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THERE’S ALWAYS JULIET

ACT ONE

ACT ONE

SCENE I

Scene: leonora’s sitting-room in a West End flat near the Ritz in London. The room is very comfortably and attractively furnished. In the back wall are two large recesses taking up practically the entire wall space. The one to the Right contains a writing-desk, and a door in its right wall, just out of sight of the audience, leading to leonora’s bedroom, off Right.

The other recess contains a grand piano and some bookshelves. Just below the piano is a large, low armchair.

On the slant on the Left are double doors leading to a hall-way and the rest of the flat.

Fireplace downstage Left, with a bench in front of it. Above it a small table for drinks. A large, low chesterfield on the slant to the fire, well downstage.

Large French windows, with a tiny balcony and flowers in boxes outside, downstage in the right wall. A chaise-longue more or less parallel to them. Telephone on a small table above the windows.

When the curtain rises, leonora perrycoste comes in through the double doors, wearing her hat and light summer coat and carrying a handbag. She is obviously a little preoccupied. She comes to the chaise-longue, sits on it meditatively, looks at the telephone, rises, and walks restlessly about again. She takes a cigarette from a case in her bag and fits it into an ivory holder. The holder seems to give her an idea. She goes to the telephone and dials a number.

Hello. Is Mrs. Enfilden there? . . . Oh, Betty, it’s you. . . . This is Leonora. . . . Yes. I say, did I leave my cigarette-holder there this afternoon? . . . Oh, an ivory one. It’s got my initials on it. Don’t bother now . . . any time will do. Just remember, if you do find one, that it’s mine, will you? . . . Nice party, Betty. I enjoyed it. (With just too much carelessness.) By the way, who was that nice American man? . . . Oh, you know. Dark and rather nice-looking. . . . Oh, is that his name? Who is he? . . . Oh, I see. Tom and Catherine brought him, did they? . . . What? . . . Oh, no reason. I just thought he seemed nice. What are you laughing at? Well, what’s the matter? . . . Oh, all right. Be mysterious. About the what? . . . Oh, yes, the holder. Thanks. Good-bye. (She rings off, puts down the telephone.)

[florence, a kindly family-servant parlourmaid of about fifty, comes in from the bedroom, carrying a pair of mules.

I thought I heard you come in, miss. Excuse me, miss, are you busy?

No. What is it?

I put out the gold dress, miss, as you didn’t say. I don’t know whether I did right.

Well, I’m only going to the family. It does seem rather waste.

I can easily get out another, miss. The black one, perhaps. That’s quite shabby.

Yes. All right, I’ll wear the black.

Very good, miss. (Changing leonora’s shoes for her.) You haven’t heard from the mistress, have you, miss? About when she’s coming home, I mean?

No, not again. Some time next week, I think. Why? Are you getting anxious?

Oh, no, miss. I only just wanted to know for the dentist.

Why? Is he interested?

No, miss, but it’s my teeth. You see, I’ve been having trouble lately. It’s my wisdom, and Mr. Parker says I’d better have it out. And seeing that it’s sort of wedged in like, and I’m not good with the gas, it might mean a day in bed. Just for the shock. So I thought perhaps I ought to get it over before they come back.

Yes. Well, all right.

I was all for letting nature take its course . . . see if it wouldn’t work itself out . . . but Mr. Parker says at my time of life it’s apt to get into the blood stream, so perhaps I oughtn’t to risk it.

(unseriously)
Would you like me to go away?

Oh, no, miss. There’s no need for you to upset yourself. You needn’t know anything about it till it’s all over.

That makes me sound like a prospective father, somehow. (florence looks at her quite blankly.) It’s all right, Florence. I was being funny.

Oh. Oh! (She sees the joke and giggles.) Really, Miss Leonora! (She takes leonora’s hat, coat, and shoes into the bedroom and then returns.) Well, then, perhaps I’d better say Wednesday.

All right.

You won’t be having a party, or anything, that night?

To celebrate, do you mean?

(quite seriously)

No, miss, but I was only thinking Rose can wait at table if it’s only just a couple of you. But if there was more . . .

It’s all right. I’m not entertaining on a large scale these days.

No, miss, I know. And I’ve been thinking it seems a waste, really, with the whole flat to yourself. I expect you find it a bit lonely with the master and mistress away, really, if the truth were known.

Oh? I hadn’t noticed it.

[She moves towards the bedroom.

Is there anything else, miss?

What? Oh, no thank you.

Very good, miss.

[Starts to leave.

(as she goes)

Oh, get me Mrs. Sinclair on the telephone. (Calling after her.) Sloane 2484.

[She goes into the bedroom.

(dials a number)

Hullo? Is that Sloane 2484? Is Mrs. Sinclair in? Oh . . . Miss Perrycoste would like to speak to you, madam. (Puts down receiver, and goes to bedroom door.) Mrs. Sinclair, miss.

[leonora returns in underclothes, cold-creaming her face. She goes to telephone. florence goes out Left.

Hello? Is that Catherine? . . . Leonora. Yes. How are you? . . . I know. We didn’t get a chance to talk. I didn’t see you when I left. Look here. We haven’t seen each other for ages. Why don’t you come in and have a cocktail to-morrow? Yes. They’re away. Bring anyone you like with you. Why don’t you bring that American man you had with you this afternoon? What was his name? Houston. (Front door bell rings off stage.) . . . Oh, I don’t know. I thought he seemed rather nice. Don’t bother if you don’t want to. I just thought if he was on your hands. What are you laughing at? . . . No, what is it? . . . Oh, all right. See you to-morrow, then. Good-bye. (She puts down the receiver and starts going towards her bedroom. Re-enter florence with a card on a salver, which she presents to leonora.) Someone for me, Florence? (She takes the card. Her mouth opens in surprise.) Is he here?

Yes, miss. I told him you were dressing to go out.

Oh. What’s the time?

Just on half-past seven, miss.

(after a moment’s pause)

All right. Show him in, and bring in the cocktail things, will you?

[She starts towards the bedroom.

Yes, miss. Excuse me, miss, but if you’ve got to be at Earl’s Court by eight . . .

(calling after her)

Yes, Florence. Show him in.

Very good, miss.

[florence goes, and returns in a moment with dwight houston, a dark, good-looking young American of about thirty-two. He wears a dinner-jacket with a double collar and a soft shirt. He looks around him.

I expect Miss Leonora will be back in a moment, sir. Won’t you take a seat?

Thank you.

[He stands by the chesterfield. florence goes out into the hall again.
dwight looks around him with interest, inspecting the room as though to gauge a personality. He walks about, looks out of the window. florence comes back from the hall with a tray on which are gin, two vermouths, cointreau, and a bottle of port, also a cocktail-shaker and two glasses. She puts them on the table above the chesterfield and goes out, stopping to give him a second look. He looks round; their eyes meet, and she goes. He looks at the tray, picks up the bottle of port, and inspects it with some surprise. leonora comes in from her bedroom wearing the gold evening dress. She stands for a moment looking at his back, then moves forward. He hears her, then he turns and sees her, and puts down the port.

Oh. Hello.

Hello.

You don’t . . . mind my coming?

Did you expect me to?

Well . . . I . . . I didn’t know. You got my card?

(smiling)

Yes.

You didn’t think it . . . nerve?

No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t. Do you think I ought to have?

I was afraid you might.

Yes. Well . . . let’s not go on talking like this, shall we? You were looking at the port?

Yes. Is that an English custom? Port at cocktail time?

No. It’s a habit of father’s. Florence thinks all men are the same.

Is your father here?

No. He’s at Vichy.

Because of the port?

Yes.

Oh. (He nods sagaciously.) Have you ever put port in a cocktail?

No. Have you?

Yes. It’s filthy.

So I should think. How did you come to try?

A game at a party. You make a cocktail out of ten different ingredients and make people guess what they are. You go on till they’ve all guessed . . . all the ingredients.

I must try that next time I give a sticky party. It certainly ought to help make it go.

Yes.

[Pause.

Well . . . shall we sit down or something? (florence comes in with ice in a bowl, and places it on the tray.) Won’t you have a cigarette?

[She offers him a box.

Thanks. Won’t you?

Thanks. (She does. They light them. leonora is a little embarrassed. florence goes out.) Let me make you a cocktail . . . without port.

Can’t I help?

It’s all right. (Goes above the chesterfield to the table and starts to make cocktail.) How did you find me? How did you get my address?

I called up our hostess and then Catherine. Asked where you lived.

(stares at him for a minute)

Oh! Did you? Oh! So then that was why . . .

What?

Nothing.

[She begins to giggle.

What are you laughing at?

(giggling)

No, nothing, really.

Tell me.

(squeaking)

No!

Our hostess wouldn’t tell me where you lived. I think she suspected my motives.

What did she say?

Oh, she was very English and tactful. But she gave me to understand that white slavers were not encouraged. (leonora laughs.) She referred me to Catherine. After all, I’d never met her before. Catherine took me there. But I don’t know whether that’s a guarantee of respectability.

I don’t know that it is.

No.

No. (They both laugh.) She and Tom are a bit of a mess, aren’t they? Father and mother don’t approve of my knowing them. They asked mother to tea once, and when she went to wash her hands she found a cold kidney in the soap-dish, (dwight laughs.) I tried to explain it was just Bohemianism, but it didn’t go down at all well. How well do you know them?

Not very.

Do you like that sort of thing?

No. Frankly, I can’t stand mess of any sort.

I think one ought to be tidy.

That’s always been my standard of respectability.

Oh, I like that. Are you respectable?

I’m tidy.

I’m glad.

Of course, we haven’t been introduced.

I know. What do we do about it?

Can’t we tidy up and introduce ourselves? This is Dwight Houston. I’d like you to know him. We were at school together. I want you to be great friends.

How do you do? This is Leonora Perrycoste. I’ve known her for years.

You two ought to have a lot in common.

(with social politeness)

Oh, yes?

Well, now, I think I’ll leave you together. Will that do?

I should think so.

[They shake hands, and she returns to the cocktails.

What happened to you? I looked for you everywhere when Catherine dragged me away. Where were you?

I don’t know. I suppose in the other room.

I looked in the other room. Every other room.

Well, then . . . Oh, I know. It must have been when I was in the pantry, helping to wash the glasses.

I never thought of looking in the pantry. When I came back, you’d gone.

Came back?

Yes. For my cigarette-holder.

Oh? Did you leave it there?

I don’t use one. Then when I got home I called up and asked for your address.

On what pretext? That I might have walked off with the cigarette-holder you haven’t got?

No, I just told the truth.

Which was?

That I wanted to see you again.

How very nice of you.

Charmed, I’m sure.

Here!

[Pours out cocktails.

Thanks. (He holds up his glass for a toast.) Well . . . where your treasure is . . .

Skoal.

(surprised)

How do you know that?

I saw Anna Christie. Besides, I’ve met other Americans.

Well . . . (He lifts his glass, and she hers, and they drink.) I was hoping perhaps you could dine with me.

I’m dining out.

So your maid said.

I’m sorry.

I’m dining out, too. Of course, I could duck it. (She does not reply.) Could you duck yours?

I’m afraid not.

Are you sure?

Um.

I’m sorry.

What’s the time?

Twenty of eight.

I shall have to go.

Oh, but I’ve only just come.

I’m sorry.

Are you intimating that . . . my attentions are unwelcome?

No. Of course not.

What time is your dinner?

Eight.

Where?

Miles away.

May I drive you there?

Have you a car?

In a garage in New York. But we’ll get a taxi . . . tell it to go round by Windsor. . . . They tell me the castle looks lovely at sunset. I wish you weren’t going out. (No reply.) Be late, anyway.

I can’t.

Just a little late. Just enough to be distinguished. To show you don’t give a damn. Please. After all, think of the trouble I’ve gone to, finding you. I nearly got myself arrested. Don’t walk out on me just yet. Please! Look here, will you give me five minutes . . . just to try and make you want to see me again? Then, if I fail—well, I’ll go quietly.

And if you succeed?

Then I’ll come back, if you’ll let me. You’re not dining with that man who was at the party?

What man?

The one who dragged you away from me. I didn’t know how strong the primitive instincts in me still were until that happened. I wanted to brandish a club or something. You’re not engaged to him, are you?

Good Lord, no!

Thank God. You’re not . . . married . . . or engaged . . . or anything, are you?

I don’t know what you mean by “or anything.”

But you’re not?

No.

I suppose, if I were English, this would be class suicide on my part. I sat wrestling with myself as I put the studs into my shirt, wondering whether I oughtn’t to get myself presented through seven duchesses and an archbishop, or whatever your English customs are. We used to have a book on etiquette back home, written by “A Lady of Title”—that’s what he called himself—and I remember thinking that social intercourse in England must be something like Masonic ritual. I used to wonder how a man and woman in England ever contrived to get married and have children. I felt it would be so embarrassing for the chaperon, to say nothing of the parties concerned.

