SIR JAMES. I must say I didn't at all like his tone. He's practically making out my son to be an idiot.

GERALD. Well, it's really the only line he could take.

SIR JAMES. What do you mean? Bob is far from being an idiot.

LADY FARRINGDON. We always knew he wasn't as clever as Gerald, dear.

GERALD. You see, Bob either understood what was going on or he didn't. If he did, then he's in it as much as Marcus. If he didn't—well, of course we know that he didn't. But no doubt the jury will think that he ought to have known.

SIR JAMES. The old story, a knave or a fool, eh?

GERALD. The folly was in sending him there.

SIR JAMES (angrily). That was Parkinson's fault. It was he who recommended Marcus to me. I shall never speak to that man again. (To his wife) Mary, if the Parkinsons call, you are out; remember that.

GERALD. He never ought to have gone into business at all. Why couldn't you have had him taught farming or estate agency or something?

SIR JAMES. We've got to move with the times, my boy. Land is played out as a living for gentlemen; they go into business nowadays. If he can't get on there, it's his own fault. He went to Eton and Oxford; what more does he want?

LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). You must remember he isn't clever like you, Gerald.

GERALD. Oh, well, it's no good talking about it now. Poor old Bob! Wentworth thinks—

SIR JAMES. Ah, now why couldn't Wentworth have defended him? That other man—why, to begin with, I don't even call him a gentleman.

GERALD. Wentworth recommended him. But I wish he had gone to Wentworth before, as soon as he knew what was coming.

SIR JAMES. Why didn't he come to me? Why didn't he come to any of us? Then we might have done something.

LADY FARRINGDON. Didn't he even tell you, Gerald?

GERALD (awkwardly). Only just at the last. It was—it was too late to do anything then. It was the Saturday before he was—arrested. (To himself) "The Saturday before Bob was arrested"—what a way to remember anything by!

LADY FARRINGDON (to GERALD). Bob is coming round, dear?

GERALD. Yes. Wentworth's looking after him. Pamela will be here too.

SIR JAMES. We haven't seen much of Pamela lately. What does she think about it?

GERALD (sharply). What do you mean?

SIR JAMES. The disgrace of it. I hope it's not going to affect your engagement.

GERALD. Disgrace? what disgrace?

SIR JAMES. Well, of course, he hasn't been found guilty yet.

GERALD. What's that got to do with it? What does it matter what a lot of rotten jurymen think of him? We know that he has done nothing disgraceful.

LADY FARRINGDON. I'm sure Pamela wouldn't think anything like that of your brother, dear.

GERALD. Of course she wouldn't. She's been a perfect angel to Bob these last few weeks. What does it matter if he does go to prison?

SIR JAMES. I suppose you think I shall enjoy telling my neighbours, when they ask me what my elder boy is doing, that he's—ah—in prison.

GERALD. Of course you won't enjoy it, and I don't suppose Bob will enjoy it either, but that's no reason why we should make it worse for him by pretending that he's a disgrace to the family. (Half to himself) If anything we've done has helped to send him to prison then it's we who should be ashamed.

SIR JAMES. I don't profess to know anything about business, but I flatter myself that I understand my fellow men. If I had been in Bob's place, I should have pretty soon seen what that fellow Marcus was up to. I don't want to be unfair to Bob; I don't think that any son of mine would do a dishonourable action; but the Law is the Law, and if the Law sends Bob to prison I can't help feeling the disgrace of it.

GERALD. Yes, it's rough on you and mother.

LADY FARRINGDON. I don't mind about myself, dear. It's you I feel so sorry for—and Bob, of course.

GERALD. I don't see how it's going to affect me.

SIR JAMES. In the Foreign Office one has to be like Caesar's wife—above suspicion.

GERALD. Yes, but in this case it's Caesar's brother-in-law's partner who's the wrong un. I don't suppose Caesar was so particular about him.

LADY FARRINGDON. I don't see how Caesar comes into it at all.

SIR JAMES (kindly). I spoke in metaphors, dear.

[The door opens and WENTWORTH appears.]

GERALD. Come in, Wentworth. Where's Bob?

WENTWORTH. I dropped him at his rooms—a letter or something he wanted to get. But he'll be here directly. (Nervously) How do you do, Lady Farringdon? How do you do, Sir James?

SIR JAMES. Ah, Wentworth.

(There is an awkward silence and nobody seems to know what to say.)

WENTWORTH. Very hot this morning.

SIR JAMES. Very hot. Very.

(There is another awkward silence.)

WENTWORTH. This is quite a good hotel. My mother always stays here when she's in London.

SIR JAMES. Ah, yes. We use it a good deal ourselves.

LADY FARRINGDON. How is Mrs. Wentworth?

WENTWORTH. She's been keeping very well this summer, thank you.

LADY FARRINGDON. I'm so glad.

(There is another awkward silence.)

GERALD (impatiently). Oh, what's the good of pretending this is a formal call, Wentworth? Tell us about Bob; how's he taking it?

WENTWORTH. He doesn't say much. He had lunch in my rooms—you got my message. He couldn't bear the thought of being recognized by anyone, so I had something sent up.

GERALD (realizing what it must feel like). Poor old Bob!

WENTWORTH. Lady Farringdon, I can't possibly tell you what I feel about this, but I should like to say that all of us who know Bob know that he couldn't do anything dishonourable. Whatever the result of the trial, we shall feel just the same towards him.

(LADY FARRINGDON is hardly able to acknowledge this, and SIR JAMES goes across to comfort her.)

SIR JAMES (helplessly). There, there, Mary.

GERALD (seizing his opportunity, to WENTWORTH). What'll he get?

WENTWORTH (quietly). Three months—six months. One can't be certain.

GERALD (cheering up). Thank the Lord! I imagined awful things.

SIR JAMES (his ministrations over). After all, he hasn't been found guilty yet; eh, Wentworth?

WENTWORTH. Certainly, Sir James. With a jury there's always hope.

SIR JAMES. What do you think yourself?

WENTWORTH. I think he has been very foolish; whether the Law will call it criminally foolish I should hardly like to say. I only wish I had known about it before. He must have suspected something—didn't he say anything to anybody?

SIR JAMES. He told Gerald, apparently. For some reason he preferred to keep his father in the dark.

GERALD (eagerly). That was the day you came down to us, Wentworth; five days before he was arrested. I asked him to tell you, but he wouldn't.

WENTWORTH. Oh, it was too late then. Marcus had absconded by that time.

GERALD (earnestly). Nobody could have helped him then, could they?

WENTWORTH. Oh no.

GERALD (to himself). Thank God.

SIR JAMES (to LADY FARRINGDON as he looks at his watch). Well, dear, I really think you ought to try to eat something.

LADY FARRINGDON. I couldn't, James. (Getting up) But you must have your lunch.

SIR JAMES. Well, one oughtn't to neglect one's health, of course. But I insist on your having a glass of claret anyhow, Mary. What about you, Gerald?

GERALD. I'm all right. I'll wait for Bob. I've had something.

LADY FARRINGDON. You won't let Bob go without seeing us?

GERALD. Of course not, dear.

(He goes with them to the door and sees them out.)

GERALD (coming back to WENTWORTH). Three months. By Jove! that's nothing.

WENTWORTH. It's long enough for a man with a grievance. It gives him plenty of time to brood about it.

GERALD (anxiously). Who has Bob got a grievance against particularly?

WENTWORTH. The world.

GERALD (relieved). Ah! Still, three months, Wentworth. I could do it on my head.

WENTWORTH. You're not Bob. Bob will do it on his heart.

GERALD. We must buck him up, Wentworth. If he takes it the right way, it's nothing. I had awful thoughts of five years.

WENTWORTH. I'm not the judge, you know. It may be six months.

GERALD. Of course. How does he decide? Tosses up for it? Three months or six months or six years, it's all the same to him, and there's the poor devil in the dock praying his soul out that he'll hit on the shortest one. Good Lord! I'm glad I'm not a judge.

WENTWORTH (drily). Yes; that isn't quite the way the Law works.

GERALD. Oh, I'm not blaming the Law. (Smiling) Stick to it, Wentworth, by all means. But I should make a bad judge. I should believe everything the prisoner said, and just tell him not to do it again.

[BOB comes in awkwardly and stops at the door.]

WENTWORTH (getting up). Come along, Bob. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette.

BOB (gruffly). No, thanks. (He takes out his pipe.)

GERALD (brightly but awkwardly). Hullo, Bob, old boy.

BOB. Where's Pamela? She said she'd be here. (He sits down in the large armchair.)

GERALD. If she said she'd be here, she will be here.

BOB (with a grunt). 'M! (There is an awkward silence.)

BOB (angrily to GERALD). Why don't you say something? You came here to say good-bye to me, I suppose—why don't you say it?

WENTWORTH. Steady, Bob.

GERALD (eagerly). Look here, Bob, old son, you mustn't take it too hardly. Wentworth thinks it will only be three months—don't you, Wentworth? You know, we none of us think any the worse of you for it.

BOB. Thanks. That will console me a lot in prison.

GERALD. Oh, Bob, don't be an old fool. You know what I mean. You have done nothing to be ashamed of, so what's the good of brooding in prison, and grousing about your bad luck, and all that sort of thing? If you had three months in bed with a broken leg, you'd try and get some sort of satisfaction out of it—well, so you can now if you try.

WENTWORTH (after waiting for BOB to say something). There's a good deal in that, Bob, you know. Prison is largely what you make it.

BOB. What do either of you know about it?

GERALD. Everything. The man with imagination knows the best and the worst of everything.

BOB (fiercely). Imagination? You think I haven't imagined it?

GERALD. Wentworth's right. You can make what you like of it. You can be miserable anywhere, if you let yourself be. You can be happy anywhere, if you try to be.

