The Silver Shield: An Original Comedy in Three Acts

SCENE.--_A hall; passages, R. and L.; a double window of stained glass, on swivel hinges, opens upon a lawn, with view of grounds; large portrait on the wall; landscape, and mirror; a staircase, L. TOM POTTER discovered working at an easel placed near the open window; NED CHETWYND seated at a table, opening and destroying letters leisurely. LUCY PRESTON watching him; MRS. DOZEY asleep in an armchair, with a book of sermons lying open in her lap; footstool; fireplace, R.; large armchair side of fireplace._

Lucy. You've a great many letters?

Ned. A few friends inquiring after me.

Lucy. More creditors?

Ned. A regular assortment. I have 'em of all sizes--big and little; of all styles--polite to peremptory; of all nations--Jew and Gentile. (_opens another letter_) Another lawyer's letter! (_LUCY goes up to TOM_) "Unless the amount, together with our charges, five and sixpence, be at once remitted----" Just so--common form. (_opens another letter_)

Lucy. Getting on, Mr. Potter?

Tom. Famously.

Lucy. I can begin to make out what it's going to be.

Tom. Don't say that, please.

Lucy. Why not?

Tom. I shall be told I am a servile copyist without a soul.

Lucy. Soul? What is "soul"?

Tom. The gift of representing things as they don't exist.

Lucy. Surely that isn't a gift. Isn't it art to show things as they are?

Tom. Not in the least. That's realism.

Lucy. Then what's art?

Tom. That's art. (_points to portrait, L._)

Lucy. Sir Humphrey's portrait.

Tom. (_crosses to portrait, L._) I beg your pardon--whose?

Lucy. Sir Humphrey's. Can't you see the likeness?

Tom. Has anybody seen it?

Lucy. Of course! a score of people.

Tom. It'd take a score. (_crosses to easel_)

Lucy. (_turns to TOM_) It is by Sir Clarence Gibbs, the Royal Academician, and it cost five hundred guineas.

Tom. Ah! If I could only paint like that. (_looks at portrait_)

Lucy. (_looking at picture_) Perhaps you will in time.

Tom. Never. I may deteriorate, but I shall never be as bad as that. (_looking at picture_) Now, look at this aggravating thing. After all my trouble you can positively tell what it's meant for. (_NED rises and joins them_)

Lucy. Yes, two knights, on horseback, fighting.

Ned. What are you going to call it?

Tom. The Silver Shield.

Lucy. Silver Shield? (_crosses to back of easel; NED leans on back of chair_)

Tom. Haven't you heard the fable? Two knights, riding in opposite directions, passed a shield, hung on a tree to mark a boundary, and meeting some time afterwards, one of them happened to make some remark about the Silver Shield they had both ridden past. "Silver," exclaimed the other, "it was gold." Then they disputed, and words came to blows. They fought, and killed each other. When they were both dead, it occurred to somebody to examine the shield, when it turned out that it was gold on one side, and silver on the other.

Ned. What jackasses those two knights must have been.

Tom. So remarked everybody.

Lucy. Well, they _were_ rather silly. (_crosses to MRS. DOZEY, R._)

Tom. No sillier than we are, who see a fool in the looking-glass, and don't recognise him.

Mrs. D. (_waking with a start_) Bless me! I've been asleep.

Lucy. For two hours, Mrs. Dozey.

Mrs. D. I beg everybody's pardon. The fact is, I thought I was in church, and Dionysius was preaching.

Ned. That sent you off to sleep. (_sitting on edge of chair_)

Mrs. D. Oh, no, that woke me up. I wouldn't miss one of his discourses for the world. This is a splendid one I'm reading now--the 22nd, in the 17th volume.

Lucy. You have got so far?

Mrs. D. Yes, my dear; I've read sixteen volumes of the twenty. The set were given to me by my husband on our honeymoon. Imagine my delight. I've been reading at them steadily for five and twenty years, and my only fear is that I shan't live to finish them.

Ned. Take warning, Lucy, and begin them young.

Mrs. D. Shall I lend you the first volume?

Lucy. Thanks; I can get it from the library.

Mrs. D. I'm sure you'd like it, Mr. Potter.

Tom. Unfortunately, I am going home to-day, and shouldn't have time to do it justice. (_meanwhile DR. DOZEY has entered absently, his eyes cast down, his hands behind his back_)

DR. (_raising his eyes_) Going home?

Mrs. D. Ah, here's the doctor! (_dozes off again_)

DR. Home! sweet home! The very phrase is fraught with poetry. One seems to stand before the glowing fire, to hear the purring cat, the hissing urn, whilst from without a quaint but welcome cry heralds the advent of the evening milk on its accustomed round. If you are wishful to pursue the subject----

Lucy. (_crosses in front to staircase_) Excuse me, I must look after Sir Humphrey. (_Exit, L._)

DR. (_turning to NED_) I would refer you to----

Ned. Thank you very much, but I've some letters to answer. (_Exit, R._)

DR. (_turning to TOM_) To the tenth discourse----

Tom. The light's so bad here, I must go outside. (_Exit through window, C._)

DR. (_turning to MRS. DOZEY_) In my fifth volume.