It’s too bad, the way all the quaint old customs are dying out. It’s awfully hard to find a really authentic bit of English etiquette anywhere now.

I expect the Americans buy it all up. But honestly, I was scared stiff I’d be thrown down the elevator shaft with the door slammed in my face. Do you realise I risked worse than death for you?

Permanent disfigurement?

Social ostracism! Anyway, I risked it. I got your address from Catherine, and when I came out of my hotel I just kind of mechanically gave it to the taxi-driver. I didn’t know it was just across the road. (Holds out his glass.) May I have another?

Help yourself.

[He does so. She goes over and rings the bell.

Is that to have me shown out?

(with a laugh)

No. Give me some more.

[She holds out her glass. He fills it.

I think you’re swell.

Don’t mention it.

And you make good cocktails.

I try to please.

[Enter florence.

You rang, miss?

Yes. Will you telephone Mrs. Wavertree and say I’ve been delayed? Say I’ll be a little late. I’ll get there when I can.

(with a disapproving eye on dwight)

Yes, miss. What reason shall I give?

Don’t give any reason. Just say I’ve been delayed.

Very good, miss.

[Goes out.

(with enormous sincerity and simplicity)

That’s grand of you.

(is a shade embarrassed. A silence)

Do you know London well?

No. Very slightly. Less than almost anywhere else, as a matter of fact.

[Pause.

Oh. Does that mean . . . less than almost anywhere else that you’ve been to, or just less than almost anywhere else?

Well, it’s the same thing, really.

Oh, well, that’s what I meant. I mean, I meant, was it?

(politely)

Was it what?

Was it the same thing?

Look here, don’t you think that perhaps we had better go back and begin this all over again?

All right. You said you knew London less than almost anywhere else, and I said did that mean . . .

(interrupting)

Do you mean have I travelled a lot?

Well, yes. I suppose that’s what I did mean.

Yes, a lot.

Where?

Almost everywhere.

Except England?

No. Except London. I once tramped all the way from Glasgow to Southampton, but I missed London.

Why?

The lifts I got weren’t going that way.

Lifts? You mean you were really tramping? Jack London and that sort of thing?

Yes.

(eagerly)

Do tell me.

There’s nothing to tell, really. Just that. It was about twelve years ago.

Where else have you been?

I’ve bummed my way most places.

Meaning?

Oh! These barriers of language! Worked my way . . . begged my way . . .

Of course, I’ve been to the Lido. No, but really. Do go on. This is thrilling.

Not a bit, I assure you.

Yes, honestly. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that just now about the Lido. I wasn’t being flippant . . . at least, I was. But it was just to cover an awful sense of . . . well, sort of inferiority that swept over me.

Why?

Oh, I don’t know. I always feel like that about people who’ve done things, really been to real places.

Real places?

Yes. It makes me feel so ashamed of my bed and bath. I give up bath salts for a week every time I read a book of travel. No, but don’t you know what I mean? It makes me feel that I’ve been bred too soft. You don’t look like a hobo.

What do you want? Four days’ stubble on my chin? Khaki shirt and running-pants?

No, but . . .

[She stops, looking at him.

What are you looking at?

Your nails and your teeth. They’re too good.

[dwight laughs.

A good American makes a point of his teeth in the jungle, just as a good Englishman does of his dinner-jacket.

Self-respect in the outposts.

Yes.

I’ve never believed it, really. Yet I know father would. Not that I can picture father in the jungle, somehow. Where have you been, actually?

All over. The Orient—South Seas . . .

Have you? Tell me, is it all it’s supposed to be?

Pretty well. Both ways.

I wish you’d tell me about it.

What?

Oh! Hundreds of things. I want to be Desdemona and sit with my mouth open.

Did she?

(recovering herself)

Always. Haven’t you seen the illustrations?

What do you want to know?

Oh, moonlight on the reefs, and cannibals, and the anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.

That takes time.

I know. And I’ve got to go out.

May I ask you something?

I should think so.

Well . . .

What is it?

If you weren’t going out, would you dine with me?

(quite simply, after half a beat’s hesitation)

Yes.

I’m glad. Would you have . . . before?

Before what?

Just . . . before. When I first came.

(after a thought)

No. I don’t think I would.

Why not?

I didn’t know you.

You don’t know me now.

No. But I’d like to.

Why? So that I can tell you stories? because I’m a . . . travelled man?

No.

Why, then?

Oh, I don’t know. I just would.

Did you think I was being fresh? To come here after you?

A little.

But you didn’t mind?

It intrigued me. . . .

But you wouldn’t have dined with me.

No.

Why not?

Well, in the first place I think I’d have felt you were taking too much for granted.

What?

That I would dine with you. Had you any doubts that I would?

Plenty . . . and fears that you wouldn’t.

If I’d said that I would right away, what would you have thought?

I’d have thought, “What is England coming to?”

Why did you want me to?

Because I liked you . . . so much . . . this afternoon.

And yet we said nothing.

Does that matter, really? Have we said anything now?

No, I don’t know that we have.

And yet now I’ll go away quite happy. When may I see you again?

When can you?

Any time.

Are you here for long?

About three weeks, I think. There’s a chance of my being called back sooner.

Are you . . . what was it you called it . . . bumming . . . now?

No. I’m here on business. I’m living at the Ritz.

(surprised)

Are you in business?

(vaguely)

I’m an architect. I’m over here looking at buildings.

I see. We’ve got plenty. Have you seen Liberty’s?

My God, yes!

Well . . . then you know the worst. But if you’re an architect . . . do architects bum?

No. I’ve become respectable the last seven years.

Do you like that . . . after the other thing?

I’m very fond of my comforts.

Did you get tired?

No. My father died, and I had to.

I see. Did you hate it?

I’m a curious person. I don’t think I hate anything. If you’ve a job to do . . .

(forcefully)

Yes!

Why do you say it like that?

That’s just it. I’ve no job to do and I hate . . . almost everything.

What’s the trouble?

Just that. I’m bored, and I hate myself for being bored. No one’s got a right to be. Wasting my time . . .

What do you want to do with it?

Anything worth while.

And what do you think is?

That’s what I most want to find out. Certainly not the old-fashioned idea of hanging round waiting for matrimony, playing a sort of mental “’Tisn’t you—’tisn’t you,” with every man I meet.

Well, why not do something until it happens?

If I only knew what. Welfare work? Bookbindings? Learning X-rays?

No.

Well, suggest something, and then I shall know why heaven sent you into my life.

I’m afraid I can’t . . . off-hand.

Exactly. So I go on . . . wasting my time . . . being . . . untidy. Going to parties, like this afternoon’s, knowing silly, raffish people like Tom and Catherine, in the hope of finding some excitement that I know I’d be too timid to take hold of if it offered.

Why are you talking like this?

I don’t know. I don’t care for myself much, sometimes.

[dwight observes her closely for a moment, her back turned to him.

(lightly)

That’s too bad! (She still keeps her back turned.) Come on. Snap out of it. (She turns to him.) Leonora . . . by the way, do you mind if I don’t call you Leonora? It’s my sister-in-law’s name, and I can’t bear her.

[leonora smiles.

What would you like to call me?

(looking at her for a moment)

Steve.

Steve?

Yes.

Why?

I don’t know. I’d like to.

Of course, if you feel like that about it . . .

Steve.

[He holds out his hand. She takes it with her left one.

What is it?

I like you, Steve.

I think I like you.

Good.

[Enter florence.

Excuse me, miss, but it’s ten past eight.

Oh! (She stares at florence for a minute.) Oh, thank you, Florence. (She looks back at dwight, who is sitting with his eyes fixed on her. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, quite steadily. florence looks at them and then turns to go.) Oh, Florence?

(returning)

Yes, miss?

(with her back to dwight)

Ring up Mrs. Wavertree again, will you, and say—(long pause)—say I’ve been so delayed that I’ve got a headache.

I beg your pardon, miss?

Say I can’t get there.

(doubtfully)

Very good, miss. Any reason this time?

Oh, say that . . . that . . . Oh, say I came over all queer. She’ll believe it if you put it like that.

Very good, miss.

[She goes out disapprovingly. There is quite a long silence.

I did, you know.

May I say . . . thank you?

I don’t know why not.

You will dine with me? (leonora nods.) Then thanks . . . a lot. Where would you like to go?

(vaguely)

Oh . . .

Would you care to dance?

Let’s just . . . find somewhere, and see. Shall we?

Alright.

Another cocktail first? (He holds out his glass. She fills them both with the dregs of the cocktail-shaker.) Mostly ice-water, I’m afraid.

My national drink . . . after Scotch. (They drink.) By the way, may I use your telephone, just to call up and break my date?

Oh, of course.

[dwight goes to the telephone, takes out a little book from his pocket, looks up a number, and dials it.

I didn’t know you had the dial-’phone in London.

It gets worse every day.

Your maid looked a little disapproving, I thought.

She probably read your card.

Why, I restrained myself specially on her account!

Florence was with us when I was born. She was very exercised about it.

I don’t blame her.

She’s not used to this kind of thing.

I’m glad. (He answers the telephone.) Hello? Is that . . . the number I dialled? Oh, is that you, Bobby? . . . Dwight here. Say, listen. I shan’t be able to get along to-night. I’ve got held up. . . . Yeh. When I got back to my hotel someone was waiting for me. I shan’t be through for a couple of hours at least, but I will if I can. . . . How’s that? Catherine? Is she there? . . . All right. I’ll hang on. (He turns back to leonora.) Catherine wants to speak to me.

You’d better not tell her where you’re speaking from.

Not on your tin-type. . . . Hello, Catherine. . . . Yeh. What are you doing there? . . . What? . . . Yes, I got held up on business. . . . Yes, of course, after I called you. . . . What? I say, what are you getting at? . . . No, of course I haven’t. What chance have I had? . . . To-morrow, cocktail time? . . . Why, yes, I’d love to. . . . Oh, stop kidding. . . . Yeh. Too bad, isn’t it? Well, good-bye. (He puts down the receiver and turns with a broad grin to leonora.) What do you think? She’s asked me to come along and have a cocktail here to-morrow.

(giggling)

Oh? Well, will you?

What do you think. I kind of think she’s on to something.

Well . . . if you ring up and ask for my address . . .

I kind of think there’s something else.

What?

I can’t make out.

Well—er—never mind. Let’s go, shall we? (Enter florence.) You gave that message, Florence?

Yes, miss. Mrs. Wavertree says she’s very sorry, and she’ll ring up in the morning to find out how you are.

Is that all?

Well, she did ask if you had a temperature, miss.

And what did you say?

I said I didn’t think you’d taken it.

(to dwight)

I’ll just get my coat. You needn’t wait up for me, Florence.

[She goes into the bedroom. florence, with an offended, disapproving dignity, gathers up the cocktail glasses.

Oh, excuse me, but do you think you could get us a taxi?

Very good, sir.

(as she is going)

And if anyone telephones, Miss Perrycoste’s temperature is just over a hundred.

Is that all, sir?

Well . . . say a hundred and one, if it’s a near relative.

I’ll telephone for a taxi.

[She goes out. dwight stands waiting a moment. leonora comes back, wearing her cloak and carrying her bag.

I’m afraid I’ve made an enemy of Florence. She’ll probably shut the door in my face to-morrow.

I’ll leave word you’re to be admitted. Just mention my name. Shall we go?

[They go to the door and out, as the curtain falls to denote a time lapse of about five hours.

ACT ONE

SCENE II

Scene: The same. About five hours later.

When the curtain rises, the stage is in darkness. Then a light in the passage outside is switched on.

dwight and leonora appear. She is still wearing her cloak and he is in his evening clothes as before, having presumably left his hat in the hall. They come into the room. leonora switches on the light. On the table where the cocktails were is a bottle of lemon squash, a syphon, a glass, and some sandwiches.

(as they come in)

Come in. Will you have a drink?

Thanks.

Whiskey?

(assenting)

You said a drink.

I’ll get it. Florence only leaves lemon squash out for me.

Don’t nice girls drink whiskey in England?

Not a great deal, as a matter of fact.

[She goes into the hall. dwight lights a cigarette and wanders about.

(going to the dining-room door)

Can I help?

(off)

It’s all right.

[She returns, carrying a whiskey decanter and a tumbler. He takes them from her and puts them on the table.

Lemonade for you?

I think just plain soda. (He pours it out for her. Looks around on the tray.) What are you looking for?

I was forgetting this was England.

Ice?

Um.