WENTWORTH (to lead him on). I can't quite see myself being actually happy in prison, Gerald.

GERALD. I could, Wentworth, I swear I could.

BOB. He'd get popular with the warders; he'd love that.

GERALD (smiling). Silly old ass! But there are lots of things one can do in prison, only no one ever seems to think of them. (He gets interested and begins to walk up and down the room.) Now take this solitary confinement there's so much fuss about. If you look at it the right way, there's nothing in it at all.

WENTWORTH. A bit boring, perhaps.

GERALD. Boring? Nonsense. You're allowed one book a week from the prison library, aren't you?

WENTWORTH. You know, you mustn't think that, because I'm a barrister, I know all about the inside of a prison.

GERALD. Well, suppose you are allowed one, and you choose a French dictionary, and try to learn it off by heart before you come out. Why, it's the chance of a lifetime to learn French.

WENTWORTH. Well, of course, if you could get a French dictionary—

GERALD. Well, there'd be some book there anyway. If it's a Bible, read it. When you've read it, count the letters in it; have little bets with yourself as to which man's name is mentioned most times in it; put your money on Moses and see if you win. Anything like that. If it's a hymn-book, count how many of the rhymes rhyme and how many don't; try and make them all rhyme. Learn 'em by heart; I don't say that that would be particularly useful to you in the business world afterwards, but it would be amusing to see how quickly you could do it, how many you could keep in your head at the same time.

WENTWORTH. This is too intellectual for me; my brain would go in no time.

GERALD. You aren't doing it all day, of course; there are other things. Physical training. Swedish exercises. Tell yourself that you'll be able to push up fifty times from the ground before you come out. Learn to walk on your hands. Practise cart-wheels, if you like. Gad! you could come out a Hercules.

WENTWORTH. I can't help feeling that the strain of improving myself so enormously would tell on me.

GERALD. Oh, you'd have your games and so on to keep you bright and jolly.

WENTWORTH (sarcastically). Golf and cricket, I suppose?

GERALD. Golf, of course; I'm doubtful about cricket. You must have another one for cricket, and I'm afraid the warder wouldn't play. But golf, and squash rackets, and bowls, and billiards—and croquet—

WENTWORTH (in despair). Oh, go on!

GERALD. Really, you're hopeless. What the Swiss Family Wentworth would have done if they'd ever been shipwrecked, I can't think. Don't you ever invent anything for yourself? (Excitedly) Man alive! you've got a hymn-book and a piece of soap, what more do you want? You can play anything with that. (Thoughtfully) Oh, I forgot the Olympic games. Standing long jump. And they talk about the boredom of it!

WENTWORTH (thoughtfully). You've got your ideas, Gerald. I wonder if you'd act up to them.

GERALD. One never knows, but honestly I think so. (There is silence for a little.)

BOB. Is that all?

GERALD. Oh, Bob, I know it's easy for me to talk—

BOB. I wonder you didn't say at once: "Try not to think about it." You're always helpful.

GERALD. You're a little difficult to help, you know Bob. (Awkwardly) I thought I might just give you an idea. If I only could help you, you know how—

BOB (doggedly). I asked you to help me once.

GERALD (distressed). Oh, I didn't realize then—besides, Wentworth says it would have been much too late—didn't you, Wentworth?

WENTWORTH (taking up his hat). I think I must be getting along now. (Holding out his hand) Good-bye, Bob. I can only say, "The best of luck," and—er—whatever happens, you know what I feel about it.

BOB (shaking his hand). Good-bye, Wentworth, and thanks very much for all you've done for me.

WENTWORTH (hurriedly). That's all right. (TO GERALD, quietly, as he passes him on the way to the door) You must bear with him, Gerald. Naturally he's—(Nodding) Good-bye. [He goes out.]

GERALD (going back to BOB). Bob—

BOB. Why doesn't Pamela come? I want Pamela.

GERALD (speaking quickly). Look here, think what you like of me for the moment. But you must listen to what I've got to say. You can imagine it's somebody else speaking Pamela, if you like—Pamela would say just the same. You must not go to prison and spend your time there brooding over the wrongs people have done to you, and the way the world has treated you, and all that sort of thing. You simply must make an effort—and—and—well, come out as good a man as you went in. I know it's easy for me to talk, but that doesn't make it any the less true. Oh, Bob, be a—be a Sportsman about it! You can take it out of me afterwards, if you like, but don't take it out of me now by—by not bucking up just because I suggest it.

BOB. I want Pamela. Why doesn't she come?

(PAMELA has come in while he is saying this.)

PAMELA. Here I am, Bob.

BOB (getting up). At last! I began to be afraid you were never coming.

PAMELA. You couldn't think that. I told you I was coming.

GERALD. Look here, Pamela, we've got to cheer old Bob up.

BOB (almost shouting). Good Lord! can't you see that I don't want you? I want Pamela alone.

PAMELA (putting her hand on GERALD'S shoulder). Gerald, dear, you mustn't be angry with Bob now. Let me be alone with him.

GERALD (with a shrug). All right. Poor old Bob! (He goes over to his brother and holds out his hand.) Good-bye, old boy, and—good luck.

BOB (coldly). Good-bye.

GERALD. Shake hands, Bob.

BOB. No. I've been nothing to you all your life. You could have saved me from this, and you wouldn't help me.

GERALD (angrily). Don't talk such rot!

PAMELA (coming between them). Gerald, dear, you'd better go. Bob won't always feel like this towards you, but just now—

GERALD (indignantly). Pamela, you don't believe this about me?

PAMELA. I can't think of you, dear, now; I can only think of Bob. [GERALD gives a shrug and goes out.]

BOB. Pamela.

PAMELA (coming to him). Yes, dear?

BOB. Come and sit near me. You're the only friend I've got in the world.

PAMELA. You know that isn't true.

(She sits down in the armchair and he sits on the floor at her feet.)

BOB. If it hadn't been for you, I should have shot myself long ago.

PAMELA. That would have been rather cowardly, wouldn't it?

BOB. I am a coward. There's something about the Law that makes people cowards. It's so—what's the word? It goes on. You can't stop it, you can't explain to it, you can't even speak to it.

PAMELA. But you can stand up to it. You needn't run away from it.

BOB. I think I would have broken my bail and run, if it hadn't been for you. But you would have thought less of me if I had. Besides, I shouldn't have seen you again.

PAMELA. Bob, you mustn't just do, or not do, things for me; you must do them because of yourself. You must be brave because it's you, and honourable because it's you, and cheerful because it's you. You mustn't just say, "I won't let Pamela down." You must say, "I won't let myself down." You must be proud of yourself.

BOB (bitterly). I've been taught to be proud of myself, haven't I? Proud of myself! What's the family creed? "I believe in Gerald. I believe in Gerald the Brother. I believe in Gerald the Son. I believe in Gerald the Nephew. I believe in Gerald the Friend, the Lover, Gerald the Holy Marvel." There may be brothers who don't mind that sort of thing, but not when you're born jealous as I was. Do you think father or mother cares a damn what happens to me? They're upset, of course, and they feel the disgrace for themselves, but the beloved Gerald is all right, and that's all that really matters.

PAMELA. Bob, dear, forget about Gerald now. Don't think about him; think about yourself.

BOB. I shan't think about myself or about Gerald when I'm in prison. I shall only think of you.

PAMELA. Will it help you to think of me?

BOB. You're the only person in the world I've got to think of. I found you first—and then Gerald took you from me. Just as he's always taken everything from me.

PAMELA. No, no. Not about Gerald again. Let's get away from Gerald.

BOB. You can't. He's a devil to get away from. (There is silence for a little.) When I was a small boy, I used to pray very hard on the last day of the holidays for a telegram to come saying that the school had been burnt down.... It never had.

PAMELA. Oh, Bob!

BOB. I suppose I've got about ten minutes more. But nothing will happen.

PAMELA (in a hopeless effort to be hopeful). Perhaps after all you might—

BOB. Why can't the world end suddenly now? It wouldn't matter to anybody. They wouldn't know; they wouldn't have time to understand. (He looks up and sees her face of distress and says) All right, Pamela, you needn't worry. I'm going through with it all right.

PAMELA. You must keep thinking of the afterwards. Only of the afterwards. The day when you come back to us.

BOB. Will that be such a very great day? (PAMELA is silent.) Triumphant procession through the village. All the neighbours hurrying out to welcome the young squire home. Great rush in the City to offer him partnerships.

PAMELA (quietly). Do you want to go back to the City?

BOB. Good God, no!

PAMELA. Then why are you being sarcastic about it? Be honest with yourself, Bob. You made a mess of the City. Oh, I know you weren't suited to it, but men have had to do work they didn't like before now, and they haven't all made a mess of it. You're getting your punishment now—much more than you deserve, and we're all sorry for you—but men have been punished unfairly before now and they have stood it. You'll have your chance when you come back; I'll stand by you for one, and you've plenty of other friends; but we can't help a man who won't help himself, you know.

Bon (sulkily). Thank you, Pamela.

PAMELA (shaking him). Bob, Bob, don't be such a baby. Oh, I want to laugh at you, and yet my heart just aches for you. You're just a little boy, Bob (with a sigh), on the last day of his holidays.

BOB (after a pause). Are you allowed to have letters in prison?

PAMELA. I expect so. Every now and then.

BOB. You will write to me?

PAMELA. Of course, dear; whenever I may.

BOB. I suppose some beast will read it. But you won't mind that, will you?

PAMELA. No, dear.

BOB. I'll write to you whenever they let me. That will be something to look forward to. Will you meet me when I come out?

PAMELA (happily). Yes, Bob. So very gladly.

BOB. I'll let you know when it is. I expect I'll be owed to.