Sir H. (_top of stairs, L._) See to it at once.

DR. Home I divide into three sections. First---- (_MRS. DOZEY snores, DR. DOZEY stops and wakes her._)

Lucy. (_with SIR HUMPHREY, top of stairs, L._) Will you take my arm?

Sir H. Thanks, I need no assistance. (_stumbles and is obliged to take LUCY'S arm_) Dear me, how bad my rheumatism is to-day.

DR. (_turns to MRS. DOZEY, smiling grimly_) Poor Humphrey!

Mrs. D. (_rises_) He gets very feeble.

Sir H. (_to LUCY_) Mrs. Blake's train is very nearly due. See if the brougham has been sent to meet her.

Mrs. D. Mrs. Blake? (_Exit LUCY, through window, C. and L._)

Sir H. A visitor whom we expect today. (_puts cap on table_)

DR. A lady visitor?

Sir H. Yes, a young widow, from Australia, whom we met on the Continent this summer, and whose society proved so agreeable (_DR. and MRS. DOZEY exchange glances_) to my ward, Miss Preston, that I invited her to visit us, when she returned to England.

Mrs. D. A widow. (_crosses in front to L._)

DR. An Australian widow. (_gets R._)

Mrs. D. It's a long way off.

Sir H. Don't you like widows, doctor?

DR. Far be it from me, whose tenement is glass, to cut a stone; but of all types of widow, the most perilous is the Colonial.

Mrs. D. However, it's our duty to be charitable.

DR. Until we know the worst we will think the best.

Sir H. Wait till you've met Mrs. Blake; you'll be charmed with her. (_meanwhile TOM has re-entered through window and down R. of easel_) You mustn't go till you have seen her, Mr. Potter. (_turns_)

Tom. Till I've seen whom?

Mrs. D. A widow. (_moves towards door, L._)

DR. A Colonial widow. (_moves towards door, R._)

Mrs. D. Sir Humphrey picked up on the Continent.

DR. And found charming. (_both sigh and exeunt, wagging their heads; DR. DOZEY, R.; MRS. DOZEY, L._)

Tom. Queer couple--a duet personified.

Sir H. The doctor will have his joke.

Tom. That's fortunate, for no one else would take it.

Sir H. Very old friends of mine, and one must make allowances for age and infirmity. (_sitting with difficulty, R. of table_)

Tom. Can I assist you? (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY_)

Sir H. Not at all. It's only a little stiffness in the joints. I never felt it till the last few years.

Tom. Ah, we're all older than we used to be. (_goes to easel_)

Sir H. Not at all, Mr. Potter, not at all. I'm younger than I look. I have had trouble.

Tom. You, Sir Humphrey!

Sir H. My son gives me a great deal of anxiety. His heart's in the right place, I know, but he's young, reckless, and extravagant. He's taken to writing lately. A bad sign, Mr. Potter, a bad sign. I never knew a young man who took to writing come to any good. I've paid his debts more than once, and he won't settle down. I found a charming wife for him, and he wouldn't look at her. He has views of his own--very bad things to have. Why can't men be content with the views of their forefathers? The opinions which are good enough for me ought to be good enough for a stripling like him.

Tom. Our forefathers believed the sun went round the earth.

Sir H. And what better are we for believing the earth goes round the sun? I've no patience with these revolutionary ideas. They unsettle men's minds. Of course you don't agree with me. You are another man with views, and that's the reason why you don't get on.

Tom. (_comes down C._) You don't like me, Sir Humphrey. You are very kind and hospitable; but I know it's only as a distant relative that you put up with me. I don't wonder at it. You represent society; I represent Bohemia. This makes it difficult to say what I must say before I go.

Sir H. What is that, Mr. Potter?

Tom. I want to ask your ward, Miss Preston, if she'll be my wife. You're astonished at my presumption--naturally.

Sir H. Not quite that. What are Miss Preston's feelings in the matter?

Tom. I don't know. I didn't feel justified in speaking to her first.

Sir H. She is of full age, and can please herself.

Tom. Yes, but there's something else. You know, I took my present name when I went in for art, to your disgust, on my return from abroad about five years ago; but of my previous history you know very little, and I must tell you part of it. I suppose you think I'm a bachelor?

Sir H. Of course.

Tom. I am a widower.

Sir H. You astound me.

Tom. Yes, I once had a wife; but we weren't happy--in fact, we separated.

Sir H. How long has she been dead?

Tom. A few months after my return to England I saw her death announced in the newspapers.

Sir H. The newspapers!

Tom. There is no irony like that of destiny, no cynic half as cynical as life. Two beings live together in one home, are bound together in one interest, are animated by one hope. Fate separates them. They go different ways, and after many days (_crosses to R._) they read about each other in the newspaper.