Oh!

The English are so insular.

I know. It’s what makes them what they are. I’ll go to the Frigidaire, if you like, though I’m rather afraid of it.

Don’t bother.

[He pours out his drink.

Sandwich?

[He refuses. They sit down on the chesterfield and light cigarettes.

What’s the time?

Quarter after.

One?

Um. Do you want to go to bed?

Not yet.

That was a corking idea of yours to go to the . . . what was the name of the place?

Holborn Empire. I’ve still got that beastly song in my head. (She begins to sing quietly.) “I’m alone because I love you.”

(carrying on)

“Love you with all my heart.”

(still singing)

Tra-la-la-la-la . . . what are those words . . . “I had to be true . . .”

“Sorry I can’t say the same about you.”

[They both laugh.

I think it’s the silliest song I ever heard.

I’m inclined to agree with you.

(goes on humming for a moment; then to herself forcibly, hitting herself)

Oh, shut up, will you?

Try something else to take the taste away.

I can’t think of another song.

Try one of that woman’s . . . what was her name?

Lily Morris? I’m glad you’ve seen her.

Did you say you had her on the Victrola? Can’t we put her on?

I’m afraid we should wake Florence.

Oh, dear!

(singing as before)

She’s grand. (They both laugh and drink.) It’s been a grand evening.

I’ve enjoyed it.

Funny. I nearly didn’t go to that party this afternoon.

So did I . . . I mean, so didn’t I.

There you are, you see. It just goes to show.

That’s what I always say.

Do you know, you’re the first English girl I’ve ever met that I really liked. The only one who’s . . . got under my skin.

That does sound horrid for you. I’ve liked lots of Americans.

We’re a nice people, really.

I think so. (dwight looks round. Then rises.) What are you looking for?

Ash-tray.

[He finds one on the piano, looks at the piano and kneels on the piano-bench and begins with one finger to pick out the melody of “I’m alone because I love you,” making a couple of mistakes in it and finally stumbling entirely.

(rising and coming over to him)

Wait a minute. Let me.

[She sits down at the piano and begins to play it. They both sing it. As she finishes, dwight is standing behind her, with one knee beside her on the piano-bench. He puts one arm round her neck, his hand resting on her shoulder, the other hand on hers, stooping with his head against hers. She remains still for a moment and then rises. He rises too, still holding her hand, and draws her gently in his arms and kisses her. Then she pats his cheek and disengages herself, crossing the room back to the mantel-piece. He stands looking at her.

And what does that mean?

What?

The playful tap you gave me. (leonora shrugs her shoulders.) Angry with me?

Good Lord, no!

I’m afraid of Englishwomen.

Oh, don’t call me an Englishwoman. It sounds like . . . golf-clubs and fishing-tackle.

There’s nothing like that about you . . . Steve. (He goes to her, takes her hands, and draws her to him again, this time in a proper embrace and a good deal more passionately.) I’ve been wanting to do that all evening.

Have you?

Terribly.

I think I’ve been . . . rather wanting you to.

Well, then, we’re both satisfied.

[He kisses her again, and then draws her down on to the sofa and into his arms, holding her to him. They remain like that a moment, his cheek against hers. Then she stirs.

What is it?

I was thinking that . . . if we’re going on like this you’d better shut those doors. I shouldn’t really like Florence to see.

Is she in the least likely to?

No. I think she’s in bed. But I’d feel better.

O.K. (He gets up and closes the doors, and then comes back to her, sits beside her again, and takes her in his arms again.) Steve dear.

Speaking to me?

Yes.

What?

Nothing. Just “Steve dear.” (Pause.) I’m very happy. (Silence for a moment while she lies back in his arms. He strokes her hair and puts his face against it.) I like your hair.

I take a lot of trouble with it.

I like you.

So I gather.

Oh, stop being funny, will you?

What do you want me to be? Tragic?

No.

What then?

Quiet.

Oh!

[They are silent again a moment.

Dear Steve! (He begins to fondle her. She remains impassive.) What’s on your mind?

Nothing. Why?

You’re worrying about something.

How do you know?

I can feel you are.

I say!

Aren’t you?

No.

Well, what is it then?

(restlessly)

I don’t know. (She disengages herself.) Don’t you think this is a little silly?

Silly?

Um.

No. Why?

(turning to him)

Look here, I’d like to be . . . awfully frank.

(smiling)

Go on.

I’m not in the habit of doing this kind of thing . . . with strange men, and I’d rather we didn’t misunderstand each other.

Well?

I don’t know what . . . you’re imagining, but . . . I’m sorry . . . it’s no good.

I see.

I’m sorry.

What made you think I was imagining?

Aren’t all men always? Or is that very cynical of me?

No. It’s perfectly true.

You were imagining?

I was “wondering.”

I know. That’s why I had to tell you.

That was nice of you too.

I’m sorry.

That’s all right.

It’s not because I don’t like you.

(smiling)

No?

It’s just that . . . I’m not made that way. I don’t think it’s anything to be proud of. I’m not conceited about it. It just happens . . . to be like that.

Why are you telling me all this?

Because I like you. And I want to be fair to you. Or do I mean to myself? I don’t want you to think . . .

(smiling)

I don’t.

What?

That you were leading me on. That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?

Yes, I suppose so. I do like you, and (holding out her hand) I would if I could . . . really.

You’re a darling.

[He takes her in his arms and kisses her.

No, please don’t.

Why? Why not? If I no longer “imagine”? . . .

I’m afraid I like it too much.

Oh, I see.

So . . .

[She makes a gesture, goes over and sits below the piano. dwight takes a cigarette, wanders round for a moment, then leans against the side of the chesterfield.

Well?

Well?

What do we talk about?

I don’t know.

No. It’s a little difficult, isn’t it? (Pause.) Shall I go?

I don’t want you to.

I assure you, I don’t want to. Still, it’s rather difficult like this.

I know.

I think . . . I’m a little in love with you, Steve.

Because I . . . repulsed you?

(protestingly, laughingly)

No.

It does work that way sometimes, I’ve heard.

Yes. It’s the principle on which our mothers were brought up.

I’m sure my grandmother never told my mother such a thing.

No. But it was the underlying theory.

There’s a lot to be said for the Victorians.

Must I keep my distance like this?

[She looks at him, then slowly shakes her head, smiling a little ruefully. He comes to her.

My dear.

[He kisses her.

(rather breathless with it, protesting)

Oh, no . . .

You’re so adorable. (Very softly, bending over her.) I love you, Steve.

(looking up at him, in a breath)

I love you too.

[They kiss again. He sits down beside her, a little spent by the force of their kiss.

(recovering herself)

This is ridiculous.

Why?

We’ve known each other . . . what is it . . . five hours?

That’s long enough, surely?

To be in love?

I fell for you the minute I saw you. I was watching you from across the room long before I came and talked to you. Didn’t you know?

I knew I wanted you to come and talk to me.

Well, then . . .

Yes, but . . . that’s not quite the same thing, is it?

Why else do you think I came round here? (Laughing.) Because I . . . “imagined” . . . to use your phrase?

Perhaps.

No. I was too caught up even to think whether I “imagined” or not. It never entered my head, really, until ten minutes ago on the davenport.

Do you mean that?

Um.

I don’t see why I should take it as such a compliment, but I do.

Darling! What do we do now? I feel we should rush out and do something violent: knock down a cop or something. It’s grand, isn’t it?

It is, rather.

(unseriously)

Like spring!

[They grip each other’s hands hard, and look at each other.

(with pent-up exhilaration)

Ow!

Yes, I feel a bit light-hearted myself. We’ll see each other lots?

Lots. Three weeks, you said?

(nods sadly)

Let’s not talk about that.

No.

Mind over matter. We’ll have fun, the way we had this evening. What shall we do to-morrow? Let’s go into the country, can we, for the day?

I thought you were here on business. Haven’t you . . . appointments?

I ought to see a man Thursday, just for an hour, in the morning.

(ragging)

That’s what it is! Business, business all the time. (Back to natural.) All right, then . . . we’ll take my car, go down to Sussex, somewhere on the Downs.

I’ve heard of Sussex.

I should think so.

Isn’t it overrun with novelists?

We can dodge them.

I had an idea it was in Scotland.

Really?

Well, no, not really. That’s just American humour.

Oh, like the difference between Punch and Life?

Yes, but . . . let’s not start that old argument.

I wasn’t going to.

Weren’t you? “I never can see the humour in your American comic papers.” Couldn’t I hear that coming?

We shall quarrel in a minute.

Yes. We were talking about Sussex. Hasn’t it got a dialect? That’s where they say “dumble-down,” isn’t it?

No. That’s Somerset.

Oh, these suburbs!

How do you know about “dumble-down”?

(laconically)

Bee Lillie. Shall we drink ale? You don’t know how disappointed I was the first time I came over and found that ale in England was the same as beer . . . I’d always pictured ale as something terribly special, like sack or mead.

I know. Or possets.

Uh? What are possets?

Well, I don’t really know. A sort of night-cap, I think.

(savouring the word)

Possets! It sounds silly, doesn’t it? I’ll tell you what! Let’s not have them!

Let’s not! I know a little inn where we’ll lunch, with a stream and a garden.

“Our England is a garden.”

And “a garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!”

God . . . what?

Wot!

What’s wot?

Past tense of . . . what is it? . . . wit.

Conjugate!

Oh, I can’t! I wit, thou wist, he wot. No, I can’t.

Well, Sussex, to-morrow.

If it’s fine.

It will be. Let’s not come back till late. Quite late. Shall we hear a curlew? Or a night-jar?

I’ll see what I can do.

By the way, aren’t you forgetting something?

What?

You’ve got a date with me already?

I have? Oh! Tom and Catherine. Cocktails. Good Lord, yes! Oh, but we can’t . . . now . . . meet like that . . . as though . . . as though . . .

As though this hadn’t happened? Why not? Couldn’t you carry it off? I should enjoy not batting an eyelid. Shall we?

No. I’ll ring up Catherine; get out of it somehow.

And she was trying to be so kind, bringing me along because I’d asked for your address.

(dryly)

Yes. No, let’s go into the country.

I’ll call for you . . . how early?

About ten?

Well, I’m a lazy riser, but I’ll make an exception. Ought I to go now?

I think you ought.

I never shall if you don’t turn me out.

I think you’d better.

All right. (They rise, and come into each other’s arms again.) Funny Steve.

Oh, but this is absurd of us. I don’t know you. I don’t know the first thing about you. And here we are, behaving as though . . . we can’t be in love with each other.

Well, don’t let’s bother too much about it, shall we? We seem to like each other, anyway. Besides, there’s always Juliet.

Juliet?

She and Romeo did it in five speeches.

I always said that was an improbable play!

(quoting)

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand . . .” How does it go on?

I don’t know. We’ve got it somewhere.

[She goes over to the bookshelf. He follows her. She runs her hand along a line of Shakespeare in the Temple edition.

Here!

[He takes it down.

I’ll find it.

It’s all right. (He hunts for the quotation.) Here! (Reading):

Fresh, I call it!

(reading):

There you are!

Well, we’re hardly Romeo and Juliet, are we? Still, it’s nice to think we’ve got a precedent, sort of!

We’ve got a million.

I suppose we have. I’ve never believed in it until now.

We live and learn. Good night, hideous! (He puts his hands on her shoulders. Quotes again.) “Sweet, good night. This bud of love by summer’s ripening breath . . .”

[She lays her hand across his mouth.

Ssh!

Why?

I don’t want to take it like that.

How then? Like our song? (He begins to sing.) “I’m alone because I love you . . .”?

(joining him)

“Love you with all my heart.”

[They go to the door, still singing. Then as he opens it, they check themselves, for fear of waking florence, and tiptoe out, fingers to lips, disappearing along the passage. Their voices can be heard.

(off)

Good night.

(off)

Good night.

(off)

Ten o’clock?

(off)

I’ll have the car ready.

(off)

Good night . . . Steve.

[There is the sound of the front door shutting quietly. Presently, leonora comes back into the room, switching out the lights outside as she does so. She is rubbing her cheek against her hand meditatively. She looks round the room, sighs a little, picks up the Shakespeare, opens it, looks at it in silence for a moment, turns a page, reads.

(reading)

[She shrugs her shoulders to herself, then takes the book, goes over and replaces it on the shelf, picks up her coat and begins to switch out the lights, singing quietly as she does so:

[She goes into the bedroom, leaving the door open, so that the shaft of light from the inner room slightly illuminates the stage. She continues singing. The curtain begins to descend.

THE CURTAIN IS DOWN

ACT TWO

ACT TWO

Scene: Is the same, about ten o’clock the next evening.

