ve forced this conversation upon me. I assure you it’s most distasteful.

That’s a question I can answer. The most confounded and aggravating unreasonableness that I ever saw.

Nonsense. It’s obvious that my chief characteristic is a sweet and yielding nature. But as there’s no likelihood of our agreeing on that, what do you think is the second?

Well, I prefer to call it strength of mind. Now, I’ll acknowledge that I was in love with you—a month ago. That’s a feather in your cap.

But when I saw that my sweetness was likely to be wasted on the desert air, I made up my mind to cure myself. First I cried for two days.

No, don’t sympathise. I have rather a high colour, and when I’ve had a good cry it always improves my complexion. After that, I ordered some new frocks, and I bought a diamond necklace that I’d been hankering after for some time.

It helped. Then I came to the conclusion that there were as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. I thought you over. After all, you’re not really very good-looking, are you?

I couldn’t help seeing that you’d suit Nellie much better than you would have suited me. She has that comfortable stupidity which the average Englishman looks upon as the highest recommendation for a wife.

Doesn’t time hang rather heavily on your hands now and then? Isn’t it difficult to find topics of conversation?

And the long and short of it is that the emotion which you dignify with the name of love, had entirely disappeared after a week.

Well, I shall tell you for all that. It’s a joke to you, and you can afford to laugh at it.

THE THIRD ACT

[Rather surprised.] Are you already asking yourself how you’ll look in widow’s weeds?

My maternal grandfather survived to plague his descendants to the ripe age of ninety-seven.

Has it occurred to you that we may eat fifteen thousand breakfasts sitting opposite one another, and fifteen thousand luncheons, and fifteen thousand dinners?

Do you know that since we became definitely engaged you’ve never told me that you cared for me?

[Apologetically.] Yes, I ought to have done that, oughtn’t I? I suppose I thought you’d take it for granted.

Your mother will tell you that the certainty of marriage is much more satisfactory.

Have you noticed that when we do think of something to talk about, we get perilously near a squabble?

I sometimes think it would be better to quarrel outright now and then than be always so desperately polite to one another.

We’ve looked at the Sketch together three times. [Following his eye, which goes to other illustrated papers on the table.] And the Illustrated, and the Sphere, and the Graphic.

[Acidly.] It’s quite charming to see two young things so engrossed in one another’s society.

Now, you really mustn’t waste this beautiful afternoon. You must go and have a nice long walk together.

[Sweetly.] Then why don’t you go on the river? You can take your tea with you and spend the whole afternoon there.

We spent the whole afternoon on the river yesterday, and you kindly gave us our tea to take with us.

It reminds me of the happy days when I was engaged to your poor father, Nellie. We were just like you and Gerald. We couldn’t bear to be out of one another’s sight. Now, run and get your hat, darling.

Oh, mamma, I’ve got the most dreadful headache that I’ve ever had in my life, and I must really go and lie down.

Nonsense. An afternoon in the fresh air with Gerald is just the thing to put you right.

I’m so sorry, but I have some very important letters to write. I must catch the post.

[Sweetly.] You’ll have lots of time when you come in. The post doesn’t go till after dinner.

I was never very good at natural history.... Dear Mrs. Worthley, I must really thank you for the tact with which you’ve thrown Gerald and Nellie in one another’s society every moment of the day.

[With a look of intelligence.] Dear Mr. Blenkinsop, you wicked, wicked cynic. [Meaningly.] I shall go and lie down. Are you coming upstairs, Miss MacGregor?

I want to have a little talk with you. [As Blenkinsop holds open the door for her, in a whisper.] Aren’t I tactful?

You idiot! Don’t you see that she’s discovered the passion that devours our hearts—your manly bosom and my timid, fluttering heart—and she wants to leave us alone.

[Archly.] Wouldn’t you be rather flattered if I really were in love with you?

[Alarmed.] Dot, don’t make these horrible suggestions. You make my flesh creep.

Cold! Heaven knows what would have happened if I’d given you any encouragement. I’ve never been able to take my eyes off the ground without finding yours fixed on me with the languishing expression of a dying duck in a thunderstorm. I’ve never been able to go near you without your stroking me as if I were a velvet cushion or a Persian cat. I’ve not eaten a single meal in peace in case you suddenly took it into your head to press my foot under the table.