Sir H. She died abroad? Then you were never reconciled?

Tom. Reconciliation was impossible. I should prefer to say no more about it, (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY, L._) but I am bound to satisfy you I was not to blame. Those were the last words my wife wrote to me. (_gives a letter to SIR HUMPHREY_)

Sir H. (_reads_) "Tom,--I love another more than I love you. Isn't it best that we should say good-bye? I have no right to tell you I will never see you, for the fault is mine; but if I do, it will be only painful, and I leave it to your magnanimity to go away from me for ever." (_returns letter to TOM_) Enough, Mr. Potter. (_rises_) There was a time when I disapproved of second marriages. They struck me as a species of inconstancy. But as one grows in years, these sentimental notions lose their force. One begins to realise the loneliness of life. You understand me?

Tom. Perfectly. The need of a companion.

Sir H. More than a companion--the need of a--of a--I want a word.

Tom. Nurse is the word you want.

Sir H. No, sir! It is the very word I do _not_ want.

Tom. I beg your pardon, I misunderstood you.

Sir H. Strange as it may sound, what you've just told me makes my task a little easier. Miss Preston also has a history. Her mother died when she was quite a child. Her father was my very oldest friend, whom I respected beyond everything, and it was only on his death, when I felt I could not repudiate the guardianship I'd undertaken, that I made a discovery which shocked me inexpressibly. I tell it you in confidence; I have told no one but my son, whom it was my duty to put upon his guard. Of course it puts an end to the proposal you have made, but, as a man of honour, I am bound to tell you.

Tom. Well, sir?

Sir H. The girl is illegitimate. (_turning, L._)

Tom. What's that?

Sir H. (_turns and stares at him_) Mr. Potter, you call yourself a Bohemian, but you are a distant--very distant--relative of my own, and you must have at least the instincts of a gentleman.

Tom. I hope so.

Sir H. Having those instincts, you will think no more of her.

Tom. Having those instincts, I think all the more of her.

Sir H. You'd marry her, after what I've told you? Then you have no respect for marriage.

Tom. If I had no respect for marriage I shouldn't marry her.

Sir H. We will not argue, sir. Go your own way.

Tom. I've your permission?

Sir H. But don't hold me responsible, whatever happens.

_Re-enter DR. DOZEY, through window, and down, C._

DR. The widow has arrived.

Sir H. Mrs. Blake?

DR. I was sedately pacing up and down the drive, reflecting on the vanity of life, when I was nearly upset by her equipage.

Sir H. I must go and welcome her. Excuse me, Mr. Potter; the doctor will entertain you. (_Exit through window_)

Tom. Thanks, but I'll find Miss Preston. (_Exit, R._)

_Re-enter MRS. DOZEY, down the stairs, in a flutter of excitement._

Mrs. D. Dionysius?

DR. Diana?

Mrs. D. I've seen Mrs. Blake. I happened to be looking out as she drove up. There's no doubt about her respectability. You should see her lace. Oh, Dionysius, real Valenciennes! (_crosses, R._)

DR. I am afraid, my love, that notwithstanding five and twenty years of my companionship, you have still a yearning after the pomps and vanities. And yet it is not the plaiting of hair or the putting on of real Valenciennes that constitutes respectability.

_Re-enter SIR HUMPHREY with ALMA BLAKE._

Alma. Oh, what a charming place.

Sir H. My own taste, plain but comfortable. Permit me to present to you my old friends, Dr. and Mrs. Dozey.

Alma. I am delighted to meet Dr. Dozey.

Mrs. D. (_crosses to ALMA_) With whose sermons no doubt you are acquainted.

Alma. I don't read sermons, as a rule.

Mrs. D. You don't read sermons?

Alma. It may be very wicked, but I don't. (_crosses, L._)

DR. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_) A worldly-minded woman.

Mrs. D. I'm afraid so.

Alma. What a delightful, quaint, old-fashioned place this is! I must congratulate you on your taste, Sir Humphrey.

Sir H. Plain, but comfortable.

Alma. Whose portrait's this? Isn't he a dear old dignified soul? Quite one of the last century.

Sir H. It is considered much too old for me.

Alma. For _you!_ Oh, fifty years! I thought it was your grandfather.

DR. Makes herself quite at home. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_)

Mrs. D. Ignores me altogether. (_sits, R._)

Alma. What's this? A mirror, I declare! (_arranges herself before the glass_)

Sir H. My taste again.

Alma. The looking-glass?

Sir H. The image it enshrines. (_bowing_)

Alma. I understand you. Plain, but comfortable. (_laughs and passes on; gradually gets round, and down, R._)

DR. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_) Frivolous creature. (_goes up, R., and down, R.C._)

Mrs. D. Lovely diamonds!

Alma. (_at easel_) That's a good picture. Who's the artist?

Sir H. (_following ALMA_) Nobody particular. A sort of second or third cousin of mine.