PAMELA. You must just think of that day all the time. Whenever you are unhappy or depressed or angry, you must look forward to that day.

BOB. You'll let it be a fine day, won't you? What shall we do?

PAMELA (rather startled). What?

BOB. What shall we do directly after I come out?

PAMELA. Well, I suppose we—I mean you—well, we'll come up to London together, I suppose, and you'll go to your old rooms. At least, if you still have them.

BOB (instantly depressed again). My old rooms. That'll be lively.

PAMELA. Well, unless you'd rather—

BOB. I'm not going home, if that's what you mean. The prodigal son, and Gerald falling on my neck.

PAMELA (stroking his head). Never mind Gerald, Baby. (He turns round suddenly and seizes her hands.)

BOB (in a rush). Whatever happens, you mustn't desert me when I come out. I want you. I've got to know you're there, waiting for me. I'm not making love to you, you're engaged to somebody else, but you were my friend before you were his, and you've got to go on being my friend. I want you—I want you more than he does. I'm not making love to you; you can marry him if you like, but you've got to stand by me. I want you.

PAMELA. Haven't I stood by you?

BOB (in a low voice). You've been an angel. (He kisses her hands and then gets up and walks away from her; with his back to her, looking out of the window, he says) When are you marrying him?

PAMELA (taken by surprise). I—I don't know, Bob. We had thought about—but, of course, things are different now. We haven't talked about it lately.

BOB (casually). I wonder if you'd mind promising me something.

PAMELA. What is it?

BOB. Not to get married till after I come out. (After waiting for PAMELA to speak) You will have about forty years together afterwards. It isn't much to ask.

PAMELA. Why should it make a difference to you?

BOB. It would.

PAMELA. It isn't a thing I like making promises about. But I don't suppose for a moment—Would it help you very much, Bob?

BOB (from the bottom of his heart). I don't want Gerald's wife to be waiting for me when I come out; I want my friend.

PAMELA (standing up and facing him as he turns round towards her). All right, Bob, she shall be there.

(They stand looking at each other intently for a moment. Voices are heard outside, and SIR JAMES, LADY FARRINGDON, and GERALD come into the room.)



ACT III

[SCENE.—In the hall at SIR JAMES FARRINGDON'S again. It is autumn nom and there is a fire burning.]

[LETTY and TOMMY are on the sofa side by side, holding hands, and looking the picture of peaceful happiness. Indeed, TOMMY has his mouth open slightly.]

LETTY. It's your turn to say something, Tommy.

TOMMY. Oh, I say.

LETTY. Now I suppose it's my turn.

TOMMY. I say, you know, I feel too idiotically happy to say anything. I feel I want to talk poetry, or rot like that, only—only I don't quite know how to put it.

LETTY (sympathetically). Never mind, darling.

TOMMY. I say, you do understand how frightfully—I say, what about another kiss? (They have one.)

LETTY. Tommy, I just adore you. Only I think you might have been a little more romantic about your proposal.

TOMMY (anxious). I say, do you—

LETTY. Yes. Strictly speaking, I don't think anybody ought to propose with a niblick in his hand.

TOMMY. It just sort of came then. Of course I ought to have put it down.

LETTY. You dear!... "Letting his niblick go for a moment, Mr. T. Todd went on as follows: 'Letitia, my beloved, many moons have waxed and waned since first I cast eyes of love upon thee. An absence of ducats, coupled with the necessity of getting my handicap down to ten, has prevented my speaking ere this. Now at last I am free. My aged uncle—'"

TOMMY (lovingly). I say, you do pull my leg. Go on doing it always, won't you?

LETTY. Always, Tommy. We're going to have fun, always.

TOMMY. I'm awfully glad we got engaged down here.

LETTY. We've had lovely times here, haven't we?

TOMMY. I wonder what Gerald will say. A bit of a surprise for him. I say, it would be rather fun if we had a double wedding. You and I, and Gerald and Pamela.

LETTY (getting up in pretended indignation). Certainly not!

TOMMY (following her). I say, what's the matter?

LETTY (waving him back). Go away. Unhand me villain.

TOMMY. I say, what's up?

LETTY. I want a wedding of my own. I've never been married before, and perhaps I shall never be married again, and I'm going to have a wedding all to myself. I don't mind your being there, but I'm not going to have crowds of other brides and bridegrooms taking up the whole aisle—said she, seizing her engagement-ring and—Oh, bother! I haven't got one yet.

(TOMMY rushes up and takes her in his arms. At this moment GERALD comes in by the garden door. He stops on seeing them, and then goes quickly on to the door in front of the staircase.)

GERALD (as he passes them). Came in and went tactfully out again.

TOMMY (as LETTY frees herself). I say, Gerald, old man.

GERALD (stopping at the door, turning round and coming back in the same business-like way). Returned hopefully.

TOMMY (in confusion). I say, we're engaged.

GERALD (looking at them happily). Oh, hoo-ray!

LETTY. Do say you're surprised.

GERALD. Awfully, awfully pleased, Letty. Of course, when I saw you—er—thinking together in a corner—By Jove, I am bucked. I did hope so much.

LETTY. You dear!

GERALD. I feel very fatherly. Bless you, my children.

TOMMY. We shall have about tuppence a year, but Letty doesn't mind that.

GERALD (to LETTY). You'll have to make him work. (Thoughtfully) He's too old for a caddy.

LETTY. Couldn't you find him something in the Foreign Office? He knows the French for pen and ink.

TOMMY. What's ink?

LETTY. At least, he knows the French for pen.

GERALD. Oh, we'll find something. Only I warn you, Tommy, if you dare to get married before Pamela and me, there'll be trouble.

TOMMY. Why don't we ever see Pamela now?

GERALD (gaily). She is coming, my children—mes enfants, as Tommy will say when he gets his job as ribbon starcher to the French ambassador. To-morrow, no less. I've just had a letter. Lord, I haven't seen her for months.

LETTY. She's come back?

GERALD. Yes. Egypt knows her no more. The Sphinx is inconsolable. To-morrow at 3.30 she comes; I shall go and meet her.

TOMMY. I say, won't she be surprised about Letty and me!

GERALD. She'll be as bucked as I am. (Looking from one to the other) Has anything else frightfully exciting happened to you since lunch? Because, if not, I've got some more news.

LETTY. What is it? I love news.

GERALD. All ready? Then one, two, three: Bob is coming this afternoon.

LETTY and TOMMY together. No! Rot!

GERALD (Singing to the tune of "Here we go gathering nuts and may"). Oh, Bob is coming this afternoon, this afternoon, this afternoon! Oh, Bob is coming this afternoon, all on an autumn morning! Now then, all together.

(They join hands and march up the hall and back again, singing together.)

ALL TOGETHER (waving imaginary hats). Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

TOMMY. It doesn't make sense, you know, coming back in the afternoon on an autumn morning.

GERALD. Who cares for sense?

LETTY (squeezing his arm). Oh, Gerald, I am glad. But I thought he had another week or so.

GERALD. They always let you out early, you know, if you're good. We knew he was coming soon, but we didn't quite know when. I've just had a telegram.

LETTY. Poor Bob! he must have had a time.

GERALD. What does it matter? It's over now.

TOMMY (struck by an idea). I say, this puts a bit of a stopper on our news.

GERALD (pulled up suddenly by this). Oh!

LETTY (going over and taking TOMMY'S arm). We'll go to a house where they do make a fuss of us, Tommy. (Very politely) Good-bye, Mr. Farringdon, and thank you for a very pleasant Friday.

GERALD. Poor darlings! it's rather bad luck for you. Did I announce my news too soon? I'm awfully sorry.

LETTY. It wasn't your fault; you were a dear.

GERALD. As a matter of fact, it will be rather lucky, you know. It will give us something to talk about when Bob comes. (Smiling) Thanks very much for arranging it.

LETTY. Poor old Bob! I wonder what it feels like coming out of prison.

GERALD. Rotten. Now, for the Lord's sake, Tommy, be tactful.

LETTY (to GERALD). I think he'd be safer if he wasn't. Tommy's rather dangerous when he's tactful.

GERALD (thoughtfully). Yes, there is that.

TOMMY. It's all the same to me. Only just let me know which you want.

GERALD. Well, as long as you don't overdo it. Don't rub it in that he's just left prison, and—don't rub it out.

TOMMY. I suppose it would be quite safe to ask him to pass the mustard?

GERALD (laughing). Good old Tommy!

LETTY. You'd better talk to me all the time, and then you'll be all right.

GERALD. We'll make it go between us. And, of course, Pamela will help to-morrow. Hooray for Pamela! It makes me quite envious seeing you young people together. By the way, I interrupted you just now.

LETTY. You did rather.

GERALD. Well, I absolutely refuse to go away now. But, of course, if you're longing to show each other the stables or anything—(with a wave of the hand) pray show. Or try anywhere else. Save for Aunt Tabitha's room upstairs and the hall down here, the whole house is at your disposal.

LETTY (sitting down firmly). Then I shall stay here. Isn't Aunt Mary back yet?

GERALD. They are probably still eating. It's the very latest millionaire from London, so they're having the lunch of their lives, I expect. Afterwards father will put him at his ease by talking about crops. (Picking up a book and settling himself comfortably in front of the fire) Tommy, if you can't find a book, sing or something.

LETTY. Oh, come on, Tommy.

[She jumps up and goes out of the door in front of the staircase. TOMMY following her.]

(Left alone, GERALD closes his book with a slam. He stands up and takes the telegram out of his pocket and reads it again. He suddenly catches sight of MISS FARRINGDON in the gallery shove, calls out "Hullo!" and goes up the stairs to meet her.)