[With outraged dignity.] I should have screamed! And the thought of that special licence has cast a chill in my heart. I don’t know what it’s all coming to. You are my witness, Miss MacGregor, that I won’t marry her, however deeply she compromises me.

But how on earth are you going to get Nellie Sellenger and Freddie to use the other licence?

When the right moment comes I shall leave it under their noses, and allow them to draw what consequences they choose.... If any woman ever earned a husband, I have. I’ve taken every opportunity to snub Gerald till he can hardly contain himself with rage. I’ve thrown him in Nellie’s company till they’re both so bored they could almost cry. I’ve been constantly on the watch to prevent Nellie and Freddie from having two minutes by themselves till they can hardly bear the sight of me. And I’ve made love to you with a persistence that would have melted the heart of a fish. If I fail, it will be your fault.

Good heavens, throw a little passion into your behaviour. Look at me as though you’d never seen any one so ravishing in your life. When you take my hand, hold it as if you would never let it go.

[Impatiently.] Oh, you’re too stupid. You’re a stock and a stone. You’re an owl. You’re a ridiculous idiot.

You’ll ruin my whole life, because you’re such a perfect fool that you can’t make love to a woman.

[Sobbing in her handkerchief.] Yes, it has. I’m sick to death of the whole thing.

You asked me to play a part, and you didn’t know that it might be deadly earnest.

The thing started as a bad joke, but it has ended in something very different. A change has come over me, and I’m ashamed.

Don’t you see that I’m a different man? Dot, it’s you who’ve changed me.

If I was shy and awkward, it’s because I wouldn’t give in to myself. I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t understand.

How shouldn’t there be, when I’m saying at last what has trembled on the tip of my tongue for ten days?

[Delighted.] There! That’s just the tone I want. Talk with that quiver in your voice when you ask me to pass you the mustard at dinner.

I lie awake at night thinking of you, and when I fall asleep I seem to hold you in my arms.

Oh, I’ve been a perfect ass. I should never have consented to play this ghastly trick. If you only knew what tortures I’ve suffered!

What did you expect? You’ve played on my heart-strings as though they were an instrument that had no feeling. You’ve put a caress into every tone of your voice.

[Going up to her with outstretched arms.] You can’t realise the wealth of tenderness and affection which I’ll lavish upon you.

Why should you care for Gerald? Do you think if he loved you, he would let a trifling engagement with somebody else stand in the way?

But I’m in love with Gerald. I’m not in love with you. I shall never be in love with you.

You owe me something for all the agony you’ve made me endure. Dot, remember that licence. It was bought in jest, but the Archbishop of Canterbury was in earnest.

But my dear James, for heaven’s sake be reasonable. You know just as well as I do that you’re not a marrying man.

I’m awfully extravagant, and if the Government brings in temperance legislation I shall be ruined.

I’m rich. I should look upon it as the greatest happiness to spend my last penny to gratify your smallest wish.

[With effrontery.] You have only to envelop Lady Sellenger in your arms, and the picture will be complete.

If you’ll allow me to say so, I really can’t see that it’s any business of yours.

[Hotly.] Look here, Blenkinsop, you’ve got no right to play your fool-tricks with Mrs. Dot. She’s a very excitable and thoughtless woman. She’s....

Look here, Blenkinsop, the best thing you can do is to receive a telegram that requires your immediate presence in town.

I should not only be surprised, but I should look upon it as an odious familiarity.

Spare me my blushes, dear boy. It always embarrasses me to be flattered to my face.

Now that I come to think of it, you are certainly in a passion. Your face is red, your attire is disordered, and you have a slight squint in your eye.

You’d far better go and lie down. You’ll only say something which you’ll regret.

I suppose you’re not for a moment under the impression that Mrs. Dot cares twopence about you.

Mrs. Dot is an old friend of mine. I’m not going to see her made ridiculous by a conceited nincompoop.

My dear fellow, I never saw any one with less common sense in my life. Surely it’s not very extraordinary that the same tender passion which inflames the chaste breasts of yourself and Miss Sellenger, should attack the equally chaste breasts of myself and Mrs. Worthley.

I suppose you’d be considerably astonished if I told you that I’d just asked Mrs. Dot to be my wife.