Alma. Whoever he is, he's clever.

Sir H. Started life under the best auspices, but he has made no way.

Alma. How's that, Sir Humphrey? (_both come down, C._)

Sir H. It's the old story. First he got amongst a set of loose companions,--Bohemians, they called themselves--and then he took to----

Alma. Drink?

Sir H. Not drink exactly--art. (_sits R. of table_)

Alma. Oh dear! how very sad!

Sir H. The doctor knows the circumstances.

DR. (_down, R.C._) They were most distressing.

Alma. But after all, some artists are successful, and a man must begin at the beginning. There's nothing wicked about art, is there, doctor?

DR. A perilous pursuit, and it is not the part of a wise man to play with fire. (_ALMA pulls a long face, and is caught by MRS. DOZEY_)

Sir H. I've no objection to a real artist, an Academician, such as Sir Clarence Gibbs, who painted my own portrait. A very gentlemanly man, indeed--received in the best families.

Alma. But _he_ must have learnt his business before he became an Academician. (_looking at portrait_)

Sir H. I doubt it.

Alma. So do I. (_turning to easel_) Now there is talent in that picture. The man who did that shouldn't have gone wrong.

Mrs. D. But he became a scene painter!

DR. He got connected with a theatre. (_both groan_)

Sir H. (_uncomfortable_) Hem! Hem! (_tries to attract DR. DOZEY'S attention_)

Alma. You don't approve of theatres?

DR. My views on the subject of the drama you will find fully expounded in the 13th sermon of my 20th volume. For the present I will content myself with saying that those views are damnatory. (_crosses, L._)

Sir H. Pardon me, doctor, but I should have told you, Mrs. Blake is herself connected with the stage.

DR. (_dropping glasses_) An actress! (_MRS. DOZEY rises and drops book_)

Alma. You've dropped the sermons. (_stoops to pick up book_) Heavy, I dare say.

Mrs. D. (_stopping her with a gesture, picks it up herself_) Thank you. (_goes up to armchair at back_)

DR. And so this is an actress. Bless my soul! (_Exit, L._)

Mrs. D. Somehow or other one can always tell them. (_sits, opens, book, and dozes off_)

Sir H. (_rises_) You must excuse my friends.

Alma. With pleasure. It's rather a relief than otherwise. They seem to have a nice opinion of actresses.

Sir H. The truth is, they have had no opportunity of forming one.

Alma. But have formed a very strong one, for all that.

Sir H. Now that they have the opportunity----

Alma. Let's hope it'll alter the opinion.

_Enter SUSAN, R._

Susan. If you please, miss----

Alma. Susan, don't call me miss. This is my maid, Sir Humphrey. I'm always called "miss" at the theatre, when I'm called anything at all. What is it, Susan?

Susan. Mr. Dick is here--wants to see you particularly.

Alma. Tell him I'm engaged. What business has he bothering me here?

Susan. But he's come down from town express.

Alma. Well, he can go back express.

Sir H. One moment, Mrs. Blake. Who is this gentleman?

Alma. My manager. I don't know what he wants.

Sir H. See him, by all means. Perhaps he'll stay to dinner if I ask him.

Alma. Ah, you don't know Dick. He'll probably stay to dinner whether you ask him or not. He's one of the old school of managers; they're almost extinct now. Dick's the sole survivor.

Sir H. I'm one of the old school myself, and shall be glad to meet him.

Susan. Here he is, with Mr. Chetwynd.

_Re-enter NED, with MR. DODSON DICK, R._

Ned. This way, Mr. Dick. (_goes up to easel_)

Dick. (_crosses to ALMA_) Ah, there she is. (_Exit SUSAN, R._) Didn't expect to see _me,_ did you? Here's a nice how d'you-do. Within four weeks of opening, and Sparkle not delivered his first act. Thought I'd run down and tell you. What are we to do?

Alma. This is Sir Humphrey Chetwynd--Mr. Dick.

Dick. (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY_) Pleased to make your acquaintance. Nice sort of place you have down here. (_looking round_)

Sir H. Quiet, Mr. Dick, and yet accessible.

Dick. Out of the way, I call it--out of my way, at any rate. Make a good set, eh, wouldn't it? That window's fine, opens out the scene, and shows that landscape backing. Daren't use that sky. Scrubbs is the man for skies.

Sir H. Is he indeed?

Dick. There's an originality about his skies--you never saw such skies. The critics go in for originality. Scrubbs gives it 'em.

Alma. And don't they give it Scrubbs?

Dick. Ha! ha! I'll make a note of that. Give it to Sparkle--do for his next comedy. Poor Sparkle! Clever man, but sadly overworked. No wonder he's behindhand with our piece.

Alma. It's your own fault. Give someone else a chance.

Dick. No! no! Sparkle's recognised.

Ned. (_coming down, R._) His jokes are.

Dick. That doesn't matter. It's his name I want. The public judges only by the brand. One play's just as good as another.