GERALD (as he goes). You're just the person I wanted, Aunt Tabitha. I'm full of news. (He kisses her at the top of the stairs.) How are you, dear? (He offers her his arm.)

MISS FARRINGDON. If I had wanted help, down the stairs, Gerald, my maid could have given it me.

GERALD. Yes, but your maid wouldn't have enjoyed giving it you; I do.

MISS FARRINGDON. Charming Gerald. (She comes down the stairs on his arm.)

GERALD. No, happy Gerald.

MISS FARRINGDON. Is that part of the news?

GERALD. It's all because of the news.

(He arranges her in her chair by the fire and sits on the coffin-stool near her.)

MISS FARRINGDON. I heard Mr. Todd and Letty just now, so I suppose I shan't be the first to hear it. What a pity!

GERALD. Ah, but they don't count.

MISS FARRINGDON. Why not?

GERALD. Well, that's part of the news. They've just got engaged.

MISS FARRINGDON. In my young days they'd have been engaged a long time ago. When are we going to see Pamela again?

GERALD. That's more of the news. She's coming down to-morrow.

MISS FARRINGDON. That will save you a lot in stamps.

GERALD (laughing). Aunt Tabitha, you're a witch. How did you know?

MISS FARRINGDON. Know what?

GERALD. That Pamela and I haven't been writing to each other.

MISS FARRINGDON (very innocently). Haven't you?

GERALD. No. You see—oh, I hate discussing Pamela with anyone, but you're different.

MISS FARRINGDON. I always like that sort of compliment best, Gerald. The unintended sort.

GERALD. I think, you know, Pamela felt that Bob's doing to prison might make a difference. I don't mean that she didn't like the disgrace for herself, but that she was afraid that I mightn't like it for her; and so she went away, and beyond a letter or two at the start there hasn't been a Pamela.

MISS FARRINGDON. But Gerald went on being successful?

GERALD. Oh, Aunt Tabitha, Aunt Tabitha, if ever I were going to be conceited—and I don't think I am really—you'd soon stop it, wouldn't you? I wonder if you do know me as well as you think. You think I'm all outside, don't you, and inside there's nothing?

MISS FARRINGDON. Oh, you've got brains, I'll grant you that. You're the first Farringdon that's had any. Of the men, of course.

GERALD. Oh, brains—I don't mean brains. But you think that everything only touches me on the surface, and that nothing ever goes deep inside. You don't believe I ever loved Pamela; you don't believe I love her now. You don't believe I've got a heart at all.

MISS FARRINGDON. Well, you've never shown it. You've shown a lot of delightful things which silly people mistake for it—but that's all.

GERALD (curtly). No, I've never shown my heart to anybody. Some people can't. (Gently) Perhaps I'll show it to Pamela on my wedding-day.

MISS FARRINGDON. Dear me, have I been wrong all these years? I shouldn't like to think that. (After a pause) Any more news?

GERALD (taking his thoughts off PAMELA). Yes. Now this time, Aunt Tabitha, you'll really be as pleased as I am.

MISS FARRINGDON. I wonder.

GERALD. Oh yes, you will, because it's about your favourite—Bob.

MISS FARRINGDON. So Bob's my favourite? I'm learning a good many things to-day.

GERALD. He's coming back this afternoon.

MISS FARRINGDON. Poor Bob! I'm glad he's finished with that part of it.

GERALD. You think he's got the worst part coming? (Smiling at her) Aunt Tabitha, have you got any influence with your nephew?

MISS FARRINGDON. You or Bob? (GERALD smiles and shakes his head.) Oh, you mean James?

GERALD. It seems hard to realize that one's father is anybody else's nephew, but you are his aunt, and—Oh, don't let him do anything stupid about Bob.

MISS FARRINGDON. Bob's his own master; he's old enough to look after himself.

GERALD. Yes, but he's got in the way of being looked after by other people. I wish you would look after him and tell him what to do. It's going to be difficult for him. I expect he'll want to get away from all of us for a bit. Where's he going, and what's he going to do?

MISS FARRINGDON (after a pause). When did you say Pamela was coming here?

GERALD. To-morrow. She'll help, of course.

MISS FARRINGDON. Gerald, you've been very nice to me always; I don't know why I've been rather unkind to you sometimes.

GERALD. What an idea! You know I've loved our little skirmishes.

MISS FARRINGDON. That's because you've been happy, and haven't minded one way or another. But if ever you were in trouble, Gerald, I don't think I should be unsympathetic.

GERALD. You dear, of course you wouldn't. But why do you say that now, just when I am so happy?

MISS FARRINGDON (getting up slowly). I'm feeling rather an old woman to-day. I think I'll go and lie down.

GERALD (jumping up). I'll ring for your maid.

MISS FARRINGDON. No, no; I'm not going upstairs, and I don't want a maid when I've got a great big nephew. Come and tuck me up on the sofa in the drawing-room; I shall be quite happy there.

(She puts her hand on his arm, and they go together towards the door in front of the staircase.)

MISS FARRINGDON. Poor Gerald!

GERALD (laughing). Why poor? [They go out together.]

[The door on the right at the back opens quietly and BOB comes in. He stands there for a moment looking at the hall, and then speaks over his shoulder to somebody behind him.]

BOB. It's all right, there's nobody here.

PAMELA. I wonder where Gerald is.

BOB. You're sure he's down here?

PAMELA. Yes, I had a letter from him; he told me he was going to be.

BOB (going up to her). Pamela, you can't see him alone.

PAMELA. I must. You can see him afterwards, but I must see him alone first. Poor Gerald!

BOB. He never really loved you.

PAMELA. I don't think he did really, but it will hurt him.

BOB (eagerly). Say you're not sorry for what you're doing.

PAMELA. Aren't I doing it?

BOB. Say you love me and not Gerald. Say you really love me, and it's not just because you are sorry for me.

PAMELA. Oh, I have so much in my heart for you, Bob. I'm glad I'm marrying you. But you must always love me, and want me as you want me now.

BOB (seizing her is his arms). By God! you'll get that. (He kisses her fiercely.)

PAMELA (satisfied). Oh, Bob! Oh, Bob! I'm glad I found you at last. (She goes away from him and stands looking into the fire, one hand on the mantelpiece.)

BOB. Shall I go and look for Gerald?

PAMELA (looking into the fire). Yes. No. He'll come.

BOB. You won't let him talk you round?

PAMELA (looking up at him in surprise). Oh no; I'm quite safe now.

BOB. I can never thank you for all you've done, for all you've been to me. When we are out of this cursed country, and I have you to myself, I will try to show you. (She says nothing, and he walks restlessly about the room. He picks up a hat and says) Hullo, Tommy's here.

PAMELA (quickly). I don't want to see him, I don't want to see anybody. We must just tell Gerald and then go.

BOB. Anybody might come at any moment. You should have let me write as I wanted to. Or waited till he came back to London.

PAMELA. We've given up being cowards. Perhaps you'd better try and find him. We'll only tell Gerald. If we see the others, we'll just have to make the best of it.

BOB (moving off towards the door in front of the staircase). All right. If I find him I'll send him in here. [He goes out.]

(PAMELA drops into a chair and remains looking at the fire. GERALD, coming down from the gallery above, suddenly catches sight of her.)

GERALD (rushing down the stairs). Pamela! Why, Pamela! (Excitedly) Why are you—You said tomorrow. Pamela, you said—Never mind, you're here. Oh, bless you! (PAMELA has got up to meet him, and he is now standing holding her hands, and looking at her happily.) Pamela's here; all's right with the world. (He leans forward to kiss her, but she stops him.)

PAMELA (nervously). No, no; I've something to tell you, Gerald.

GERALD. I've got a thousand things to tell you.

PAMELA. Bob's here.

GERALD (excited). Bob? Did you come down with him?

PAMELA. Yes.

GERALD. I had a telegram, but it didn't say—Did you meet him? Why didn't he tell us? Where is he?

PAMELA. He just went to look for you.

GERALD. I'll soon find him.

(He turns away to go after BOB, but PAMELA stops him.)

PAMELA. Gerald!

GERALD (turning round). Yes.

PAMELA. Never mind Bob for the moment. I wanted to see you alone.

GERALD (coming back quickly). Of course. Hang Bob! Come on the sofa and tell me everything. Jove! it's wonderful to see you again; you've been away for years.

(He takes her hand and tries to lead her towards the sofa, but she stops.)

PAMELA. Gerald, you're making it very hard for me; I've got something to tell you.

GERALD (afraid suddenly and speaking sharply). What do you mean?

PAMELA. Oh, don't look at me like that—I know it will hurt you, but it won't be more than that. I want you to release me from my promise.

GERALD. What promise?

PAMELA (in a low voice). My promise to marry you.

GERALD. I don't understand. Why?

PAMELA (bravely). I want to marry Bob.

(Keeping his eyes on her all the time, GERALD moves slowly away from her.)

GERALD (to himself). Bob! Bob! But you knew Bob first.

PAMELA. Yes.

GERALD. And then you promised to marry me. You couldn't have been in love with him. I don't understand.

PAMELA (sadly). I don't understand either, but that's how it's happened.

GERALD. And to think how I've been throwing you in Bob's way, and wanting you and him to be fond of each other. (Fiercely) That didn't make you think that I didn't love you?

PAMELA (faltering). I—I don't—you didn't—

GERALD. I was so confident of you. That was your fault. You made me.

PAMELA. I think you could have made me love you if you hadn't been so confident.

GERALD. I trusted you. You had told me. I knew I should never change, and I thought I knew you wouldn't.

PAMELA. I was wrong. I never did love you.