No man is quite safe from the toils of women till he’s safely in his grave. And even then a feminine worm probably makes a dead set at him.

[Rather indignant.] And pray, why shouldn’t she be just as much in love with me as with you?

[Still laughing.] She has made a fool of you. Ha! ha! ha! [Seriously.] And did you really think any woman would care for you? My poor Blenkinsop! My poor, poor Blenkinsop!

[Furiously.] Because you’re revolting to look upon, and your conversation is inexpressibly tedious.

You are evidently under the impression that if a woman can’t be so fortunate as to marry you, she had far better retire into a nunnery.

Listen to me, Blenkinsop! Clear out of the house before you make a greater mess of things than you have already. Mrs. Dot would as soon marry her groom as marry you.

You think it’s quite impossible that she should ever have dreamt of such a thing?

You see, the Archbishop of Canterbury calls me his right well-beloved brother. Friendly, isn’t it?

[Counting on her fingers.] I’m reckoning how many bottles of beer the British public will have to drink for us to buy another.

But your refusal of my hand will happily prevent you from going to that expense. Thereby considerably forwarding the cause of temperance.

[A chill going down his spine.] I thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I cannot accept this sacrifice.

But you mustn’t think of me. It’s your happiness that we have to consider. Don’t let a momentary impulse ruin your whole life.

I’ve thought it over very carefully. I cannot resist your passionate pleading.

I will not be outdone in generosity. You have refused me. I accept your refusal as final.

I never realised that your nature was so great and tender. Every word you say makes me more determined to devote my life to your happiness.

My dear Dot, much as I appreciate the beauty of your sentiments, I must confess that I could never marry a woman who did not love me.

[As though she were struggling with her modesty.] I see that you want to force from me the avowal that is so hard to make. Oh, you men!

It’s a woman’s privilege to change her mind. The passion which you threw into your proposal has completely changed me. I am touched by the vehemence with which you flung your heart at my feet. I have struggled, but I cannot resist. Take me in your arms, James, and never let me go.

I assure you I’m perfectly serious. You taunted me that I couldn’t make love, so I just let myself go to show you I could. I daresay it was a silly joke, but it certainly was a joke.

[Unmoved.] James, every word you say increases my admiration for you. I can’t think now how I was ever blind to your great affection.

[Thoroughly alarmed.] Now, look here. I don’t love you, I’ve never loved you, and I never shall love you. I can’t put it any clearer than that.

I know you only say these cruel things because you think I should be throwing myself away on you.

You cannot bear to think that I should accept you from pity. But it isn’t that, James. You are handsome and noble and chivalrous. How shouldn’t a woman love you?

You can’t deceive me so easily as that, James. I know you love me. We women have such quick intuitions.

I see you simply quivering with restrained emotion. Oh, James, James, you’ve made me so happy.

I want to compromise myself. Only thus can I make you certain of my love. Oh, think of the many happy years we shall spend in one another’s arms, James.

[Extricating himself from her embrace.] Is there nothing I can say to undeceive you?

[Archly.] Do you mind if I leave you just for one minute? After so much agitation I must really go and powder my nose.

George, pack up my things at once and get the motor. There’s not a moment to lose.

[Flying into a passion.] You blithering fool, do you suppose I should want my things packed if I were staying? I’m going abroad to-night.

Oh, what it is to have a fool for a servant! Take a month’s notice. I dismiss you. Where to, sir? Anywhere, sir? Somewhere that’s a damned long way off. South Africa! I’ll go and shoot lions in Uganda. And if there isn’t a boat sailing at once, I’ll go to America and shoot grizzlies in the Rocky Mountains.

Dangerous climate, sir? I would have you know it’s not half such a dangerous climate as the valley of the Thames.

Oh, yes. I want to have a little talk with you, Freddie. [She takes one of the letters and reads.] “I am directed by Mrs. Worthley to congratulate you on the recent addition to your family, but to express her regret that she cannot accede to your request.” How brutal you are, Freddie! Surely Mrs. Murphy is an old friend.

I looked her out in my note-book. Six months ago we sent her fifteen pounds because she had nine children. Now she has eleven.

And yet they complain that the birth-rate is falling. I think we’d better send her five pounds.

You really can’t encourage a woman who has twins twice a year, when her husband is not only bed-ridden but a hopeless lunatic.