Sir H. That's your experience?

Dick. Yes. On the whole, I think a bad play's better than a good one, but we none of us know anything about it.

Alma. If you would only try him, here is an author to your hand.

Dick. (_alarmed_) You--an author? (_puts hat on_)

Ned. Only last week I wrote to you about a play I'd sent you.

Dick. (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY; pulls out watch_) How are your trains, Sir Humphrey? I've an appointment at four sharp, in town.

Sir H. I see you are a man of business.

Dick. Yes, I'm a cheesemonger.

Sir H. A cheesemonger. I thought you were a theatrical manager?

Dick. Same thing. A theatre's only a shop, and ought to be worked on the same principles.

Ned. Or want of principles?

Dick. Same thing. If my customers want a bad article, I give it 'em. It's not my fault, it's theirs.

Sir H. A philosopher as well as a cheesemonger!

Dick. My dear sir, all cheesemongers are philosophers.

Sir H. And all philosophers are fond of a good dinner. I hope you will join our party, Mr. Dick. (_crosses, R._)

Dick. With pleasure. (_puts hat down on table_)

Alma. But your appointment at four sharp.

Dick. I'll keep that to-morrow.

Sir H. Meanwhile, a biscuit.

Dick. (_aside_) A biscuit.

Sir H. And a glass of Heidseck.

Dick. (_following SIR HUMPHREY off, R._) Heidseck, certainly. (_takes hat_)

Sir H. Come with me, Mrs. Blake?

Alma. Thank you, I'll stop with Ned.

Dick. (_turns_) Capital set. First-rate. Can't say I like that sky. Scrubbs is the man for skies. (_Exit with SIR HUMPHREY, R._)

Alma. (_crosses to L._) Now, Mr. Chetwynd. (_sits L. of table_) You never told me about this comedy. What's it all about? What's my part like?

Ned. Why it's _all_ you! I thought of no one else, and called the heroine "Alma" after you. (_sits R. of table_)

Alma. You dear old goose! If I were a manager, I should accept your pieces without reading them.

Ned. Excuse me. If you were a manager, you would reject them without reading them.

Alma. Not yours. You are my oldest admirer.

Ned. What nonsense! I never met you till last year.

Alma. Well, what of that? I've had a score since then, but they've all disappeared, and there you are still.

Ned. Faithful to the last.

Alma. The last's a long way off yet, Mr. Chetwynd. He's trundling a hoop somewhere at this moment. But he'll turn up. Each season brings its crop. They're mostly annuals, my loves.

Ned. I am an amaranth.

Alma. That locket on your chain? Isn't it the one you put my portrait in? (_rises to examine it_)

Ned. Yes.

Alma. And he wears it still! You are an amaranth, indeed. (_about to open locket_)

Ned. You'd better not.

Alma. Do let me see. I've quite forgotten what I looked like then. (_opens it; kneels_)

Ned. Just as you like.

Alma. How I have altered!

Ned. You look younger there.

Alma. And my hair's different.

Ned. The fashion's changed.

Alma. Yes, and the colour too. There! Shut it up. (_rises_)

Ned. Twelve months make a difference.

Alma. Don't they? My amaranth has faded like the rest! (_pause_) And pray, why do you wear Miss Preston's photograph?

Ned. (_after making sure that MRS. DOZEY is asleep; rises_) Can you keep a secret?

Alma. I've kept one for six years.

Ned. Miss Preston is my wife.

Alma. Your wife!

Ned. You are so quick, I knew you'd find it out, or I should have said nothing. We don't want anyone to know--at least, _I_ don't--just yet.

Alma. Doesn't Sir Humphrey?

Ned. No.

Alma. I thought he was her guardian.

Ned. She's twenty-one. He's not her guardian now.

Alma. But he's your father, and you've done a thing like this. She, too!

Ned. It wasn't her fault. It was mine, if it was anyone's. But it was no use speaking to my father. Lucy wanted to, but I knew more than she did. The governor's the best old fellow in the world, but upon certain points he is as obstinate as--as----

Alma. His son.

Ned. As I am, if you like.

Alma. Why was it no use speaking to him?

Ned. Because he would never have given his consent. The fact is, Lucy's mother was separated from her husband. She married very young, and he left her before she was twenty. Not being able to get a divorce, of course she couldn't marry again, and consequently Lucy's father couldn't marry her. That's the whole mystery. Lucy doesn't know it, but I did, and I knew it was useless talking. So we were married secretly, this year.

Alma. And when do you propose to acknowledge your wife?

Ned. I don't know yet, (_crosses, L._) but when the right time comes.

Alma. The right time was the day you married her.

Ned. Ah, it's all very well to talk, but you have no idea how much it would hurt the governor. (_crosses to ALMA_) It would have cut him to the heart.

Alma. A very good reason for not marrying, but a very bad reason for concealing your marriage.

Ned. It was to spare his feelings.

Alma. Don't flatter yourself. It was to spare your own.