GERALD. Then why did you say—

PAMELA (looking at him rather wistfully). You're rather charming, Gerald, you know, and you—

GERALD (turning away from her furiously). Damn charming! That's what you all say. I'm sick of it! You think that if a man's charming, that's the end of him, and that all he's good for is to amuse a few old ladies at a tea party. I'm sick of it! The rude rough man with the heart of gold—that's the only sort that can have a heart at all, according to some of you.

PAMELA (utterly surprised by this). Gerald!

GERALD. I'm sorry, Pamela. Of course you wouldn't understand. But we were just talking. (With a sudden disarming smile) I don't know whether an apology is overdoing the charm?

PAMELA (in distress). Oh, Gerald, you couldn't really have loved me; you don't really now. Of course, it will hurt you, but you'll soon get over it. Oh, what's the good of my talking like this? I've never really known you; I don't know you now.

GERALD (quietly). It's no good now, anyway. (He walks away from her and looks out through the windows at the back.) Just tell me one or two things. Were you in love with him when he went to prison?

PAMELA. I don't know—really I don't know. I was so dreadfully sorry for him all that time before, and I felt so very friendly towards him, so very—oh, Gerald, so motherly. And I wanted to be wanted so badly, and you didn't seem to want me in that way. That was why, when he had gone, I went right away from you, and asked you not to write to me; I wanted to think it all out—alone.

GERALD. But you wrote to Bob?

PAMELA. Oh, Gerald, he wanted it so badly.

GERALD. I'm sorry.

PAMELA. I wrote to him and he wrote to me. I met him when he came out—he told me when to come. I suppose I had decided by then; we came down here to tell you. I had to come at once.

GERALD. You do love him, Pamela? It isn't just pity?

PAMELA. I do, Gerald; I think I found that out this afternoon. (Timidly) Say you don't hate me very much.

GERALD. I wish to God I could.... What are you and Bob going to do?

PAMELA. Canada, as soon as we can. I've got friends there. We've a little money between us. Bob ought to have done it a long time ago. (Coming up to him) Just do one more nice thing for me before we go.

GERALD (moving away from her on pretence of getting a cigarette). What is it?

PAMELA. Bob will want to see you before he goes.

GERALD. I don't want to see him.

PAMELA. Ah, but you must.

GERALD. What have we got to say to each other?

PAMELA. I don't know, but I feel you must see him. Otherwise he'll think that he ran away from you.

GERALD (with a shrug). All right. You'll go back to London at once, I suppose?

PAMELA. Yes. We hired a car. We left it outside at the gates. We didn't want to see anybody but you, if possible.

GERALD. Father and mother are out. Aunt Harriet knows—oh, and Tommy and Letty—that Bob was coming to-day; nobody else. But I can make up something. We'll keep Tommy and Letty out of it for the moment. Of course, they'll all have to know in the end.

PAMELA. We'll write, of course.

GERALD. Yes. Tommy and Letty are engaged, by the way.

PAMELA. Oh! (Understanding how he must feel about it) Oh, Gerald! (She makes a movement towards him, but he takes no notice.) I'll send Bob to you; he's waiting outside, I expect. (Timidly) Good-bye, Gerald.

GERALD (still with his back to her). Good-bye, Pamela.

PAMELA. Won't you—

GERALD (from the bottom of his heart). Go away, go away! I can't bear the sound of your voice; I can't bear to look at you. Go away!

PAMELA. Oh, Gerald! [She goes out.]

(GERALD looks up as she goes out, and then looks quickly down again. When BOB comes in he is still resting with his arm on the mantelpiece looking into the fire.)

GERALD (looking up). Hullo.

BOB. Hullo. (After a pause) Is that all you've got to say?

GERALD. I've just seen Pamela.

BOB (trying not to show his eagerness). Well?

GERALD. Well—isn't that enough?

BOB. What do you mean?

GERALD (bitterly). Do you want me to fall on, your neck, and say take her and be happy?

BOB. You never loved her.

GERALD. That's a lie, and anyhow we won't discuss it. She's going to marry you, and that's an end of it.

BOB (very eagerly). She is going to?

GERALD (sharply). Don't you know it?

BOB (mumbling). Yes, but she might—Ah, you couldn't charm her away from me this time.

GERALD (with an effort). I don't know what you mean by "this time." I think we'd better leave Pamela out of it altogether. She's waiting for you outside. Last time I offered to shake hands with you, you had some fancied grievance against me, and you wouldn't; now if there's any grievance between us, it's on my side. (Holding out his hand) Good-bye, Bob, and—quite honestly—good luck.

BOB (ignoring the hand). Magnanimous Gerald!

(GERALD looks at him in surprise for a moment. Then he shrugs his shoulders, turns round, and goes back to the mantelpiece, and takes a cigarette from the box there.)

GERALD. I'm tired of you, Bob. If you don't want me, I don't want you. (He sits down in a chair and lights his cigarette.)

BOB. And now I suppose you're thoroughly pleased with yourself, and quite happy.

GERALD (looking at him in absolute wonder). Happy? You fool! (Something in BOB'S face surprises him, and he gets up and says) Why do you suddenly hate me like this?

BOB (with a bitter laugh). Suddenly!

GERALD (almost frightened). Bob!

BOB (letting the jealousy that has been pent up for years come out at last). You're surprised! Surprised! You would be. You've never stopped to think what other people are thinking; you take it for granted that they all love you, and that's all you care about. Do you think I liked playing second fiddle to you all my life? Do you think I've never had any ambitions of my own? I suppose you thought I was quite happy being one of the crowd of admirers round you, all saying, "Oh, look at Gerald, isn't he wonderful?"

GERALD (astounded). Bob, I had no idea—I never dreamt—

BOB. They thought something of me when I was young. When I first went to school they thought something of me. I daresay even you thought something of me then; I could come back in the holidays and tell you what school was like, and what a lot they thought of me. They didn't think much of me when you came; you soon put a stop to that. I was just young Farringdon's brother then, and when we came home together, all the talk was of the wonderful things Gerald had done. It was like that at Eton; it was like that at Oxford. It's always been like that. I managed to get away from you a bit after Oxford, but it went on just the same. "How do you do, Mr. Farringdon? Are you any relation to Gerald Farringdon?" (With the utmost contempt) And you actually thought I liked that; you thought I enjoyed it. You thought I smiled modestly and said, "Oh yes, he's my brother, my young brother; isn't he wonderful?"

GERALD (hardly able to realise it). And you've felt like this for years? (To himself) For years!

BOB (not noticing him). And that wasn't enough for you. They got you into the Foreign Office—they could have got me there. They could have put me into the Army (Almost shouting) Aren't I the eldest son? But no, it didn't matter about the eldest son—never mind about him; put him in the City, anywhere as long as he's out of the way. If we have any influence, we must use it for Gerald—the wonderful Gerald.

GERALD. If this is an indictment, it's drawn against the wrong person.

BOB (more quietly). Then at last I found a friend; somebody who took me for my own sake. (Bitterly) And like a damned fool I brought her down here, and she saw you. I might have known what would happen.

GERALD. Pamela!

BOB. Yes, and you took her. After taking everything you could all your life, you took her. She was Bob's friend—that was quite enough. She must be one more in the crowd of admirers round you. So you took her. (Triumphantly) Ah, but I got her back in the end. I've got her now—and I think I'm square, Gerald.

GERALD. Yes, I think you're square now.

BOB (rather jauntily, as he leans back against the end of the sofa and feels for his cigarette-case). I seem to have surprised you rather.

GERALD. You've thought like that about me for years and you've never said anything? You've felt like that about Pamela and you've never said anything?

BOB. I've been thinking it over, particularly these last few months—in prison, Gerald. You have a lot of time for thinking in prison. Oh, I know; you advised me to stand on my head and waggle my legs in the air—something like that. You were full of brilliant ideas. I had a better idea—I thought.

GERALD (realising his state of mind). My God, what a time you must have had!

BOB (furiously). Damn you! I won't be pitied by you.

GERALD (coolly). And you're not going to be. You've talked about yourself and thought about yourself quite long enough; now I'm going to talk about myself.

BOB. And it won't be the first time either.

GERALD (quickly). It will be the first time to you. You say I've never tried to understand your feelings—have you ever tried to understand mine? My God, Bob! I've thought a good deal more about you than you have about me. Have I ever talked about myself to you? When a boy does well at school he likes talking about it; did I ever bore you with it? Never! Because I knew how you'd feel about it. I knew how I'd feel about it, and so I tried to make it easy for you.

BOB. Very noble of you.

GERALD (angrily). Don't be such a damned fool, Bob. What's the good of talking like that? If whatever I do is wrong, then you're only convicting yourself; you're not convicting me. According to you, if I talk about myself I'm being conceited and superior, and if I don't talk about myself, I'm being noble and still more superior. In fact, whatever I do, I can't please you. That doesn't condemn me; it condemns yourself. (Wearily) What's the good of talking?

BOB. Go on; I like to hear it.

GERALD. Very well. We'll take the definite accusations first. Apart from the general charge of being successful—whatever that amounts to—you accuse me of two things. One you didn't mention just now, but it was more or less obvious the last time I saw you. That was that I neglected to help you when you were in trouble, and that through me you went to prison.

BOB. Yes, I forgot that this time. (With an unpleasant laugh) But I didn't forget it in prison.

GERALD. You had a sense of humour once, Bob. I don't know what's happened to it lately. Don't you think it's rather funny to hate a person steadily for fifteen years, judge all his acts as you'd hardly judge those of your bitterest enemy, and yet, the first time you are in trouble, to expect him to throw everything on one side and rush to your help—and then to feel bitterly ill-used if he doesn't?