I’ve answered: “Madam, I regret to see that this is the third time you have lost your husband within two years. The mortality among the unhappy gentlemen on whom you bestow your hand is so great that I can only recommend you in future to remain a widow. Yours faithfully, Frederick Perkins.”

[Reading a letter which he hands to her.] “I am pleased to hear that the wooden leg for which Mrs. Worthley paid for last year has proved satisfactory, but I cannot recommend her to provide you with another. To lose one leg in a railway accident is a misfortune, but to lose a second in a colliery explosion points to carelessness.” That’s not original, Freddie.

[With a shrewd look at him.] Freddie, I’ve been exceedingly pleased with your behaviour during the last week. I’ve watched you carefully, and I’m glad to see that you’ve done all that was possible to destroy poor Nellie’s affection for you.

I know. And in recognition of this I want you to accept a little present. Where is my cheque-book?

[Producing it promptly.] Oh, no, really, I shouldn’t like you to do anything of the sort. [Putting it in front of her, and giving her a pen.] I feel that I’m amply paid for all that I do for you. I simply can’t accept anything more.

Five hundred pounds. Oh, you are a ripper! But why on earth do you give me that?

It may be useful to you. Suppose you had an idea of getting married, for instance, it would be very convenient to have a sum like that in your pocket.

Aren’t you? I suppose you know that when you do, I’m proposing to give you two thousand a year.

I thought your whistle was never coming. They wanted me to go on the river. I had to invent all sorts of excuses.

I don’t know how it is, but somehow we never manage to get a minute by ourselves.

It’s perfectly maddening. What a good idea it was of yours to meet in the garden after they’d all gone to bed.

[With wounded dignity.] It’s not likely I should have proposed a thing like that.

I was never really fond of him, you know. I only accepted him because he was so desperately in love with me, and mamma wouldn’t hear of it.

Oh, I don’t know. I think as soon as ever I found out you were in love with me.

[Cuddling in them.] Oh, it makes me feel so delightfully wicked. I know I oughtn’t to let you kiss me. I know it’s treachery to poor Gerald.

Did I leave my scissors here? Just see if you can find them, Freddie. Perhaps they’re in the next room. [He goes out.] I wonder if I left them on the writing-table.

Freddie, how could you be so incautious? It was only by the greatest presence of mind that I was able to hide it.

You ought to have told me. I don’t think it was nice of you to get a licence without saying a word to me about it. I think it was a great liberty.

You must know that I can’t marry you. Nothing will induce me to break my promise to Gerald. I’m very angry with you.

It was lying on the writing-table. I suppose you’re not going to deny all knowledge of it. [He stares at it still.] Freddie, how bold of you! But you really couldn’t imagine for a moment that I’d consent to run away with you. Oh, Freddie, I’m so flattered. How you must love me!

[To himself.] Two thousand a year! [He takes the cheque from his pocket and looks at it. Suddenly light dawns on him. He puts cheque and licence back into his pocket.] It’s fairly clear that a licence couldn’t have got there by itself.

It only arrived this morning. Look here, why shouldn’t we bolt? You don’t care a straw for Gerald, and you do care for me.

It would break his heart. I couldn’t, I couldn’t! Besides, where are we to bolt to? I daren’t. Mamma would never forgive me.

You see, with this we can be married anywhere. Let’s jump into the motor and go down to my father near Oxford. We shall arrive by dinner-time, and he’ll marry us to-morrow morning.

Oh, how clever of you to have a father who’s a clergyman! You think of everything, Freddie.

No, no, no! Freddie, how can you ask me such a thing.... I’ll just go and put on my hat.

I feel that I have no right to restrain any longer the very natural impatience of these young things.

When you have to take a pill the best thing is to swallow it down without thinking.

Mr. Perkins has promised to take me for a little drive in the motor. I feel it’s the only thing to send away my headache.

[In an undertone.] My darling, is this wise? Remember the feelings of this poor young man.

[Also in an undertone.] I thought you’d like an opportunity of talking privately to Gerald.

[Smiling affectionately.] You sweet, practical child! You’ll be your own mother again at my age.

The dear child, she has such a sweet, trusting nature. You must kiss me, too, Gerald!