When the curtain rises, florence is setting the tray of drinks on the small table while the clock strikes ten. She looks up at it, then she goes through into leonora’s bedroom. The telephone rings.

florence comes back and answers it.

Hullo? . . . Yes, madam. . . . No, madam, she isn’t. . . . I don’t know, I’m sure, madam. . . . One moment, madam. I think that is her now. I’ll just go and see. (She puts down the telephone. Enter leonora and dwight. They are in country clothes.) Mrs. Wavertree on the ’phone, miss. She’s rung up several times.

Oh. What for?

To know how you were, miss, (leonora puts her hand over her mouth.) The first time was just after you’d gone out. I had to tell her, miss. And then she rang up again this afternoon.

Oh, Lord!

(reprovingly)

Yes, miss.

Well, I’d better speak, I suppose. Oh, dear! What shall I say? What shall I say, Florence?

I don’t know, I’m sure, miss.

What did you tell her this morning?

I just said you’d gone out, miss. I didn’t say for the day . . . I lied, miss. I said I didn’t know.

Oh, Florence!

Yes, miss.

Oh, well, here goes! (To dwight.) Help yourself to drinks. (florence goes back into the bedroom. leonora takes up the telephone.) Hello? Aunt Emily? . . . Yes. Oh, I’m better, auntie. . . . I really don’t know. Just an . . . an attack. It was most peculiar. . . . I don’t know. Giddiness. . . . I felt sort of . . . lightheaded. Yes, I expect so. . . . I know . . . I’m sorry. . . . Oh, I’m sorry. Oh, I am sorry. . . . Yes, I know. . . . I know. . . . I know. Oh, auntie, I am sorry. (She giggles.) No, I’m not laughing. Really I’m not. . . . Yes, I know. I meant to ring up. Only . . . Oh, I’ve just been . . . out. I’ve been in the country. I thought it might do me good. It was looking lovely. . . . Yes, Florence told me. It was sweet of you. I do appreciate it, really I do. Oh, I’m sorry. . . . Oh, did you? . . . Yes, so did I. Father seems a lot better, and a lot thinner, mother says. . . . Oh, good. I’ll probably write to-morrow. Well, good-bye, auntie. . . . Yes, of course. Well . . . soon. Very soon. Good-bye. Give my love to uncle. (She rings off.) Oof!

[Flops on to chaise-longue.

Was she very sore?

Well, just a bit. I forgot all about her.

Send her some flowers.

It’ll take more than flowers. Weeks of atonement. Thank God, father can’t stand her. She’s his sister. He’ll be on my side. (She leans back.) Oh, dear! I’m tired.

[She yawns, pulls off her hat, and drops it on the floor.

It’s the fresh air. (Yawns himself.) The wind on the heath, brother.

It was good, though.

All except dinner.

I know. That was foul. I’m sorry.

What did you call that stuff they gave us for dessert? Mould?

Shape.

Shape! Well, that’s about all it had. And I always thought English inns were so grand. Another illusion shattered, I wish poets weren’t such liars. I will say the country was good, though. The trees . . . and those cottage gardens, coming home.

Do villages like that make you want to renounce the world? They do me.

You’re impressionable, aren’t you? The South Seas . . . country villages . . . the least thing will set you off. You ought to cure yourself of this habit of wanting to renounce the world. You’d be miserable in a nunnery, you know.

I suppose I should. But it’s fun . . . dramatising oneself. I don’t believe there’s a single dramatic situation I haven’t pictured myself in. I can be happy for hours imagining myself dying of a broken heart, or being ruined—financially—and having to face life in the raw. I’m always so beautifully brave.

You’ve obviously had a very happy life.

I suppose so. Sheltered, anyway. I’ve never really . . . known trouble, as the saying is. I’ve had my tonsils out, but that wasn’t really serious.

(thoughtfully)

No.

What’s the matter?

Nothing. Why?

You went all . . . wistful. Have I trod on a secret sorrow or something? Did you love your tonsils? (He laughs.) What is it? Tell me. You’ve done that before to-day.

What?

Gone serious on me. This afternoon on the Downs you suddenly behaved as if there was a sunset. What’s the matter? (Unseriously.) Are you . . . keeping something from me? Have you been to prison or something?

Yes.

(taken aback)

Really?

Really and truly.

What for?

Trying to photograph a Buddha’s behind, in Burma!

(relieved)

Oh. Is that all? You frightened me.

You wouldn’t have liked it if I really had turned out to be a crook?

No. You’re not, are you?

I’m not.

That’s all right, then.

(taking her face in his hands)

You know, you’ve got a funny face, really, when you come to look at it.

So have you. Your mouth’s crooked. I like your ears, though. I hate ears that stick out.

(patting his ears)

I keep them pressed. (He goes back for his glass.) Want a drink?

No, but I’d like some air. Draw back the curtains and open the window, will you? There’s a dear.

[She smiles at him. He crosses, rumpling her hair as he passes her, and then goes to window, draws curtains, and opens the window. Stands looking out. There is silence a moment.

What are you looking at?

Just . . . the world outside. (Turning back to her, in an affected, theatrical, sentimental sort of voice.) The world that you will never see, poor little Emily, on your bed of sickness.

(becoming the stage invalid child)

Is it very beautiful? Tell me about the world outside, daddy.

(at window)

There’s snow as far as you can see, Emily. The robins have eaten all the crumbs we put out for them. (Sitting beside her on the chaise-longue and speaking with strong emotion.) Poor little girl. You’ll never be able to run and skip and throw snowballs like the other children.

Don’t cry, daddee. Don’t cry. See! I am smiling! You must smile too.

Would you like me to lift you up and give you a peep at the world that you will never see?

Yes! Please, please, please, daddee!

(putting an arm round her and raising her very gently)

Careful now. (She begins to cough feebly and tubercularly.) Shut up, you sap! It’s not your lungs; it’s your legs!

(changing her tactics)

Oh, my back, my back! Oh, but the world is lovelee, lovelee! (She closes her eyes and half swoons in his arms. Faintly.) Lovelee!

[She performs a stage death, and he lays her down gently.

(after looking at her)

Dead! Dead! And never called me mother!

(sitting up instantly)

(bleats)

Baah!

[She laughs.

Idiot! Oh, idiot!

You know, Steve, the reason I love you is that you’re such a god-damned fool.

(becoming conscious of the open bedroom door)

Ssh!

(getting her alarm)

Oh! (Tiptoes over to the bedroom door theatrically, and peeps in and assures himself that florence has gone. Then, into the bedroom.) Booh!

Oh, Steve! You lunatic!

What did you call me?

(catching herself)

Oh . . . ! I called you Steve. It’s funny . . . I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking of you as Steve ever since yesterday.

All right. Let’s both be Steve.

[He comes back to her.

(holding out her hand)

Steve.

(taking it)

Steve.

[He sits down on the edge of the chaise-longue and kisses her.

Oh, dear! This can’t last.

What?

Things being fun like this. You’re a darling fool, Steve. (Then, with a complete change of tone.) I say, are you hungry?

I could toy with some food.

(forcibly)

So could I! I could do more than toy!

What do you say we go out somewhere? Have a tub and change and go to supper? Or will you fall apart?

A tub makes a new woman of me.

Well, then, I’ll dash over to the Ritz and be back for you in half an hour. How’s that?

(getting up)

Fine! It’s been a good day.

It’s been a grand day.

Three weeks! Twenty-one days! Oh, Steve! You are fun!

(looking at her)

It’s not true! That’s all! It’s just not true! (He kisses her.) Well, see you some more, real soon.

[He kisses his hand to her and goes. leonora rings the bell, picks up her hat. She whirls around deliriously. Enter florence, carrying some letters.

You rang, miss?

(very gay)

Yes. I’m going out. (Hugs her.) Oh, Florence, I feel so silly! Would you turn on my bath and put out the . . . what shall I wear . . . what do I look nicest in, Florence?

Well, miss, there’s your new white. You always look your best in something simple, I think.

All right, Florence, I’ll be simple!

Very good, miss. Your letters, miss. (Gives her them.) Oh, and miss!

Yes?

Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair called this afternoon. Mrs. Sinclair said you had invited her.

Oh, dear! Yes, I had! I meant to put them off. Did they say anything else?

No, miss.

Were they very cross?

No, miss. I told them you had gone into the country for the day. They seemed more amused like. Mrs. Sinclair said I was just to tell you that she had called and that she’d tried to get hold of the American gentleman, but that he was away for the day.

(grinning a little)

Oh, yes. Did she ask you any questions?

Well, yes, miss. She did, in a manner of speaking.

What?

Well, she seemed a bit inquisitive, miss, if I may say so.

Oh!

As if . . . well, as if she was trying to pump me, like.

What did you tell her?

Nothing, miss. She didn’t get any change out of me.

My trusty Florence.

Oh, she did say, miss, that next time Mr. Houston called I was to tell him Mrs. Enfilden had his cigarette-holder.

(with a smile)

And you said?

I said I’d tell him, miss. I’m afraid I forgot just now.

I see, Florence. Thank you. That’s torn it quite beautifully.

Beg your pardon, miss?

Not at all.

Have I done wrong, miss?

(airily)

No! Oh, no! Just ruined my reputation. That’s all.

(begins repentantly)

Well, I’m sure I . . . (Then gets truculent.) Well, anyway, miss, how was I to know what you wanted Mrs. Sinclair to know or not? If there’s anything you want to hide, you’d do much better to tell me, miss! (leonora gasps and then giggles.) After all, if I may say so, miss, I am responsible for you, like, to the master and mistress while they’re away. But I’d never tell on you, miss—not unless I thought it was my duty. You know that.

(mock serious)

Florence, what are you talking about?

(very hurt)

Nothing, miss. It doesn’t matter.

Florence, do you think I’m doing wrong?

I don’t know, I’m sure, miss, what you’re doing. It’s no concern of mine.

(with stage intensity)

You see, Florence, there comes a time when all the ordinary routine of life seems suddenly so meaningless and futile; and then a door opens and everything is changed: you walk on champagne, you . . . have you any idea what I’m talking about?

No, miss.

Perhaps it’s just as well.

Is there anything else, miss?

Florence, I am innocent!

(sedately)

Yes, miss.

[She begins to go.

(turns back to her letter and then looks up)

Oh, Florence! Mother and father are staying on another week at Vichy. I expect it’s the extra pound of flesh. (No answer from florence. leonora looks airily at the ceiling.) Personally, I think it’s high time they came home.

[florence remains impassive.

Is that all, miss?

Yes. And don’t be angry with me, Florence. It’s just my way.

I’ll go and turn on your bath, miss.

[She goes into leonora’s bedroom. leonora opens another letter, obviously an invitation, looks at it, “No, I will not!” The telephone rings. She answers it.

Hello? . . . Yes. Speaking. . . . Oh, hello! Peter? Which Peter? . . . Oh, Walmsley! . . . Yes. Hello. . . . What? . . . To-morrow evening? . . . I’m afraid I can’t. Yes. So am I. . . . No. I’m afraid I can’t manage that, either. Well, I don’t know, Peter. I’m rather busy these days, really. . . . I don’t know. I don’t look like having much time free . . . well, for the next three weeks, really. I’ve . . . I’ve got some Americans to look after, and they take rather a lot of entertaining. (She listens as though to a very long speech, grows bored with it, puts down the receiver, wanders across the room, fetching and lighting herself a cigarette, then returns and picks up the receiver again. peter, at the other end, has apparently not noticed her absence.) Oh, Peter, shut up. If you go on like that I won’t come out with you . . . at all. Well, come in for a cocktail some time. . . . Don’t be silly. . . . Yes. I am sorry. Good-bye, Peter.

[She rings off, collects her things, and goes into her bedroom, passing florence, who comes out as she goes in.

I put your things out, miss.

[florence goes over to the window, shuts it, draws the curtains, picks up the envelopes that leonora has dropped, takes dwight’s dirty glass and goes to the door. The front door bell rings off. The stage is empty for a moment. Then florence returns with dwight. He has not changed his clothes, but is dressed as before.

Tell her it’s very important, will you? Tell her not to change.

I’ll see how far she’s got, sir.

[She goes into the bedroom. As she goes, before the door shuts, dwight calls.

Hello there, Steve!

(off)

Goodness! You’ve been quick.

[florence stands in the doorway between the two.

We’re not going.

(off)

What? Why not?

Come in here. I’ve something to tell you.

Just a minute. I’m not dressed.

Well, slip on something.

[florence comes away from the door, potters around the room, shaking up cushions.

(off)

What is it?

Come in here and I’ll tell you.