BOB (rather taken aback). I—you didn't—I didn't—

GERALD (quietly). That's been rather like you all through, Bob. You were always the one who had to be helped; you were always the one who was allowed to have the grievance. Still, that doesn't make it any better for me if I could have helped you and didn't. However, I'm quite certain that I couldn't have helped you then. We'll take the other accusation, that I stole Pamela from you. I've only got two things to say to that. First, that Pamela was not engaged to you, and was perfectly free to choose between us. Secondly, that you never told me, and I hadn't the slightest idea, that you were the least bit fond of her. Indeed, I don't believe you realized it yourself at that time.

BOB (rather shamefaced). I've realized it since.

GERALD. Yes, and you've taken Pamela back since. I think if I were you I would keep her out of it. (BOB looks away and GERALD goes on) Now we come to the general charge, which seems to be (very deliberately) that I'm better than you at games, that I've got better manners than you, that I'm cleverer than you—in fact, that I'm superior to you in every outward way, and am only inferior to you in—well, in the moral qualities. (Quietly) Bob, what are these moral qualities in which I am so deficient and you so endowed? You judge me by the qualities I am supposed to have shown to you; now what have you shown to me? Have you been generous, have you been friendly, have you been sympathetic? No; you've just told me that for fifteen years you've hated me and been jealous of me. Things have been rotten for you, I admit; have you ever tried to make the best of them? You've had disadvantages to fight against; have you ever fought against them? Never! You've turned every trouble into a grievance, and hoarded it up. I said just now I was sick of you. I am—utterly. You said just now you didn't want my pity. You haven't got it; you've only got my contempt.... (He turns away, and then suddenly turns back, and, holding out his hand to BOB, says utterly unexpectedly) And now, damn you! will you shake hands?

BOB (incoherent with surprise). What do you—I—you didn't—(GERALD'S hand is still held out, and he is smiling.) Oh, Jerry! (He takes the hand.)

GERALD. That's all right. Good-bye, Bob, and good luck.

BOB (bewildered). Good-bye. (He tuns round and goes towards the door. Half-way there, he looks over his shoulder and says awkwardly) Had rather a rotten time in prison. (GERALD nods. At the door BOB says) Pamela and I—

[With rather a forced smile, GERALD nods again, and BOB goes out.]

(Left alone, GERALD stands looking into the fire and thinking. He tries sitting down to see if that will make thinking any pleasanter; then he tries standing up again. He goes to the door in front of the staircase and opens it to see if there is anybody there; then he goes to the windows at the back and looks through them. Evidently he sees somebody, for he beckons and then returns to his old place by the fire. In a few moments LETTY and TOMMY come in.)

TOMMY (excitedly). I say, has Bob come?

GERALD. Why?

TOMMY. I could have sworn we saw him just now as we were coming in. At least, Letty swore she did—

LETTY. I know I did.

TOMMY. So I gave him a shout, but he fairly trekked off. Was it Bob?

GERALD. Yes. Now look here, I want you to be two nice people. Don't say anything to anybody. He came, but he didn't want to see the whole crowd of us. He's going to Canada. I'll do all the explaining, if you two just say nothing. Do you see?

LETTY. Of course, Gerald.

TOMMY. Rather, old boy. Besides, it will make it much better for Letty and me.

LETTY. No rival attraction, Tommy means.

[Enter SIR JAMES and LADY FARRINGDON from the outer hull, having just returned from their lunch.]

SIR JAMES. Ah! here you all are.

GERALD. Had a good lunch?

SIR JAMES. Lunch was all right, but the people were dull, very dull.

LADY FARRINGDON. There were one or two nice ones, I thought, dear. They all knew about you, Gerald.

TOMMY (proudly). Of course they would.

SIR JAMES. Oh, one or two were all right, but he was—well, I was discussing shorthorns with him after lunch, and he hardly seemed interested at all. Dull, very dull. I've got no use for that sort of man.

(During this speech the Butler has come in with a telegram for GERALD.)

GERALD (taking it). Just a moment. (He reads it quickly.) No answer. [Exit Butler.]

(GERALD reads his telegram again more thoughtfully.)

LADY FARRINGDON. From Pamela, dear?

GERALD. From the office. I shall have to go up at once.

LADY FARRINGDON (very disappointed). Oh, Gerald!

SIR JAMES. Something on?

GERALD. Rather an important thing really. I never thought I should get it, but there was just a chance. (Looking at his watch) Oh, I can do it comfortably.

SIR JAMES (obviously proud that GERALD is in the thick of things). What is it? I suppose you mustn't tell us.

GERALD. Something abroad.

SIR JAMES. Diplomatic mission, eh?

GERALD. Yes.

LETTY. That does sound so frightfully exciting.

LADY FARRINGDON (proudly). Oh, Gerald! (Thoughtfully). I wish we had known about it this morning, we could have mentioned it at lunch.

SIR JAMES. That ought to lead to something.

GERALD. Yes. I think it will. It's rather an opportunity:

(They are all round him now, just as they have always been. The buzz begins.)

SIR JAMES. Aha! you'll be an ambassador yet. What do you think of that, Letty?

LETTY. Well done, Gerald.

LADY FARRINGDON. How like you, Gerald!

TOMMY. Good old Gerald! I never knew such a chap. You really are!

GERALD (softly). I wish I weren't, Tommy! Oh, I wish I weren't!

(They don't hear him; they are still buzzing.)



THE BOY COMES HOME

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

CHARACTERS.

UNCLE JAMES. AUNT EMILY. PHILIP. MARY. MRS. HIGGINS.

This play was first produced by Mr. Owen Nares at the Victoria Palace Theatre on September 9,1918, with the following cast:

Philip—OWEN NARES. Uncle James—TOM REYNOLDS. Aunt Emily—DOROTHY RADFORD. Mary—ADAH DICK. Mrs. Higgins—RACHEL DE SOLLA.

[SCENE.—A room in UNCLE JAMES'S house in the Cromwell Road.]

[TIME.—The day after the War.]

[Any room in UNCLE JAMES'S house is furnished in heavy mid-Victorian style; this particular morning-room is perhaps solider and more respectable even than the others, from the heavy table in the middle of it to the heavy engravings on the walls. There are two doors to it. The one at the back opens into the hall, the one at the side into the dining-room.]

[PHILIP comes from the hall and goes into the dining-room. Apparently he finds nothing there, for he returns to the morning-room, looks about him for a moment and then rings the bell. It is ten o'clock, and he wants his breakfast. He picks up the paper, and sits in a heavy armchair in front of the fire—a pleasant-looking well-built person of twenty-three, with an air of decisiveness about him. MARY, the parlour-maid, comes in.]

MARY. Did you ring, Master Philip?

PHILIP (absently). Yes; I want some breakfast, please, Mary.

MARY (coldly). Breakfast has been cleared away an hour ago.

PHILIP. Exactly. That's why I rang. You can boil me a couple of eggs or something. And coffee, not tea.

MARY. I'm sure I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say?

PHILIP (getting up). Who is Mrs. Higgins?

MARY. The cook. And she's not used to being put about like this.

PHILIP. Do you think she'll say something?

MARY. I don't know what she'll say.

PHILIP. You needn't tell me, you know, if you don't want to. Anyway, I don't suppose it will shock me. One gets used to it in the Army. (He smiles pleasantly at her.)

MARY. Well, I'll do what I can, sir. But breakfast at eight sharp is the master's rule, just as it used to be before you went away to the war.

PHILIP. Before I went away to the war I did a lot of silly things. Don't drag them up now. (More curtly) Two eggs, and if there's a ham bring that along too. (He turns away.)

MARY (doubtfully, as she prepares to go). Well, I'm sure I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say. [Exit MARY.]

(As she goes out she makes way for AUNT EMILY to come in, a kind-hearted mid-Victorian lady who has never had any desire for the vote.)

EMILY. There you are, Philip! Good-morning, dear. Did you sleep well?

PHILIP. Rather; splendidly, thanks, Aunt Emily. How are you? (He kisses her.)

EMILY. And did you have a good breakfast? Naughty boy to be late for it. I always thought they had to get up so early in the Army.

PHILIP. They do. That's why they're so late when they get out of the Army.

EMILY: Dear me! I should have thought a habit of four years would have stayed with you.

PHILIP. Every morning for four years, as I've shot out of bed, I've said to myself, "Wait! A time will come." (Smiling) That doesn't really give a habit a chance.

EMILY. Well, I daresay you wanted your sleep out. I was so afraid that a really cosy bed would keep you awake after all those years in the trenches.

PHILIP. Well, one isn't in the trenches all the time. And one gets leave—if one's an officer.

EMILY.(reproachfully). You didn't spend much of it with us, Philip.

PHILIP (taking her hands). I know; but you did understand, didn't you, dear?

EMILY. We're not very gay, and I know you must have wanted gaiety for the little time you had. But I think your Uncle James felt it. After all, dear, you've lived with us for some years, and he is your guardian.

PHILIP. I know. You've been a darling to me always, Aunt Emily. But (awkwardly) Uncle James and I—

EMILY. Of course, he is a little difficult to get on with. I'm more used to him. But I'm sure he really is very fond of you, Philip.

PHILIP. H'm! I always used to be frightened of him.... I suppose he's just the same. He seemed just the same last night—and he still has breakfast at eight o'clock. Been making pots of money, I suppose?

EMILY. He never tells me exactly, but he did speak once about the absurdity of the excess-profits tax. You see, jam is a thing the Army wants.

PHILIP. It certainly gets it.

EMILY. It was so nice for him, because it made him feel he was doing his bit, helping the poor men in the trenches.

[Enter MARY.]

MARY. Mrs. Higgins wishes to speak to you, ma'am. (She looks at PHILIP as much as to say, "There you are!")

EMILY (getting up). Yes, I'll come. (To PHILIP) I think I'd better just see what she wants, Philip.

PHILIP (firmly to MARY). Tell Mrs. Higgins to come here. (MARY hesitates and looks at her mistress.) At once, please. [Exit MARY.]