Ned. Well, it's done now, and I can't help it.

Alma. But you can. You can tell him to-day.

Ned. (_sits R. of table_) That would be worse than telling him earlier.

Alma. (_crosses to NED_) And better than telling him later. You've done wrong, and you're doing wrong now. The only point in your favour is that you're thoroughly ashamed of yourself. (_crosses to R.C._)

Ned. Ashamed! nay----

Alma. I can see it in your face. No hoarding like a human countenance, and no bill-sticker like a guilty conscience.

Ned. Alma, I _am_ ashamed.

Alma. (_crosses to NED_) Be as much ashamed of yourself as you like, but don't be ashamed of your wife.

Ned. I'll tell Sir Humphrey--to-morrow.

Alma. To-day. (_holding her hands out_)

Ned. If I can screw my courage up.

Both. (_shaking hands_) To-day.

Alma. I'll screw it up for you. You won't want much. Fathers are not such dreadful animals after all. There was a time when children were afraid of their parents, but now-a-days they're lucky parents who're not afraid of their children. (_Re-enter DR. DOZEY, C., and down, R.C._) Aren't they, doctor?

DR. I crave forgiveness. Your observation escaped me.

Alma. Ah, you were lost in thought.

DR. I was meditating, it is true.

Alma. Lost in meditation. Thank you, for the correction.

_NED rises; goes aside thoughtfully._

DR. Lost in amazement.

Alma. Amazement. Beg your pardon. Got it at last.

DR. That our paths, which are so diverse, should have crossed.

Alma. It's a queer meeting, certainly, but, you know, accidents will happen.

DR. (_raising his hand_) Pardon me, there is no such thing as accident. It is true that fortune, like misfortune, makes us acquainted with strange----

Alma. Hem!

DR. I will amend my illustration.

Alma. Thank you.

DR. Rough-hew them how we may, our ends are shaped for us. Doubtless we have been brought together for some wise purpose. I propose, therefore, to improve your acquaintance.

Alma. Hadn't you better improve _me?_ Never mind my acquaintance.

DR. That is the object which I have in view. Even the rose needs careful nurturing, ere it will bloom like--like--what shall I say?

Alma. Say what you like. I won't be offended.

DR. Like those I see before me.

Alma. These? (_taking one from her dress_) Would you like one?

DR. I am unused to meretricious ornament.

Alma. Doctor! Don't call my poor rose such hard names. Stand still. I'll put it in your buttonhole.

DR. (_whilst she arranges it_) There can be no objection to a simple flower. (_crosses to table_)

Alma. There! You look quite a masher!

DR. Eh! (_turning_)

Alma. Picture, I meant! Picture, picture.

DR. Do I, indeed? (_goes to mirror, turns, and smiles_) A flower _is_ an adornment. (_stands admiring himself; ALMA goes up to NED, and taps him on the shoulder, points to DR. DOZEY, and can scarcely restrain her laughter; DR. DOZEY comes down, L., soliloquising_) A comely woman. Not unprepossessing. Whatever the contents may be, the exterior of the platter is attractive. (_the book drops from MRS. DOZEY'S lap; turns_) What was that?

Ned. (_at easel_) It's only Mrs. Dozey. (_crosses with ALMA to R.C._)

DR. My wife there! (_crosses to MRS. DOZEY, R._)

Alma. You needn't be alarmed. She's fast asleep.

DR. (_picking up book_) And with my sermons on her lap again. (_wakes her_) Diana!

Mrs. D. (_waking_) It's very strange, I can't get to sleep. (_rises_) You must know, Mrs. Blake, I am a victim to insomnia.

Alma. I see. You take sermons medicinally.

Mrs. D. Good gracious, Dionysius! What have you there? (_points to buttonhole_)

DR. A rose, my love--a simple rose. There is no evil in a simple rose.

Ned. Don't you admire it?

Mrs. D. I don't like the look of it at all. Where did you get it from?

DR. Hem! hem! (_fidgetting with the book; down, R.C._) A tendency to be too interrogative is the besetting weakness of the age we live in.

Mrs. D. Come, Dionysius, the truth!

DR. It is to this undue yearning after truth that I attribute the prevailing scepticism.

Mrs. D. That isn't answering my question.

Alma. (_conquering her laughter, comes to his rescue_) I'm sorry you don't like it, Mrs. Dozey. Your husband thought you'd be so pleased with it. (_gives DR. DOZEY a slight nudge_)

Mrs. D. He gathered it for _me!_

DR. (_presenting it_) Diana, you are always on my mind.

Mrs. D. How can I thank you, Dionysius? (_embraces DR. DOZEY, while ALMA shakes hands with him behind his back, where he is holding the book_)

DR. (_turning aside, and down, R._) That is a very clever woman. (_opens book and reads; business with ALMA, as below_)

_Re-enter SIR HUMPHREY and DICK, R._

Dick. (_wiping his mouth_) Capital Heidseck.