(off)

Shan’t be a minute, (dwight wanders down to the piano and with one finger picks out the first line of “I’m alone because I love you.” florence looks at him and goes. Pause. Then leonora comes in in a peignoir and mules.) What is it? What’s the matter?

(turning to her)

Honey, it’s bad news.

(blankly)

Bad news?

When I got back to the hotel, I found this waiting for me.

[He takes a cable out of his pocket and gives it to her.

What is it?

[She opens it, reads it, and then stares at him.

I rushed straight round to you.

Wednesday the 13th? That’s to-morrow.

I know.

Are you . . . going to?

I guess I’ve got to.

(looking at the cable again)

Who is Addison?

My partner.

It says: “Can you sail?”

It means: “Will you?”

And “Will you?” means “You must.” (dwight nods.) I see. You do have to jump through hoops, don’t you?

Honey, I hate it. I knew there was a chance of this happening.

Well! That’s that, then.

[She moves away from him.

(following her and putting his arms round her)

Don’t be sore at me.

(pulling herself together)

It’s all right.

Let’s sit down and talk about it.

Will you come back?

I can’t before next year.

Next year?

I know.

Oh, but . . . but . . . (She pulls herself together again.) Well! It’s been very nice knowing you, Mr. Houston. I always said it was too good to last.

Can’t you come to the States?

Me? How?

Get on a boat.

No, but how can I? What reason could I give . . . to mother and father?

Just that you wanted a holiday.

Holiday? English people don’t go to America for a holiday!

I don’t see why not. We come to you.

I know. But that’s different.

Well, say you want to see New York and the Empire State.

They’d think I’d gone mad. I tell you, English people don’t go to America except on business.

Do they think it’s so awful?

No. They think it’s so far.

No farther than you are from us.

Miles farther. Like Hampstead and Kensington. Anyway, I tell you it isn’t done.

Haven’t you friends in America that you could go and visit? (She shakes her head.) I seem to remember a proverb about Mohammed and the mountain.

Mohammed hadn’t got parents.

How do you know? How much do they control you?

Well, I have to consider them.

Do you get on with them?

Yes. Very well. Father’s a pet. Mother’s inclined to dither a bit. They’re rather darlings, though.

But they wouldn’t let you come to the States?

Not without a reason.

They’re not the kind who’d indulge your slightest whim?

I’m afraid not.

Well! That’s that, then.

Yes. (Pause.) Well, let’s be sensible about it. What must be, must be—and other European proverbs. What time do you sail?

Noon. Boat train from Waterloo at 8:30.

And you’ve got to pack?

That won’t take long.

Well, shall we go out all the same?

I’d rather stay here and talk. For a bit, anyway.

Alright. What shall we talk about?

Us.

Have you anything to say?

Lots. (He moves nearer to her.) I’m crazy about you, Steve!

[He takes her in his arms.

(protesting)

No! No! Don’t!

Why not?

[He kisses her. She responds, and then pulls herself away.

Don’t go on, please, or I shall cry. (And begins to do so. Through her tears.) I hate scenes.

Steve . . . would you consider . . . marrying me?

[She turns to him, staring at him.

Steve!

Would you?

(dazzledly)

What? . . .

Could we do it to-night?

Of course not.

Do you have to have an Act of Parliament?

(laughing)

No! . . .

I’ll be gone in the morning.

I know.

Would you come after me and marry me?

(bewildered)

Oh . . .

Wouldn’t you? Do—Steve—please. . . . It isn’t much to ask. . . .

I couldn’t. . . . It would be crazy. Oh! I want to this minute . . . terribly—just so as not to lose you . . . but I’ve got some sense.

What’s sense got to do with it?

Everything. Oh, Steve, it has. Look at it sensibly. I’ve known you twenty-four hours . . .

Did you sleep last night?

Not a great deal.

Neither did I.

Yes, but is marriage a cure for insomnia? Steve, we can’t get married like this. I don’t know a thing about you except that you’re fun and that I like you.

I should have thought those were reasons enough.

No! But be sensible!

How can I . . . over you? I tell you, I’m crazy about you. Don’t you believe we’d make a go of it?

God knows. Oh—if we could get married to-night, I’d be tempted to, I know; but the qualms I’d have, striding up to the what-ever-it-was we got married at! And imagine the journey on the boat if we sailed together, married, and the engines thudding: “It’s for life. It’s for life. It’s for life.”

(lightly)

Not in America!

And suppose I said I’d come after you and marry you, just imagine the scene with mother and father. (She begins to improvise.) “Mother, I’ve got something to tell you.” “Yes, dear, what is it?” “I’m going to get married.” “Oh, really, dear? Who to?” “Dwight Houston.” “And who may Dwight Houston be?” (That’s father.) “He’s an American.” “An American! And how long have you known him?” “Oh, about twenty-four hours.” I can’t even imagine the reply to that.

(taking it up)

But, mother, I’m in love with him.

In love with a man you’ve known twenty-four hours?

And he’s in love with me.

How do you know?

He said so. Besides, I know.

What you want, my child, is a good whipping, and to be put on bread and water for a week, until you come to your senses.

I shall run away and marry him.

(bursting into imaginary tears)

You’re a wicked, ungrateful girl to speak to me like that! . . . No, but seriously, don’t you see. (Imitating her mother again.) Going all that way away to America to marry a man you don’t know anything about. Why, he may be a dreadful person! Supposing he were to beat you, and you all that way from home?

I can always go to the Consul.

And America. A strange country . . . all those Red Indians . . . and buffaloes.

And elks . . .

And gangsters. No, but it’s true. How could I? If you were English, it would be mad enough. But, as I say, a new country . . . new people . . . new everything. I don’t know anything about you. We seem to have talked of me all day—or just nonsense. It’s a bit of a risk. Just because of an infatuation.

Is that all it is?

How do I know? Quite possibly.

You don’t mean that.

[He comes close to her.

I do. (He kneels on the chesterfield, leaning over her. She tries to hold him off.) I do. (He kisses her.) Oh, Steve.

[It is a long kiss, and then they both subside, a little exhausted.

Steve, dear, come. Even if you won’t promise to marry me, come to America. Come and see how you like me . . . with my own background. Give me a chance. Get to know me. Bring a chaperon. Bring two. Bring twenty. Say you’ll come!

(pressing her forehead with her hands)

Oh, I don’t know. I can’t think. Even if I did say I would . . . let myself be carried away . . . how do I know what I’ll feel after you’ve gone?

I shall feel worse than ever.

I know. So shall I.

Then come. What do you want to know about me? I’ll tell you anything.

Well . . . where you live. How you live. Oh, I don’t know.

I’ve an apartment on Park Avenue. That doesn’t mean anything to you.

Are you well off? I’m only trying to be practical. I’m sure it’s the first question father would ask.

Quite. I can support you.

But tell me . . . tell me something about your life.

Well, I get up at nine . . . have my orange-juice . . .

(protesting)

No.

Well, it’s a bit vague. Write all you know of the history of America in not more than five hundred words.

Have you a family?

I’ve a mother. She lives in Colorado, where my home is. (He looks at her, and then continues with slight difficulty.) I’ve a son.

A . . . ?

Yes.

(after a second, brightly)

I told you I didn’t know anything about you.

I was married nearly seven years ago.

I see. You haven’t a wife by any chance, have you?

Not any more.

Oh. I’m sorry.

[With sincere sympathy.

Oh, it’s all right. She’s not dead. She’s married again.

You’re divorced, then? Where is your son?

With my mother.

How old is he?

Six. I’ve had him to myself the last five years. Would you like to see his picture?

Please. (He takes a photo-case from his pocket and shows it to her. She looks at it and then at the photo on the other side of the case.) Is that your mother?

Yes.

[She looks at the other photo again.

He’s like you.

Thank you.

What’s he called?

Jonathan.

Jonathan. (She goes on looking at the photo a moment, and then at him. They hold each other’s eyes for a moment. Then she gives him back the case.) Nice!

Um. Kinda nice.

Tell me about your wife.

(vaguely)

Oh . . .

What?

It’s such a long time ago.

Why did you break?

I think she found she didn’t like me very much.

And you?

I think I did. Once. Do you mind?

Of course not. You’re fond of . . . Jonathan?

What do you think?

If he lives with your mother . . . do you see him much?

Not a great deal. I call him every Sunday.

Telephone, do you mean?

Yes.

How strange.

What is?

All of this. I told you I didn’t know you.

It makes a difference?

A little.

How?

It makes it all . . . more grown up.

Do you think I ought to have told you before?

(simply, but not definitely)

No . . .

I do. I’ve been wanting to all day. That was why I went all wistful, as you called it.

Oh.

Only . . . I didn’t want it to get that serious.

Then you agree it makes it serious?

In a way. But that isn’t what I mean. I mean that I didn’t want us to get serious about each other too soon. We were having fun, and if this hadn’t happened . . . my having to go back, I mean . . . it might have all worked round quite naturally. Like this, it’s a bit of a shock.

A bit.

But this summons has made a difference. Will you marry me, Steve?

I can’t. Oh, not because of what you’ve told me, though it does change things, but because it shows me so clearly what I’d be running into.

What?

Well . . . how little I know of what I’m running into. Five minutes ago I was discussing it almost as a joke.

Let’s not let the fun go out of it. We’re still us.

And if it was going to be difficult with mother and father before, how much more now. Divorce . . . a son . . . a . . . a past, I suppose you’d call it . . . or they’d call it. They’re not exactly the best credentials, are they? I don’t mind for myself . . . at least I think I don’t . . . I hope I don’t . . . but they . . .

I suppose so.

I do love you, Dwight. There! I’ve called you Dwight. That shows how serious I am.

Darling! (Takes her in his arms.) I love you so much.

Me too.

Then won’t you marry me?

(after a pause)

I can’t. Like this. It’s not enough.

What’s not enough?

Love. This kind of love. I said I loved you. I don’t think that’s true. I’m in love with you. That’s what’s not enough. Being in love’s no kind of guarantee for happiness . . . in marriage, anyway. Is it? Is it?

It mayn’t be a guarantee, but it’s not incompatible. Won’t you . . . try? As I say, come over and make my acquaintance, meet the family, see how you like the way I live. Won’t you, Steve?

I don’t trust all this. It’s never happened to me before. I don’t believe in it. Besides, it wouldn’t be the least good . . . my trying to . . . get to know you. So long as I’m in love with you, I haven’t the chance to know whether I’d like you or not. What are you smiling at?

You, saying that.

It’s true. I think it’s true.

I like you.

You want me.

Yes.

And I want you. That’s why I don’t trust . . . any of it. It’s all too swift and hectic. I might come over and find you a most awful blackguard. But I’d still be in love with you. (dwight laughs a little.) We’ve begun this at the wrong end, my dear.

I see. Well, what do we do about it?

I can’t imagine.

(accepting the situation: shortly)

Alright.

I am right.

I guess so. (There is a long silence. dwight takes a cigarette and lights it, his back turned to her. She looks at his back and then goes over to the window, draws back the curtains again, and stands looking out. He looks at her back. Then he comes down to the piano and almost mechanically begins fingering out the melody of “I’m alone because I love you.” leonora in the window begins to cry, silently at first, only her shoulders shaking. Then presently she gives way to it completely. dwight hears her and goes to her quickly.) Honey, don’t! (He puts his arms round her.) Don’t, please!

[He pulls her round to him and takes her into his arms, weeping on his shoulder for a moment. Then she pulls herself together.

I’m so sorry. I’m sorry to be such a fool.

It’s all right.

Oh, Steve, forgive me. I hate people who make scenes. (She blows her nose loudly.) There! That’s better. Now! Now we’ll just go on as though this hadn’t happened.

Sure!!

(too brightly)

What shall we do? Go out to supper, or would you like me to come and help you to pack? Men are always so helpless when it comes to packing.

Oh, stop being bright, will you?

It was you who said let’s not let the fun go out of it.

Well, I was wrong if it’s going to be like that.

Well? What do you want to do?

I want to make love to you. That’s caddish of me. Isn’t it?

Yes. (A long pause. Then suddenly.) Oh, Steve! Be caddish!

[She throws herself on her knees beside him.

Darling!

Darling! (He hugs her. Weakly.) Oh, dear!

I know. It’s hell, isn’t it?

(brightly)

Hell!

I love you. Do you hear? And don’t you dare forget it.

(her face against his)

I won’t.

That’s right. Will you write to me?

Um.

All the time?

Um.

Tell me everything you do?

Everything.

Never forget me?

Never.

I’ll be back next year.

Next year! (She raises her head.)

(looking at her)

Steve, dear! Dear, funny Steve! (Gaily.) I love you. I love your eyes, your funny cat’s eyes that go up at the corners.

They don’t.

Don’t argue. I say they do. And your nose. (He pulls it.) And your ears.