EMILY (upset). Philip, dear, I don't know what Mrs. Higgins will say—

PHILIP. No; nobody seems to. I thought we might really find out for once.

EMILY (going towards the door). Perhaps I'd better go—

PHILIP (putting his arm round her waist). Oh no, you mustn't. You see, she really wants to see me.

EMILY. You?

PHILIP. Yes; I ordered breakfast five minutes ago.

EMILY. Philip! My poor boy! Why didn't you tell me? and I daresay I could have got it for you. Though I don't know what Mrs. Higgins—

(An extremely angry voice is heard outside, and MRS. HIGGINS, stout and aggressive, comes in.)

MRS. HIGGINS (truculently). You sent for me, ma'am?

EMILY (nervously). Yes—er—I think if you—perhaps—

PHILIP (calmly). I sent for you, Mrs. Higgins. I want some breakfast. Didn't Mary tell you?

MRS. HIGGINS. Breakfast is at eight o'clock. It always has been as long as I've been in this house, and always will be until I get further orders.

PHILIP. Well, you've just got further orders. Two eggs, and if there's a ham—

MRS. HIGGINS. Orders. We're talking about orders. From whom in this house do I take orders, may I ask?

PHILIP. In this case from me.

MRS. HIGGINS (playing her trump-card). In that case, ma'am, I wish to give a month's notice from to-day. Inclusive.

PHILIP (quickly, before his aunt can say anything). Certainly. In fact, you'd probably prefer it if my aunt gave you notice, and then you could go at once. We can easily arrange that. (TO AUNT EMILY as he takes out a fountain pen and cheque-book) What do you pay her?

EMILY (faintly). Forty-five pounds.

PHILIP (writing on his knee). Twelves into forty-five.... (Pleasantly to MRS. HIGGINS, but without looking up) I hope you don't mind a Cox's cheque. Some people do; but this is quite a good one. (Tearing it out) Here you are.

MRS. HIGGINS (taken aback). What's this?

PHILIP. Your wages instead of notice. Now you can go at once.

MRS. HIGGINS. Who said anything about going?

PHILIP (surprised). I'm sorry; I thought you did.

MRS. HIGGINS. If it's only a bit of breakfast, I don't say but what I mightn't get it, if I'm asked decent.

PHILIP (putting back the cheque). Then let me say again, "Two eggs, ham and coffee." And Mary can bring the ham up at once, and I'll get going on that. (Turning away) Thanks very much.

MRS. HIGGINS. Well, I—well—well! [Exit speechless.]

PHILIP (surprised). Is that all she ever says? It isn't much to worry about.

EMILY. Philip, how could you! I should have been terrified.

PHILIP. Well, you see, I've done your job for two years out there.

EMILY. What job?

PHILIP. Mess President.... I think I'll go and see about that ham.

(He smiles at her and goes out into the dining-room. AUNT EMILY wanders round the room, putting a few things tidy as is her habit, when she is interrupted by the entrance of UNCLE JAMES. JAMES is not a big man, nor an impressive one in his black morning-coat; and his thin straggly beard, now going grey, does not hide a chin of any great power; but he has a severity which passes for strength with the weak.)

JAMES. Philip down yet?

EMILY. He's just having his breakfast.

JAMES (looking at his watch). Ten o'clock. (Snapping it shut and putting it back) Ten o'clock. I say ten o'clock, Emily.

EMILY. Yes, dear, I heard you.

JAMES. You don't say anything?

EMILY (vaguely). I expect he's tired after that long war.

JAMES. That's no excuse for not being punctual. I suppose he learnt punctuality in the Army?

EMILY. I expect he learnt it, James, but I understood him to say that he'd forgotten it.

JAMES. Then the sooner he learns it again the better. I particularly stayed away from the office to-day in order to talk things over with him, and (looking cat his watch) here's ten o'clock—past ten—and no sign of him. I'm practically throwing away a day.

EMILY. What are you going to talk to him about?

JAMES. His future, naturally. I have decided that the best thing he can do is to come into the business at once.

EMILY. Are you really going to talk it over with him, James, or are you just going to tell him that he must come?

JAMES (surprised). What do you mean? What's the difference? Naturally we shall talk it over first, and—er—naturally he'll fall in with my wishes.

EMILY. I suppose he can hardly help himself, poor boy.

JAMES. Not until he's twenty-five, anyhow. When he's twenty-five he can have his own money and do what he likes with it.

EMILY (timidly). But I think you ought to consult him at little, dear. After all, he has been fighting for us.

JAMES (with his back to the fire). Now that's the sort of silly sentiment that there's been much too much of. I object to it strongly. I don't want to boast, but I think I may claim to have done my share. I gave up my nephew to my country, and I—er—suffered from the shortage of potatoes to an extent that you probably didn't realize. Indeed, if it hadn't been for your fortunate discovery about that time that you didn't really like potatoes, I don't know how we should have carried on. And, as I think I've told you before, the excess-profits tax seemed to me a singularly stupid piece of legislation—but I paid it. And I don't go boasting about how much I paid.

EMILY (unconvinced). Well, I think that Philip's four years out there have made him more of a man; he doesn't seem somehow like a boy who can be told what to do. I'm sure they've taught him something.

JAMES. I've no doubt that they've taught him something about—er—bombs and—er—which end a revolver goes off, and how to form fours. But I don't see that that sort of thing helps him to decide upon the most suitable career for a young man in after-war conditions.

EMILY. Well, I can only say you'll find him different.

JAMES. I didn't notice any particular difference last night.

EMILY. I think you'll find him rather more—I can't quite think of the word, but Mrs. Higgins could tell you what I mean.

JAMES. Of course, if he likes to earn his living any other way, he may; but I don t see how he proposes to do it so long as I hold the purse-strings. (Looking at his watch) Perhaps you'd better tell him that I cannot wait any longer.

(EMILY opens the door leading into the dining-room and talks through it to PHILIP.)

EMILY. Philip, your uncle is waiting to see you before he goes to the office. Will you be long, dear?

PHILIP (from the dining-room). Is he in a hurry?

JAMES (shortly). Yes.

EMILY. He says he is rather, dear.

PHILIP. Couldn't he come and talk in here? It wouldn't interfere with my breakfast.

JAMES. No.

EMILY. He says he'd rather you came to him, darling.

PHILIP (resigned). Oh, well.

EMILY (to JAMES). He'll be here directly, dear. Just sit down in front of the fire and make yourself comfortable with the paper. He won't keep you long. (She arranges him.)

JAMES (taking the paper). The morning is not the time to make oneself comfortable. It's a most dangerous habit. I nearly found myself dropping off in front of the fire just now. I don't like this hanging about, wasting the day. (He opens the paper.)

EMILY. You should have had a nice sleep, dear, while you could. We were up so late last night listening to Philip's stories.

JAMES. Yes, yes. (He begins a yawn and stifles it hurriedly.) You mustn't neglect your duties, Emily. I've no doubt you have plenty to do.

EMILY. All right, James, then I'll leave you. But don't be hard on the boy.

JAMES (sleepily). I shall be just, Emily; you can rely upon that.

EMILY (going to the door). I don't think that's quite what I meant. [She goes out.]

(JAMES, who is now quite comfortable, begins to nod. He wakes up with a start, turns over the paper, and nods again. Soon he is breathing deeply with closed eyes.)

***

PHILIP (coming in). Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was a bit late for breakfast. (He takes out his pipe.) Are we going to talk business or what?

JAMES (taking out his match). A bit late! I make it just two hours.

PHILIP (pleasantly). All right, Uncle James. Call it two hours late. Or twenty-two hours early for tomorrow's breakfast, if you like. (He sits down in a chair on the opposite side of the table from his uncle, and lights his pipe.)

JAMES. You smoke now?

PHILIP (staggered). I what?

JAMES (nodding at his pipe). You smoke?

PHILIP. Good heavens! what did yolk think we did in France?

JAMES. Before you start smoking all over the house, I should have thought you would have asked your aunt's permission.

(PHILIP looks at him in amazement, and then goes to the door.)

PHILIP (calling). Aunt Emily!... Aunt Emily!... Do you mind my smoking in here?

AUNT EMILY (from upstairs). Of course not, darling.

PHILIP (to JAMES, as he returns to his chair). Of course not, darling. (He puts back his pipe in his mouth.)

JAMES. Now, understand once and for all, Philip, while you remain in my house I expect not only punctuality, but also civility and respect. I will not have impertinence.

PHILIP (unimpressed). Well, that's what I want to talk to you about, Uncle James. About staying in your house, I mean.

JAMES. I don't know what you do mean.

PHILIP. Well, we don't get on too well together, and I thought perhaps I'd better take rooms somewhere. You could give me an allowance until I came into my money. Or I suppose you could give me the money now if you really liked. I don't quite know how father left it to me.

JAMES (coldly). You come into your money when you are twenty-five. Your father very wisely felt that to trust a large sum to a mere boy of twenty-one was simply putting temptation in his way. Whether I have the power or not to alter his dispositions, I certainly don't propose to do so.

PHILIP. If it comes to that, I am twenty-five.

JAMES. Indeed? I had an impression that that event took place in about two years' time. When did you become twenty-five, may I ask?