Sir H. Glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Dick.

Dick. Capital wine.

Mrs. D. Sir Humphrey, see what Dionysius has given me. (_showing rose_)

Sir H. Charming--exquisite!

Dick. Call that a rose?

Sir H. Mr. Dick--Mrs. Dozey.

Dick. My man, Groggins, would turn you out a better article. Groggins's the man for flowers.

Mrs. D. (_to DICK_) Your gardener, sir?

Dick. Gardener? No. My property master. Marvellous florist! Nature's not in it with Groggins.

Ned. (_to DICK_) You don't seem to have a very high opinion of nature?

Dick. No, sir. Nature was only a beginner. Don't like amateurs, except for _matinees._

_Meanwhile ALMA has been making signs to DR. DOZEY, pointing to buttonhole and MRS. DOZEY; DR. DOZEY, behind the open book, responds in pantomime; MRS. DOZEY observing this comes down between them; DR. DOZEY drops his eyes on book and turns off; she pursues him; ALMA turns off to SIR HUMPHREY, who leaves NED with DICK._

Alma. (_getting round back_) Sir Humphrey, you must take me round the park. I haven't seen half the beauties of the place.

Sir H. Nothing would please me better. Ned, we're going out into the grounds. Perhaps Mr. Dick would like to see them.

Dick. Certainly. Give me an appetite for dinner. (_to NED_) What time do you dine?

Alma. (_going out with SIR HUMPHREY_) Doctor, won't you come with us? (_making eyes at him_)

DR. (_with alacrity_) Surely!

Mrs. D. (_crosses, R., checking him_) Dionysius!

Sir H. (_to ALMA_) Take my arm, Mrs. Blake.

Alma. I like the doctor. (_taking SIR HUMPHREY'S arm_)

Sir H. An old schoolfellow.

Alma. He's going to "nurture" me. Isn't it kind of him? (_Exit with SIR HUMPHREY, through window, off R._)

Dick. (_following with NED_) Sorry I lost your comedy. If a romantic drama would be any compensation, or a tragedy in seven acts, or a historical pageant in thirteen tableaux, come to the theatre and take your choice. (_Exit with NED through window, C., off L._)

DR. (_crosses, C._) My love, you are in error.

Mrs. D. Nonsense! You've been philandering for the last ten minutes. _You,_ Dionysius, who have always professed such horror of stage players.

DR. Mrs. Blake may be regarded in two aspects.

Mrs. D. You've been regarding her in half-a-dozen!

DR. It is our duty to hate sin, but to love sinners. One may, at one and the same time, abhor the acting----

Mrs. D. And adore the actress!

DR. I should prefer to say, regard the actress with that measure of fraternal sympathy to which all our erring sisters are entitled.

Mrs. D. But which only the good-looking ones get. (_re-enter LUCY, down staircase, L._) No, Dionysius, it won't do! A little less of that fraternal sympathy, if you please.

Lucy. What's the matter, Mrs. Dozey? (_DR. DOZEY gets up, R._)

Mrs. D. Matter! Why that stage-player----

Lucy. Mrs. Blake?

Mrs. D. Has been at her stage tricks!

DR. (_crosses to R.C._) Diana, you are excited.

Mrs. D. Well, I may be. (_crosses, R._) You never looked at _me_ as long as I caught you looking at _her._ (_going off, R._)

DR. My angel, I have been gazing at you steadfastly for a quarter of a century. (_Exit after her, R._)

_Re-enter TOM, through window, C.R._

Tom. Good gracious, Mrs. Dozey's wide-awake!

Lucy. She's caught the doctor napping this time. She seems quite jealous of Mrs. Blake already.

Tom. The widow? Has she come?

Lucy. I met her at the door.

Tom. Well, is she as charming as Sir Humphrey says?

Lucy. I suppose she must be. At the hotel when we first met her she turned everybody's head. Sir Humphrey was smitten on the spot, and as for Ned, well, he behaved disgracefully. I wish you weren't going, Tom!

Tom. Do you?

Lucy. I should like to see what impression she'd make upon _you._ I don't believe you could admire anybody.

Tom. Am I so hard to please?

Lucy. A regular old cynic!

Tom. And what's a cynic? A poor devil, who's fool enough to put into words the harshness wise men put into their deeds, and fool enough to put into deeds the kindness wise men put into their words. Your cynic is the softest of mankind, and as a rule he's been in love before he was a cynic. (_crosses to L._)

Lucy. (_crosses to R._) Surely you haven't?

Tom. I've been most things, Lucy.

Lucy. Except a husband. (_laughing_)

Tom. I've been that.

Lucy. (_crosses to TOM_) A husband! No! Surely you're joking? Oh, I can't believe it.

Tom. What's much more singular, I want to be married again.

Lucy. Were you so happy?

Tom. No, I wasn't happy.

Lucy. Didn't you like your wife?

Tom. Yes, I adored her. So did someone else.

Lucy. Well?