You’ve never seen them.

Never mind. I love them all the same, and all of you.

[Another embrace that begins humorously and ends a good deal more passionately.

Oh, dear! Fancy me doing this here . . . here in our flat! You are a new experience to me, Steve.

I believe I am!

What is it about you?

Personality.

That indefinable something. Oh, dear! This is like one of those awful plays where people are going to be executed in the morning. I almost wish we were. Then there wouldn’t be to-morrow. Oh, Steve! I’m going to hate to-morrow.

Beloved, so am I.

Yes. But you’ve got your job and your home, and . . . (She baulks.) I shan’t have anything but the memory of you and this.

[She raises herself, and they kiss passionately again.

(very much carried away)

You’re so adorable . . .

(breathlessly)

Steve! Let’s be together to-night! Before you go!

(holding her very tight)

My dear!

Can’t I come down to Southampton with you now? Let’s go now. Pack your bags, take the car, and go. (No response from dwight.) Steve! What’s the matter?

No. We mustn’t.

Why?

I’ve a kind of idea we’d like each other a lot too much. It’s my turn to be sensible now. Supposing we went? Supposing we did spend the night together, and it was all we hoped, all we’d like it to be, I’ve still got to go in the morning.

Well, then! We’d have had that.

And be just that much worse off. No, my dear. Let’s not make it any more difficult. It’s bad enough parting like this. It would be a thousand times worse if we’d . . . really loved each other. Aren’t I right?

Yes. Oh, why are we both so damned sensible? Why can’t one of us sweep the other off his feet?

I know.

Well, having exhausted every other possibility, I suppose this is the end. The real end.

I’m coming back.

Next year. What’s the good of that? You can’t heat up a soufflé.

We’re going to write.

Nor keep it in a thermos.

Won’t you change your mind?

Don’t let’s begin again.

What then?

I suppose we’ve got to say good-bye.

Now?

I should think we might as well. It isn’t going to get any easier. I’d come and watch you pack, put you on the train, only it would be just hurting myself. I’d rather get it over.

[Pause. dwight appears to be about to say something, then to change his mind.

O.K.

What were you going to say just then?

Nothing.

What was it?

It doesn’t matter now. (He holds out his hand.) Good-bye, then, Steve. Good luck to you.

And you.

[She takes his hand. Enter florence through the double doors.

Excuse me, miss, but is there anything more you want to-night?

(startled)

What? Oh, no, thank you, Florence. I’m not going out.

I see, miss. Then I’d better put your things away.

Yes.

[florence goes into the bedroom.

(after she has gone)

Well . . .

(nodding)

Yes. Go now.

Good-bye, my dear.

[They stand looking at each other as if wondering whether they are going to kiss or not. Then he turns and goes out swiftly. leonora goes over to the window, stands looking down. florence comes back.

Is there anything else, miss?

(absently)

What? No. I don’t think so.

Then I’ll say good night, miss.

[She senses something of leonora’s mood, and moves very slowly to the door, keeping an eye on her as she does so. leonora is obviously watching dwight go down the street.

(aware of florence, though with her back to her)

The world outside is very beautiful, Florence.

Beg pardon, miss?

It’s all right.

[dwight has obviously disappeared. She comes away from the window.

There’s nothing else, miss?

(listlessly)

No. Oh! You might get me some biscuits or something. I believe I’m hungry.

Yes, miss. (She goes out. leonora trails across the room, pours herself out some soda-water and drinks it. Then she goes back to the chaise-longue and drops on it listlessly, looking before her. florence comes back with some crackers on a plate. She puts them on the telephone table.) You wouldn’t like some milk or anything, miss?

(very subdued)

No, thank you.

(after a pause, with an eye on the window)

Shall I draw the curtains now, miss?

Yes. All right. (florence draws the curtains. leonora takes a cracker and begins to eat it.) Mr. Houston’s gone, Florence. You can lock up.

Very good, miss.

He’s gone back to America.

(startled)

To-night, miss?

He’s sailing in the morning.

(interested)

Oh, really, miss! (Long pause. leonora goes on eating.) Well, I’ll say good night, miss.

Good night, Florence.

[florence goes, turning once at the door. leonora eats another mouthful of cracker and then begins to cry, quietly at first and then more plentifully.

THE CURTAIN FALLS

ACT THREE

ACT THREE

SCENE I

Scene: The same, the following afternoon.

Time: Three o’clock.

Immediately after the rise of the curtain, leonora comes in. She wears walking-dress and carries a letter. She moves listlessly, and depressedly sits down on the chesterfield, looking ahead of her for a moment, then attempts to throw off her mood, turns over her letter, and begins to read it.

florence comes in.

Oh! There you are, miss.

Yes, Florence. Here I am.

You never said you weren’t going to be in for lunch, miss. Cook was keeping it hot till half-past two—close on.

Oh, I’m sorry.

(intimately)

You might say a word to her, miss. I think she’s a bit hurt, like.

Oh.

You know what she is, miss, if she’s crossed.

No, Florence. I’ve taken good care not to know. But I gather from mother she gets a bit bizarre.

Yes, miss. And this coming just now . . .

Why just now?

Well, miss, she’s just had a bit of an upset in her private life, and it’s left her a little sensitive, so to speak.

Oh. And you think a word from me . . .

Well, miss, I think she’d appreciate it.

Very well, Florence.

You have had your lunch, I suppose, miss?

(after a moment’s pause)

No. As a matter of fact, I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t want any.

Oh, but you must have lunch, miss. I’ll get you something.

No, Florence, really I’d rather not.

Just a bite, miss. Isn’t there anything you fancy? A bit of caviare, perhaps? You like that.

(listlessly)

No. Oh, you can get me a whiskey and soda if you like.

(shrugging her shoulders)

Very good, miss.

[She goes to the door.

Oh! No one telephoned, I suppose?

Mrs. Sinclair wanted to know, miss, whether you could tell her where she could get in touch with Mr. Houston.

(a shade savagely)

Oh, did she? Well, next time she asks that, tell her that Mr. Houston has gone to America and that I don’t know his address. (Pause.) I don’t, Florence.

Don’t you, miss?

No.

[florence goes out. leonora takes off her hat and gloves and wanders listlessly around the room. florence returns with a tray of whiskey and some caviare.

Shall I pour it out for you, miss?

Please, Florence. (florence pours out a very minute whiskey. leonora looks up.) Oh! Florence! I want to taste it. (florence minutely increases the quantity.) Go on. (florence adds a drop more.) Go on. I’ll say when. (florence dubiously goes on pouring whiskey until she has made a reasonable drink.) All right. Like that. And about the same amount of soda. (florence silently complies, and gives her the drink with rather more soda than requested.) I said the same amount.

[She sits down and starts reading her letter.

Well, miss, on an empty stomach, I don’t know if it’s wise. I brought you some caviare, miss. Do try it.

All right, Florence. I’ll try.

(spreading the caviare on a wafer)

However did you come to miss your lunch, miss?

I just didn’t want any. At least, I didn’t want to come home, and there was nowhere I liked the look of eating at alone. I think I got a bit martyred about it in the end.

If you don’t have breakfast, miss, you can’t get along without your lunch.

No. (Looking up from her letter.) Oh, by the way, Florence, Miss Tozer’s engaged.

Is she, miss?

Yes. Isn’t it nice?

Do you know the gentleman, miss?

No. (Reading.) But she says he’s terribly good-looking, and she’s terribly happy! (Sullenly.) Quite a romance!

You’ll have to look sharp, miss.

Yes. I’ll be alone to dinner to-night, Florence. Tell cook just an egg or something.

Oh, miss, you can’t. (Pause.) Excuse me, miss, but you’re not fretting about anything, are you?

Why do you ask that?

Oh, I just wondered, miss. No lunch—wanting an egg for dinner—that’s always a sign, I think.

[leonora smiles feebly.

I’m all right, Florence.

I know it’s none of my business, miss, but, after all, I have known you since you was a baby—before you was a baby, really, in a manner of speaking. And you did used to talk to me when you was in the schoolroom.

I know, Florence.

I felt last night, miss, that there was something wrong, and I thought perhaps it might do you good to talk to someone. They do say troubles shared is troubles halved.

That’s in marriage! (Changing her mood.) Oh, you’re a dear, Florence. I’m sorry I was beastly to you yesterday.

Oh, that’s all right, miss. You were only being funny.

(bitterly)

Damned funny.

You know you’ve always been like that, miss. Showing off, like, to somebody new. It was the same when you was at school and used to bring someone back to tea that you were proud of. You always used to try and be funny with me.

Did I?

Yes, miss. I always knew it didn’t mean anything, really. Go on, miss. Have another of these, miss.

No, thanks.

Just one more. (Coaxingly.) One for Florence, like we used to say in the nursery. (leonora smiles and takes another sandwich.) There you are! And when you’ve drunk up your whiskey, what about a nice little lay down?

I’ll try. And if the telephone goes, I’m out.

Very good, miss.

And I won’t lunch or dine with anybody. Anybody, you understand. And if they ask you where I am, tell them I’ve gone to . . . Madam Tussand’s!

(troubled)

I do wish your mother and father was back.

I’m thankful they’re not.

Well, miss, you can’t go on like this. Starving yourself. Not seeing anybody. I shall have to have the doctor to you.

(impatiently)

I’m all right, Florence. I’m all right.

Oh! Very well, miss.

[She goes to the door, hurt.

Oh, Florence, I’m sorry. Only I can’t stand being fussed.

I’ve never seen you like this before, miss.

No. It’s a surprise to me, too.

You’ve never been one for moping.

No.

(very hesitantly, after a pause)

It’s . . . it’s Mr. Houston, isn’t it, miss?

[leonora nods.

I thought it was. I couldn’t help noticing.

Did you like him, Florence?

Well, miss . . . I didn’t really see much of him. He’s a nice-looking gentleman.

Yes.

And he’s gone back to America, you say? I expect he’ll be coming back. Won’t he?

Not until next year, Florence.

Um. That seems a long time, I expect. But it’ll soon pass, miss. It’s wonderful how time flies when you come to think back over it. Of course, you haven’t known him very long, have you, miss?

Not very.

Not that that’s got anything to do with it, really, I don’t suppose. Excuse me, but are you engaged to him, miss?

No, Florence.

Oh, I’m sorry, miss.

(smiling)

Oh, he did ask me!

Oh! (Then, brightly.) Oh, well, I daresay he’ll ask you again, miss. Write it to you, perhaps.

(wretchedly)

No!

There . . . there isn’t anything against him, miss?

Not in the way you mean, no.

I’d like to see you married.

Well, it doesn’t look as if you’d got much chance.

Oh, don’t say that, miss. There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.

That, Florence, in my present state of mind, I believe to be profoundly untrue.

Why don’t you go out to-night somewhere, miss? Go to a play or the pictures. Ring up somebody and ask them to go with you . . . or take you.

I don’t think so.

Well, why not go round to Mrs. Wavertree’s, then?

Oh! My God!

I’m sure she’d be glad to have you.

No, Florence!

Well, Mrs. Enfilden, p’raps?

No, Florence!

You ought to make an effort, miss.

No, Florence. I’ll dine alone, thank you.

Would you like some champagne with your dinner, miss? Buck you up a bit.

Florence, if you go on sympathising with me, I shall howl.

Oh, Miss Leonora!

I’m in a very unpleasant state, and I’m far better left alone.

Very good, miss.

Thank you for your ministrations, Florence. I’ll have the champagne for dinner. Perhaps I can get drunk.

That’s more like your old self, miss!

Florence! You’ve never seen me drunk!

I didn’t mean that, miss. I mean, it’s like you to make a joke of things.

Yes, Florence. It isn’t always easy.

No, miss. (She goes out. As she gets to the door, she turns back.) Oh, excuse me.

Yes. What is it?

Excuse me, but you won’t mind Rose waiting on you at dinner to-night?

(puzzled)

No. Why? Is it your evening out?

No, miss. I expect you won’t remember, but I spoke to you about it the other day. I’m going to the dentist.

Oh. Is that to-day?

Yes, miss.

What time is the execution?

Half-past five, miss. He couldn’t take me before. So I thought, if you wouldn’t mind, p’raps I might go straight to bed when I got home.

Yes, of course. You’d better have some of the champagne.

Oh, no, miss, thank you. I never take things like that.

Buck you up a bit.

It’s very good of you, miss, but I’d rather not. Cook might make me some Mellen’s, perhaps.

How revolting.

(smiling)

You didn’t ought to say that about Mellen’s, miss. It was that what saved your life when you was a baby.

Was it? (Miserably.) I can’t think what for.

Thought we was going to lose you, we did. You couldn’t keep a thing down.