Oh. [She opens it and gives a cry.] Good heavens! Oh, the deceitful wretch! Lady Sellenger, how shall I tell you? It’s from Nellie.

[Reading.] “Dear Mrs. Dot, I’m just off to marry Freddie. Break it to Mamma gently.”

[Reading.] “I couldn’t marry Gerald. He’s too great a”—there’s a word in big letters. I never could read capitals.

Gerald! Gerald! Don’t! Pull yourself together. The poor boy, he’s perfectly hysterical. Where are my salts? Mrs. Dot, for heaven’s sake calm him down. Oh, my dear! You mustn’t upset yourself yet.

We’ll pursue them. There’s no harm done yet. We’ll catch them. I promise you we’ll catch them. You shall marry her, Gerald, if I have to drag her to church by the hair of her head.

We must chase them. Where’s your motor, Mr. Blenkinsop? Didn’t you tell me it was the fastest machine in England?

We shall catch them up. Gerald, you must drive me. I can’t trust any one else to go fast enough.

Don’t be so silly. Of course they’ve gone to Brighton. When people elope they always go to Brighton.

And what’ll you do if we come up to them? You can’t force them to come back.

If a woman can’t force her daughter to marry any man she chooses, I don’t know what the English nation is coming to.

Fiddlededee! Of course you’ll marry her. Who is this creature she’s run away with? Perkins! Perkins with a P. I never heard anything so ridiculous. Do you suppose my daughter is going to be Mrs. Perkins—Perkins with a P?

Now, let’s have this out and be done with it. I’m no more in love with Nellie than she is with me, I was going to marry her because I’d promised to, and it seemed a low down trick to draw back....

When I heard she’d bolted, I could have jumped for joy. I seem to have awaked out of a ghastly nightmare. Nothing will induce me to try and catch her up.

You monster! How dare you trifle with the affections of my daughter! You don’t mean to stand by and see her marry a man called Perkins!

Very well, then, the chauffeur shall drive me. You’re a heartless brute. Perkins with a P. And penniless to boot.

As soon as she talked of it, I ran to the kitchen and seized this knife and I seized this poker.

I don’t know what I’ve done to the steering gear, but I know it’ll never work again. Oh, it’s in an awful state.

And so that there shouldn’t be any risk I opened the place where the works are, and I rummaged around with the poker. I think I’ve smashed everything.

The thing’s a wreck and a ruin. You should have seen the tyres go flop, flop, flop.

I don’t know how much it’ll cost to put right. You don’t mind, James, do you?

You won’t let this disturb your affection for me? Remember that you’re going to marry me.

[Looking after him, innocently.] He is in a temper, isn’t he? It’s very hard to please everybody in this life.

[Pretending to start.] Oh, how you frightened me! You might remember that my nerves are in a very agitated state.

I’m so sorry, I’ve quite forgotten what it was. It can’t have been of the smallest importance.

With all my heart, and I’ve loved you passionately from the first moment I saw you.

With never a day off. I wanted to tell you every minute, and yet I couldn’t be such a cad.

[Sarcastically.] It’s awfully nice of you to say all this, and I can’t tell you how flattered I am.

Only it’s rather late in the day. I’ve promised my hand and heart to James Blenkinsop.

Are you under the delusion that because a happy chance has freed you from a previous engagement, I’m going to seize the opportunity and leap into your arms?

You know, women are brutes. One tries to do the straight thing and behave more or less like a white man, and they make you feel as if you’d been an utter beast.

[Smiling.] I daresay I’m very stupid. I suppose that’s why I love you so much.

My dear Gerald, you were cured of your passion for Nellie in a month. I have no doubt that a week in Paris will make your heart whole once more.

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James Blenkinsop	Fred Kerr
Gerald Halstane	W. Graham Browne
Freddie Perkins	Kenneth Douglas
Charles	Herbert Ross
Mr. Rixon	George Bellamy
Mason	Horton Cooper
Mr. Wright	Brian Egerton
George	H. Gerrish
Lady Sellenger	Marie Illington
Nellie Sellenger	Lydia Billbrooke
Miss Eliza MacGregor	Lena Halliday
Mrs. Worthley	Marie Tempest

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mrs. Dot: A Farce

Mrs. Dot

MRS. DOT

CHARACTERS

MRS. DOT

THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

THE THIRD ACT

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