Tom. I suppose she adored him. (_sits R. of table_)

Lucy. She left you! (_getting back_)

Tom. No, I left _her!_ Six years ago! On a bright summer day--just such a day as this. As I passed down the walk I caught my last glimpse of her through a window, as it might be there. (_pointing to window_) I can almost see her now, framed like a picture in the window frame, with the sun streaming down on her, for all the world like---- (_rises_)

_ALMA suddenly appears on the lawn outside, standing an instant in the sunshine, with her head turned to SIR HUMPHREY, who passes the window a moment afterwards._

Alma. Oh, what a lovely lawn! We must have tennis there, Sir Humphrey.

Sir H. If I could play the game----

Alma. I'll teach you. (_they pass on, R., out of sight_)

Lucy. Tom, what's the matter?

Tom. Who was that--passed the window?

Lucy. That was Mrs. Blake. What do you think of her?

Tom. Blake?

Lucy. I believe _you're_ smitten. Men are all alike.

Tom. Just in time--only just.

Lucy. What are you talking about? Just in time for what?

Tom. (_recovering himself_) My train, of course. I'd quite forgotten it. I must make haste, or I shall miss it.

Lucy. Don't run away like that.

Tom. Say good-bye to Sir Humphrey, will you, Lucy? Tell him to think no more about what I said just now. He'll understand you.

Lucy. Tom, you're not going in this way?

Tom. (_crosses to R._) I must go. (_turns to LUCY_) Make my apologies.

Lucy. Without even your picture.

Tom. I can send for that. (_Exit, R._)

_Re-enter DICK and NED through window._

Dick. I don't think much of it. I can't say I think much of it. Not a patch on one in my last comedy. Potts' masterpiece! Potts is the man for exteriors.

_Re-enter ALMA and SIR HUMPHREY through window, L._

Alma. Clever! It's more than clever.

Sir H. I must introduce you to the painter.

Alma. I should like to know him. In these days, it's quite refreshing to meet an artist whose art is intelligible without a catalogue and half a column of criticism.

_Re-enter MRS. DOZEY, R._

Sir H. Lucy, where's Mr. Potter? Mrs. Blake has been admiring his sketch, and wants to congratulate him.

Lucy. He has just gone.

Sir H. Gone?

Mrs. D. Mr. Potter gone?

Lucy. He said he'd barely time to catch his train, and asked me to apologise to you for going so abruptly.

_Re-enter DR. DOZEY, R._

Alma. Then I shan't see him. What a disappointment!

DR. (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY_) Life is made up of disappointments. As we near its goal---- (_SIR HUMPHREY turns him round; he faces ALMA_)

Sir H. Gone, after what he said to me this morning!

Lucy. Oh, and he left some message! You were to forget what he had said or something--he was in too great a hurry to explain himself.

Sir H. I think I understand. (_to LUCY_) You have refused him?

Lucy. I?

Mrs. D. Mr. Potter has proposed!

Ned. For Lucy?

DR. (_approaching DICK_) I was remarking---- (_buttonholes DICK, who gradually retreats up stage, followed step by step by DR. DOZEY, preaching in dumb show_)

Sir H. Not an hour ago he asked to be allowed to speak to you. Hasn't he done so?

Lucy. No, he said nothing.

Alma. (_aside to NED_) Now's your opportunity. Redeem your promise.

Sir H. This is an insult--a gross insult.

Mrs. D. A mere painter!

Ned. (_crosses to LUCY_) If he _had_ spoken it would have been useless. Miss Preston has accepted someone else.

Sir H. Without my knowledge?

Ned. Yes. But it wasn't Lucy's fault. (_takes LUCY'S hand_) She would have told you, but I wouldn't let her.

Sir H. You!

Mrs. D. Oh, Dionysius! Miss Preston is engaged to Mr. Chetwynd. (_brings DR. DOZEY down, to the great relief of DICK, who gasps for air and mops his forehead at back_)

Sir H. Not to you, Ned! Say, there is some mistake! You couldn't do so wrong. Say, you are not engaged.

Ned. No, not engaged.

Sir H. Thank heaven!

Ned. This is my wife. (_takes LUCY'S hand_)

Mrs. D. Oh!

DR. Bless my soul!

Sir H. (_incredulous_) Your wife!

Dick. (_coming forward_) Sir, I congrat---- (_ALMA stops DICK and takes him up; DR. and MRS. DOZEY turn deprecatingly_)

Sir H. She, your wife? (_DR. DOZEY puts up glasses and surveys LUCY_)

Ned. Your daughter.

Sir H. I disown her! I refuse to recognise this marriage. I disown you both! You have brought shame upon a line that was untarnished. You--my son--my only child--the bearer of an honoured name--the heir of a proud history--and she--(_breaks down_) Oh, Ned! Why did you marry her? (_sits L. of table_)

Ned. I married her (_turns to LUCY_) for love. (_puts arm round LUCY_)

END OF ACT I.