Florence! Spare me!

(smiling)

Well, it will be all right about to-night, then?

Of course.

Thank you, miss.

Would you like me to come with you?

Oh, no, miss.

Yes. Would you?

I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, miss.

No. But wouldn’t you like me to, really?

Well, it’s awfully good of you, miss . . .

Not at all, Florence. I’m going to devote the rest of my life to good works. Besides, it will take my mind off myself.

Why don’t you ring up someone and have a jolly evening, miss?

[leonora smiles feebly at her, and florence goes. leonora trails round for a moment, then goes over to the window and looks out.

(after a pause)

There’s snow as far as you can see, Emily . . . the robins have eaten all the crumbs we . . . (Her voice breaks, and she comes away from the window with her handkerchief against her lips. She goes over to the bookshelf, takes down “Romeo and Juliet,” settles herself down on the chesterfield with it, opens it, reads for a minute, and then pitches it across the room. She looks a couple of times at the telephone and then goes over to it, stands a moment hesitant, and then dials a number.) Hello? Is Mr. Walmsley there? . . . Could I speak to him? . . . Oh, I think he’ll speak to me. . . . Miss Perrycoste. (She holds on.) Hello? Peter? . . . This is Leonora. . . . Yes. How are you? I say, Peter, does that invitation for to-night still hold good? . . . Yes, I’m free. . . . My what? Oh! My Americans, They’ve gone. . . . Yes, they got a cable. They sailed to-day on the Majestic. So I thought if you had nothing to do we might still go out together. . . . Oh. . . . Oh, I see. No. Don’t bother. It doesn’t matter. . . . It’s all right, Peter. You needn’t bother. . . . Oh, all right then. . . . Oh, I don’t know. . . . No, let’s go to a theatre. I’d rather. . . . Oh, something jolly. A revue, if there is one. I’d like a good laugh. . . . Yes, all right. Half-past seven. . . . Don’t be so silly, Peter. Well, I don’t feel like an angel. Good-bye. (She rings off, and rises with distaste in her face, prowls round the room in growing impatience, goes over to the mantelpiece, and starts fidgeting with an ornament. Almost unconsciously she begins to sing: “Why am I always a bridesmaid, never the blushing bride?” and after a few bars becomes aware of what she is doing.) Oh, hell! (She smashes the ornament in the grate.) And that’s a damned silly thing to do, too! (Imitating a governess.) Leonora, I’m surprised at you. I don’t know what’s come over you. (In a different, self-disgusted voice.) Nor do I. (In her first voice.) It’s not like you to behave like this. (In her second voice.) I know! (She gives an exclamation of rage with herself.) Wah! (She looks out of the window at the sunshine outside.) Oh!!! I wish it was raining!

[She turns and goes angrily into her bedroom.

CURTAIN

ACT THREE

SCENE II

Scene: The same. About eight hours later.

The opening of this scene should be directed exactly similarly, as regards moves, etc., as the opening of Act I, Scene II, with peter replacing dwight. The mood, however, especially that of leonora, is entirely different.

When the curtain rises, the stage is in darkness. Then a light in the passage outside is switched on. peter walmsley and leonora appear. They are both in evening dress. peter is a good-looking, rather over-forcible Englishman, slightly of the Guards type, of about thirty. They come into the room. leonora switches on the light, looks round. On the table is a bottle of lemon squash, etc., as before.

(as they come in)

Come in. Have a drink?

Thanks.

Whiskey?

Yes, thanks.

I’ll get it.

They don’t leave it out for you, what? (She goes into the dining-room. peter hangs round, lighting a cigarette, then follows to the door.) I say, can’t I help?

(off)

It’s all right.

[She returns with tumbler and decanter as before.

Lemon squash for you?

No. I think whiskey. (He pours it out.) I’m afraid there isn’t any ice.

(horrified)

Ice? Good God, do you put ice in a whiskey and soda?

(murmuring)

A trick I learned e’en now, of one I danced withal.

Filthy American habit! (He gives her her glass. Lifts his own.) Well, here she goes.

Skoal.

[Drinks.

(drinks)

I wanted that! For this relief much thanks.

What’s the time?

Quarter past.

One?

Yes. Do you want to go to bed?

Not just yet.

[They settle down on the chesterfield.

Damned good show, didn’t you think?

(absently)

Um.

Jolly good tune, that.

Which?

Well, there was only one, wasn’t there? That’s what I like about musical shows these days. One decent tune, and you get a chance to remember it. You know. (He begins to sing a fragment of a very sentimental number, quite seriously.) Good, what?

Lovely. So sentimental.

Oh, come off it.

What?

Pulling my leg like that. (He puts an arm around her.) You’re looking awfully nice to-night, Leonora.

(uninterested)

Oh?

Awfully nice!

[He starts to caress her.

(instinctively drawing away)

No . . . no.

What’s the matter?

Nothing. Only . . . don’t.

(disappointed)

Oh, I say!

(to herself)

Oh, go on. Pay for your dinner.

What’s that?

Oh, nothing. (She presents her cheek.) Go on, Peter. (He kisses it, then she leans back, then she leans forward again, presents her cheek again.) Now your theatre tickets!

What?

Go on, Peter. (A little more bewildered, peter kisses her again. Then she leans back again, then she leans forward again, presents her cheek a third time.) Now your supper!

What’s the matter, Leonora? You’ve been so nice to me all the evening. Letting me hold your hand . . .

I’m afraid I’m a bit absent-minded to-night.

I cut a most impressive dinner to come to-night . . . I offended no end of dowagers . . .

I’m sorry.

Oh, I was only too glad to, when you asked me. But I did hope it meant you felt a bit more hearty about me.

I’m sorry, Peter. But I’ve told you before . . .

Oh, I know. But you don’t have to want to marry me not to mind my kissing you. You’ve let me kiss you before.

Have I? Well, it was always rather like getting a cricket-ball in the face. I suppose really it shows what a respect you have for me. What have I done to sacrifice it now?

What do you mean?

Well, you’re much more like a tennis-ball this evening.

I suppose you mean more serious?

I suppose so.

Well, I’m fond of you. You know that, Leonora.

[He begins to grab her again.

Oh, Peter, please. . . . Not to-night.

But why? Have you fallen for someone else? (She does not answer.) Is that it? (Still no answer.) Who? (No answer.) You’re not engaged, by any chance? (She holds up her left hand, showing its innocence of rings.) Oh. Just walking out? (Still no answer.) I see. Well, I don’t seem to be much use here then, do I?

[He makes a move.

Oh, no, Peter. Don’t go.

Well, what’s the use of my staying?

Just because I don’t want you to make love to me? (Then, in a burlesque voice.) Oh, you men are all the same! You only want one thing from a woman!

(taking her seriously)

Oh, I say! That’s not fair.

(giggling a little)

No?

No. But, damn it all, you know how I feel about you. It’s not much fun for me to sit here while you go on thinking about somebody else.

I won’t. I promise I won’t. I’ll forget all about it. Only I’ve got the pip. So be nice to me, Peter.

It’s you that won’t be nice to me.

I didn’t mean that by “be nice.”

What?

What you meant.

I don’t know what you mean. You said . . .

(with an echo in her ears)

Look here, don’t you think we’d better go back and begin all over again?

(obligingly)

All right. You said “be nice to me,” and I said . . .

(interrupting)

Oh, Peter, don’t!

Well, what do you want?

Just stay and talk pretty to me.

What about?

How should I know? Oh, tell me, Peter, do you know anything about telephoning to ships at sea?

No. Why?

I just wondered.

Well, I believe you can.

How?

I don’t know. Dial “0” and I expect they’ll tell you. I believe there are only one or two you can do it with. Atlantic liners. The Bremen, I should think. Perhaps the Europa.

Yes.

Why? Do you want to?

No, not really. I just wondered.

Pretty marvellous, isn’t it?

These modern inventions. Wireless . . .

Television.

Talkies . . .

Flying the Atlantic . . . it makes you realise how small the world is.

No, it isn’t. It’s damned large.

Well, you can get around it pretty quickly nowadays, if you want to. The Transatlantic telephone is not so bad, either.

(suddenly)

Oh! I’d forgotten about that.

Do you know they’ll track you all over England?

(fiercely)

Bloodhounds! That’s what they are. Human bloodhounds!

Are you thinking of telephoning anyone?

No. No. Who should I telephone?

I don’t know. I thought perhaps . . . those Americans of yours.

What Americans?

The ones you’ve been carting round.

Oh! Those!

Who were they?

Oh, I don’t know. Just Americans.

Where from?

New York. Philadelphia. Chicago, and . . . Minneapolis.

What were their names?

Dear me! You do want to know a lot? One of them was called . . . let me see . . . Houston.

I know an American called Houston. I suppose it couldn’t be the same.

(absently)

I shouldn’t think so.

What is his other name?

Dwight.

Dwight Houston? It must be the same.

(sitting up, astonished)

You mean you know him?

Lord, yes! Known him for years.

Peter, you haven’t!

Yes. Why not?

I don’t know. It’s so extraordinary. Where did you meet him?

I met him first of all, about twelve years ago in Burma. He got into some scrape or other trying to photograph the Green Eye of the Little Yellow God, or something. I was staying with the Lancings. They got him out. Then I met him again in America, about six years ago, when I was with the polo team. I didn’t know he’d been over here this year.

He was only here a day or two. Do you like him, Peter?

(enthusiastically)

Yes, he’s a good chap. Not like an American. But, then, if you know America, quite a lot of them aren’t.

What was he like? An Englishman?

Well, very nearly.

Do you know any of his people?

Yes.

Are they nice, too?

They’re very exclusive. But they were jolly nice to us.

The Four Hundred, and that kind of thing?

Oh, lots better than that.

Do you know anything about his wife?

Yes. I was there about the time of the smash-up. Shocking little b . . . (He checks himself.) Shocking little beast. Pretty, of course, but no end of a tart.

Really?

He was a damned sight too good for her . . . and to her, for that matter.

How do you mean?

Well, she ran off with his best friend. He was in the Diplomatic—the friend, I mean. Bust his career and then walked out on him. Ran herself into no end of trouble. Debts and God knows what all. Houston helped her out a couple of times. She lives in Paris now. You can see her for yourself any day in the Ritz bar.

Was he very much in love with her?

Lord, I don’t know! I should think he must have been.

Yes. (Thoughtfully.) How long is it since you’ve seen him?

Oh, a couple of years. What’s he like now?

Oh, quite nice, I think.

Hasn’t got married again, has he?

No. Why?

Oh, I don’t know. I just wondered if he had. He was a very popular chap.

With the ladies?

Yes, terribly. Strong, silent stuff, you know. (She giggles.) What’s the matter?

I don’t know. He didn’t strike me as very silent. I’d have called him chatty, myself. Tell me some more about him.

I can’t. I don’t know him well. You’ve seen him since I have.

Yes, but he was only here a day or two. I didn’t see much of him, comparatively.

(getting something from her tone)

What do you mean, comparatively?

Well . . . much of him, then.

Who were the others?

(not replying)

He’s an architect, isn’t he? Is he good at his job?

How should I know?

Have you seen anything he . . . architected?

I don’t know. I never look at buildings. You’re a bit intrigued about him, aren’t you? (Silence. Her mind is a long way away.) Aren’t you?

(coming back)

What?

I said you’re a bit intrigued about him, aren’t you?

Who? Oh! No!

You’re asking a lot of questions.

Oh, I’m just . . . interested! (Brightly.) I always think people are so interesting, don’t you?

(in the tone that means “come off it”)

Ertcher!

Curiosity, you know. Just feminine curiosity.

(after a moment)

Rot!

(indignantly)

What do you mean, rot?

I mean rot! Feminine curiosity! I’ve never been asked so many questions in all my life. (Pause.) So it’s him, is it?

What?

I said it’s him, is it?

What? Who? Why? Which? What do you mean?

This chap you’ve fallen for. It’s him.

Don’t be a fool, Peter.

Well, what do you want to know all his family history for, then? Who are his people . . . when did he get his first tooth . . .

When did he?

Oh, shut up! It is him, isn’t it?

Peter, don’t nag. What’s it matter who it is . . . even if it is . . . which I’m not admitting.

You seem to forget I’m keen on you myself.

Yes, but you can’t be dog in the manger about it.

Dog in the manger?

Yes.

Well, I don’t see that. Damn it all, the dog in the manger didn’t want whatever it was he wouldn’t let the other chap have.

Oh, no, that’s right. No more he did. I must have been mixing my metaphors. I mean the ostrich in the sand, or the fly in the ointment, or something.

It is Dwight Houston? (She growls with exasperation at his persistence.) Where did you meet him?

At a party at Betty Enfilden’s.

What about the others?

What others?

The other Americans. From . . . I don’t believe there were any others. Were there?

Not a great many.

Just him, eh? That’s why you weren’t going to have a free minute for the next three weeks? And now he’s gone. And you’re still keen on him . . . eh? Did he make love to you?

He was quite polite to me.

The swine!

Now, Peter, really! Why swine?

To make love to you.

Are you a swine, Peter?

That’s different.

Why?

Because I’m in love with you.

Aow!

And he’s just a philanderer.

How do you know?

Well, it stands to reason. You say he’s only here a couple of days. He picks you up at a party, makes love to you, makes you fond of him. He ought to be horse-whipped.

And you were saying just now how nice he was.

Oh, like that, yes! But for you . . . to get fresh with you . . . a man that’s been divorced . . . do you know he’s got a kid?

Yes.

Well, then . . .

What difference does that make?

Well, if you can’t see for yourself . . .

I can’t.

He didn’t ask you to marry him?

(quickly)

Yes, he did!

And you wouldn’t, because you saw what he was. There you are!

(getting worked up)

It wasn’t that at all.

What was it, then?

(nearly crying with exasperation)

Oh, go to hell! What’s it got to do with you, anyway?

Look here, Leonora, you know I’m fond of you, and I hate the idea of your being made unhappy.

(nearly crying)

I’m not unhappy.

You must be.

You might allow me to know for myself.

You said you’d got the pip. You said you were keen on him, and that you weren’t engaged to him. You can’t be keen on a man and not engaged to him, and not be unhappy. Can you? Can you?

(bursting into tears)

I wish you’d go away.

There you are, you see. You’re crying.

(angrily)

Well, then, I hope you’re satisfied.

[She goes to telephone.

What are you doing?

(taking up receiver)

Calling you a taxi. Hello, taxi?

[As she says this, her eye falls on the block by the telephone. Her eyes nearly drop out of her head at what she sees written there. With her two hands behaving like a seesaw, she picks it up with one and puts the receiver down with the other, not on its hook, but with complete absent-mindedness on the table.

Look here, Leonora. (He sees that she is engrossed.) What is it? What’s up? (leonora takes not the slightest notice of him. With her hand to her head she stares at the block.) What you got there?

[He comes over to her. She clasps it to her breast so that he cannot read it.

(abstractedly)

I must ring up.

Who? (She does not answer, but looks at the receiver, replaces it, gets the telephone book, and hunts through it.) What’s all this about? What’s happened? What are you looking for? Leonora, what’s the matter?

Oh, shut up, Peter. I’m busy.

(as she goes on looking for the number and then dials it)

There’s nothing wrong with your people, is there?

(impatiently)

No!

Not bad news?

(as before)

No!

Well, what is it then?

Oh! Eat your damned bun!

[She begins to dial a number.

Well . . . well . . . I’ll just help myself to a deoch and doris, if I may.

[He goes over and pours himself out a drink, looking at her as he does so.

Hello? Is that the Ritz? I want . . . (Looking down at the block.) Apartment 501, please. Yes.

[Holds on.

You can’t wake up people at this time of night.

I’m not. (Doubtfully.) At least, I don’t think I am. (As she answers the telephone this time her voice is nervous and frightened.) Hello? Is that Steve? Yes. What are you doing here? . . . So I gathered. Do you want to? . . . I don’t know. . . . No. I’ve only just found your message. . . . Are you dressed? . . . Yes, well, I suppose so, if you really want to. . . . All right, then. (She is just about to put down the receiver when she thinks of something else.) Oh! Wait a minute, Steve! I don’t think . . . Are you there? Are you still there? (He has cut off. She puts down the receiver very slowly and turns back to peter with a rather bewildered face, almost as though she had forgotten he was in the room. Then, as though just realising he is there.) Oh, yes. (She pulls herself together. Then, speaking for peter, says.) Who was that, Leonora? Very peculiar at two in the morning! (She stretches out her hand for his glass.) Give me some of that!

Something is wrong.

I don’t know.

Are you cold?

No. Why?

You are. You’re shaking.

No! (She finishes his whiskey for him.) I feel lovely now.

What’s the matter? I wish I understood you.

What don’t you understand?

You’re so full of moods.

Ain’t it the truth! Well, Peter dear, I was calling you a taxi, wasn’t I, when that little contretemps occurred?

Do you want me to go?

Well, that was the idea.

Can’t I stay a bit longer?

I don’t think so.

[She sees her cloak and picks it up.

You’re not going out again, are you?

(quite absently, her eyes roaming round the room)

No.

[She sees the chesterfield looking untidy, and goes and straightens it.

What you doing that for?

Just being a tidy girl.

[A long pause, while she finishes it and wanders.

You’re not expecting anyone, are you?

(quite vaguely, looking at him)

What?

Are you? Who? (She “woogs” at him.) Tell me.

(brightening up)

Do you really want to know?

Yes.

All right, then. I’ll tell you. Dwight Houston.

Oh! Shut up!

Don’t you believe me?

Of course not. Who is it?

I told you.

Very well . . . if you don’t want to . . .

All right. I’m a liar. Now, Peter darling, give me a cricket-ball and go.

You can be aggravating, when you want to.

I know. Thank you for a lovely evening, Peter. I’ve had a beautiful time.

[She puts up her face. He kisses her.

I’m worried about you, Leonora.

Not half as worried as I am. Well, Peter darling, you can see yourself out, can’t you? You might leave the front door open.

[She goes with her cloak into her bedroom. peter looks after her, goes out into the hall, comes back carrying his opera-hat, light overcoat, and scarf, and puts them on, gloomily, with one eye on her bedroom door. When he is quite ready he stands there for a minute and then says:

Well, so long, old girl.

(faintly, from the bedroom)

Good-bye, Peter. Don’t forget about the door.

[He shakes his head and goes. leonora comes back. Her mood is anxious and unquiet. She looks around the room, sees peter’s glass, picks it up as though she were going to remove it, then thinks better of it and replaces it. She paces the room, goes over to the window, paces the room again, and goes back to the window, standing there watching. Then she sits in the armchair in an attitude of calm expectancy. The front door slams outside. She leaps up in a panic, retreating to the windows. dwight appears in the doorway, stands there. They look at each other. There is a serious silence for a second. Then leonora breaks it lightly.

Hello!

Hello.

[He comes in.

(as lightly as possible)

What you come back for?

(equally so)

Business?

Business?

Yes. When I got on board I found a cable from Addison telling me to stay over and see a man who’s just arrived in England.

Oh! I see!

I got back around seven.

Did you see your man?

(nods)

We dined together. I wired him from Southampton.

Oh. Did you have a nice dinner?

(nods)

We went to Simpson’s.

Good meat.

We had roast beef.

You should have had mutton. It’s the speciality.

Oh . . . I didn’t know. What have you been doing?

I’ve been to the theatre.

See anything good?

Yes, I think so.

Well . . .

[They both move on the same instant, carefully avoiding contact with each other.

Have a drink?

Thanks. Can I help myself?

[Picks up peter’s glass.

That’s a dirty glass.

(puts it down, picks up the other)

Oh!

So’s that. I’ll get you one.

Don’t bother. It’s not important. I’ve been drinking, waiting for you.

What time did you ring up?

Around ten. You only just got in?

No. I’ve been in ages. I only just found your message.

And I begged Florence to give it you the moment you arrived.

Florence is in bed with a tooth out. How long are you staying this time?

Till Saturday. The Aquitania. (She laughs.) What is it?

Another three days. It’s . . . teasing.

Yes.

(suddenly serious—almost hostile)

What did you have to come back for?

Do you mind?

I think I mind.

Why?

Why? Because I hate anti-climax!

(gently, after a pause, away from her)

Steve, do you remember something you said to me the very first time I came here . . . before you’d made up your mind to dine with me, even?

What?

You were explaining your friendship with Tom and Catherine. You said you played with them in the hope of finding some excitement that you knew you’d be too scared to take hold of if it offered.

Well?

I gathered you didn’t altogether like that side of yourself.

Well?

Well . . .

You mean . . . you’re the excitement?

Yes.

I see.

It doesn’t do to be too sensible. It’s a reaction against Victorianism. Reaction in the English sense, not the American. If you’d been a Victorian we’d have been off to . . . what’s the name of the place . . . Gretna Green . . . the minute you let me kiss you. Victorian girls were always marrying men they didn’t know a thing about. They called it romance. I’m all for romance myself.

(reflectively)

Yes. Yes. Only I know a lot more about you than I did.

What?

There was a lot you didn’t tell me about your marriage, wasn’t there? Bless you.

What are you getting at?

Do you know a man called Peter Walmsley?

No.

Don’t you?

I don’t think so.

India.

India? Oh, I think I know. Blond . . . with a very nice wife?

(with a smile to herself)

No. She wouldn’t have him. Then he went over to America with the polo team . . . six years ago.

Polo team? Walmsley? Oh . . . not Porky Walmsley?

Porky! Oh! How nice. . . .

Oh, of course. Porky Walmsley. What about him?

Well, I’ve been spending the evening with him. He told me quite a lot about you.

I hope he gave me a good character.

Terribly . . . until he found I was interested. It was too late then. You seem to be rather a grand person, Steve.

I guess, maybe, you’re prejudiced.

Peter wasn’t.

Well, I’m certainly grateful to him.

It wasn’t only him.

What else?

I’ve had a frightful day!

Mine wasn’t so good, either. (Pause.) You look like a million dollars in that dress.

Do I? I put it on because I wanted to look pale and interesting. I hoped that everyone at the Berkeley to-night was wondering who was the girl with the secret sorrow. (dwight smiles.) I told you I can’t help dramatising myself, even if it’s serious. And it was, you know. I lay awake all last night wondering whether I hadn’t been the world’s biggest fool. I read Bertrand Russell to console me.

And did he?

I found something that went right home to my midriff.

Your . . . ?

Midriff. He said: “Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness.” I howled when I read that.

I wrote you the same thing last night.

You did?

I was going to mail it from Cherbourg. (With a smile.) You thought you knew so much; that so long as you were in love with me, you couldn’t know whether you liked me or not. I knew then that you’d never really been in love before. But I believed you’d come and find out if you liked me . . . later. Not so much later, either. When this cable came, I debated whether to see you or not.

You didn’t!

I thought it might be better for you to find out by yourself. Only . . . when life deliberately offers you a second chance, it seems ungrateful not to take it. It doesn’t do it very often.

No.

I hadn’t reckoned on Porky! I think we’re being rather spoiled.

So do I. (She goes to him.) I adore being spoiled. (They start an embrace, and the telephone rings. They jump apart.) At this time of night! (She goes over to it.) Hello? Hello? . . . Regent 3684. . . . Who wants me? . . . Vichy? (Holds on.) Good Lord! Mother and father. I hope there’s nothing wrong. I’m afraid I’d forgotten all about them. (Into phone.) Hello! . . . Yes . . . Yes. . . . All right. (Holds on again.) Hello! Hello, mother. . . . Yes. . . . (dwight seats himself just behind her.) No, darling. It’s all right. I hadn’t gone to bed. . . . No. . . . I’m all right, mother. . . . Why? Who told you? . . . Aunt Emily? . . . Oh, did she write to you? . . . Oh! I’m sorry you’ve been worried, darling. But it wasn’t anything—really it wasn’t. I was just putting her off. . . . Yes, I know. It was naughty of me. And making you ring up like this in the middle of the night. . . . You only just got her letter? . . . I am sorry! Oh, I’ve been to the theatre, darling. . . . Peter. . . . No, he’s gone. . . . Yes, darling. . . . Yes, darling. (She listens as though to a long speech, and sits on dwight’s knee.) Oh, darling, I am sorry. . . . But you needn’t do that. I’m quite all right . . . really I am. . . . Oh, well, in that case . . . When will you be back? Friday? The 15th? That’s this Friday!

(sharply)

You’ve got to sail Saturday!

Shut up. (Into telephone.) Well, darling, I’ve rather a surprise for you. I think I’m going to be married . . . no, darling . . . married . . . married. . . . No, of course it’s not Peter. . . . It’s an American . . . it’s rather nice, really. . . . (dwight kisses the back of her neck.) Don’t do that! (Back to telephone.) Nothing, mother . . . only, it’s here now, I . . . I . . . (She begins to giggle.) I think you’d better speak to it! Wait a minute. (She hands the telephone to dwight.) Here!

No!

Go on.

Oh, well. . . . (Taking telephone: tentatively speaking.) Hello. . . . Mother? . . .

[leonora lets out a peal of laughter.

CURTAIN

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.

[The end of There’s Always Juliet by John van Druten]