PHILIP (quietly). It was on the Somme. We were attacking the next day and my company was in support. We were in a so-called trench on the edge of a wood—a damned rotten place to be, and we got hell. The company commander sent back to ask if we could move. The C.O. said, "Certainly not; hang on." We hung on; doing nothing, you know—just hanging on and waiting for the next day. Of course, the Boche knew all about that. He had it on us nicely.... (Sadly) Dear old Billy! he was one of the best—our company commander, you know. They got him, poor devil! That left me in command of the company. I sent a runner back to ask if I could move. Well, I'd had a bit of a scout on my own and found a sort of trench five hundred yards to the right. Not what you'd call a trench, of course, but compared to that wood—well, it was absolutely Hyde Park. I described the position and asked if I could go there. My man never came back. I waited an hour and sent another man. He went west too. Well, I wasn't going to send a third. It was murder. So I had to decide. We'd lost about half the company by this time, you see. Well, there were three things I could do—hang on, move to this other trench, against orders, or go back myself and explain the situation.... I moved.... And then I went back to the C.O. and told him I'd moved.... And then I went back to the company again.... (Quietly) That was when I became twenty-five.... or thirty-five.... or forty-five.

JAMES (recovering himself with an effort). Ah yes, yes. (He coughs awkwardly.) No doubt points like that frequently crop up in the trenches. I am glad that you did well out there, and I'm sure your Colonel would speak kindly of you; but when it comes to choosing a career for you now that you have left the Army, my advice is not altogether to be despised. Your father evidently thought so, or he would not have entrusted you to my care.

PHILIP. My father didn't foresee this war.

JAMES. Yes, yes, but you make too much of this war. All you young boys seem to think you've come back from France to teach us our business. You'll find that it is you who'll have to learn, not we.

PHILIP. I'm quite prepared to learn; in fact, I want to.

JAMES. Excellent. Then we can consider that settled.

PHILIP. Well, we haven't settled yet what business I'm going to learn.

JAMES. I don't think that's very difficult. I propose to take you into my business. You'll start at the bottom of course, but it will be a splendid opening for you.

PHILIP (thoughtfully). I see. So you've decided it for me? The jam business.

JAMES (sharply). Is there anything to be ashamed of in that?

PHILIP. Oh no, nothing at all. Only it doesn't happen to appeal to me.

JAMES. If you knew which side your bread was buttered, it would appeal to you very considerably.

PHILIP. I'm afraid I can't see the butter for the jam.

JAMES. I don't want any silly jokes of that sort. You were glad enough to get it out there, I've no doubt.

PHILIP. Oh yes. Perhaps that's why I'm so sick of it now.... No, it's no good, Uncle James; you must think of something else.

JAMES (with a sneer). Perhaps you've thought of something else?

PHILIP. Well, I had some idea of being an architect—

JAMES. You propose to start learning to be an architect at twenty-three?

PHILIP (smiling). Well, I couldn't start before, could I?

JAMES. Exactly. And now you'll find it's too late.

PHILIP. Is it? Aren't there going to be any more architects, or doctors, or solicitors, or barristers? Because we've all lost four years of our lives, are all the professions going to die out?

JAMES. And how old do you suppose you'll be before you're earning money as an architect?

PHILIP. The usual time, whatever that may be. If I'm four years behind, so is everybody else.

JAMES. Well, I think it's high time you began to earn a living at once.

PHILIP. Look here, Uncle James, do you really think that you can treat me like a boy who's just left school? Do you think four years at the front have made no difference at all?

JAMES. If there had been any difference, I should have expected it to take the form of an increased readiness in obey orders and recognize authority.

PHILIP (regretfully). You are evidently determined to have a row. Perhaps I had better tell you once and for all that I refuse to go into the turnip and vegetable narrow business.

JAMES (thumping the table angrily). And perhaps I'd better tell you, sir, once and for all, that I don't propose to allow rude rudeness from an impertinent young puppy.

PHILIP (reminiscently). I remember annoying our Brigadier once. He was covered with red, had a very red face, about twenty medals, and a cold blue eye. He told me how angry he was for about five minutes while I stood to attention. I'm afraid you aren't nearly impressive, Uncle James.

JAMES (rather upset). Oh! (Recovering himself) Fortunately I have other means of impressing you. The power of the purse goes a long way in this world. I propose to use it.

PHILIP. I see.... Yes... that's rather awkward, isn't it?

JAMES (pleasantly). I think you'll find it very awkward.

PHILIP (thoughtfully). Yes.

(With an amused laugh JAMES settles down to his paper as if the interview were over.)

PHILIP (to himself). I suppose I shall have to think of another argument. (He takes out a revolver from him pocket and fondles it affectionately.)

JAMES (looking up suddenly as he is doing this—amazed). What on earth are you doing?

PHILIP. Souvenir from France. Do you know, Uncle. James, that this revolver has killed about twenty Germans?

JAMES (shortly). Oh! Well, don't go playing about with it here, or you'll be killing Englishmen before you know where you are.

PHILIP. Well, you never know. (He raises it leisurely and points it at his uncle.) It's a nice little weapon.

JAMES (angrily). Put it down, sir. You ought to have grown out of monkey tricks like that in the Army. You ought to know better than to point an unloaded revolver at anybody. That's the way accidents always happen.

PHILIP. Not when you've been on a revolver course and know all about it. Besides, it is loaded.

JAMES (very angry because he is frightened suddenly). Put it down at once, sir. (PHILIP turns it away from him and examines it carelessly.) What's the matter with you? Have you gone mad suddenly?

PHILIP (mildly). I thought you'd be interested in it. It's shot such a lot of Germans.

JAMES. Well, it won't want to shoot any more, and the sooner you get rid of it the better.

PHILIP. I wonder. Does it ever occur to you, Uncle James, that there are about a hundred thousand people in England who own revolvers, who are quite accustomed to them and—who have nobody to practise on now?

JAMES. No, sir, it certainly doesn't.

PHILIP (thoughtfully). I wonder if it will make any difference. You know, one gets so used to potting at people. It's rather difficult to realize suddenly that one oughtn't to.

JAMES (getting up). I don't know what the object of this tomfoolery is, if it has one. But you understand that I expect you to come to the office with me to-morrow at nine o'clock. Kindly see that you're punctual. (He turns to go away.)

PHILIP (softly). Uncle James.

JAMES (over his shoulder). I have no more—

PHILIP (in his parade voice). Damn it, sir! stand to attention when you talk to an officer! (JAMES instinctively turns round and stiffens himself.) That's better; you can sit down if you like. (He motions JAMES to his chair with the revolver.)

JAMES (going nervously to his chair). What does this bluff mean?

PHILIP. It isn't bluff, it's quite serious. (Pointing the revolver at his uncle) Do sit down.

JAMES (sitting donor). Threats, eh?

PHILIP. Persuasion.

JAMES. At the point of the revolver? You settle your arguments by force? Good heavens, sir! this is just the very thing that we were fighting to put down.

PHILIP. We were fighting! We! We! Uncle, you're humorist.

JAMES, Well, "you," if you prefer it. Although those of us who stayed at home—

PHILIP. Yes, never mind about the excess profits now. I can tell you quite well what we fought for. We used force to put down force. That's what I'm doing now. You were going to use force—the force of money—to make me do what you wanted. Now I'm using force to stop it. (He levels the revolver again.)

JAMES. You're—you're going to shoot your old uncle?

PHILIP. Why not? I've shot lots of old uncles—Landsturmers.

JAMES. But those were Germans! It's different shooting Germans. You're in England now. You couldn't have a crime on your conscience like that.

PHILIP. Ah, but you mustn't think that after four years of war one has quite the same ideas about the sanctity of human life. How could one?

JAMES. You'll find that juries have kept pretty much the same ideas, I fancy.

PHILIP. Yes, but revolvers often go off accidentally. You said so yourself. This is going to be the purest accident. Can't you see it in the papers? "The deceased's nephew, who was obviously upset—"

JAMES. I suppose you think it's brave to come back from the front and threaten a defenceless man with a revolver? Is that the sort of fair play they teach you in the Army?

PHILIP. Good heavens! of course it is. You don't think that you wait until the other side has got just as many guns as you before you attack? You're really rather lucky. Strictly speaking, I ought to have thrown half a dozen bombs at you first. (Taking one out of his pocket) As it happens, I've only got one.

JAMES (thoroughly alarmed). Put that back at once.

PHILIP (putting down the revolver and taking it in his hands). You hold it in the right hand—so—taking care to keep the lever down. Then you take the pin in the finger—so, and—but perhaps this doesn't interest you?

JAMES (edging his chair away). Put it down at once, sir. Good heavens! anything might happen.

PHILIP (putting it down and taking up the revolver again). Does it ever occur to you, Uncle James, that there are about three million people in England who know all about bombs, and how to throw them, and—

JAMES. It certainly does not occur to me. I should never dream of letting these things occur to me.

PHILIP (looking at the bomb regretfully). It's rather against my principles as a soldier, but just to make things a bit more fair—(generously) you shall have it. (He holds it out to him suddenly.)

JAMES (shrinking back again). Certainly not, sir. It might go off at any moment.

PHILIP (putting it back in his pocket). Oh no; it's quite useless; there's no detonator.... (Sternly) Now, then, let's talk business.

JAMES. What do you want me to do?

PHILIP. Strictly speaking, you should be holding your hands over your head and saying "Kamerad!" However, I'll let you off that. All I ask from you is that you should be reasonable.

JAMES. And if I refuse, you'll shoot me?

PHILIP. Well, I don't quite know, Uncle James. I expect we should go through this little scene again to-morrow. You haven't enjoyed it, have you? Well, there's lots more of it to come. We'll rehearse it every day. One day, if you go on being unreasonable, the thing will go off. Of course, you think that I shouldn't have the pluck to fire. But you can't be quite certain. It's a hundred to one that I shan't—only I might. Fear—it's a horrible thing. Elderly men die of it sometimes.

JAMES. Pooh! I'm not to be bluffed like that.

PHILIP (suddenly). You're quite right; you're not that sort. I made a mistake. (Aiming carefully) I shall have to do it straight off, after all. One—two—

JAMES (on his knees, with uplifted hands, in an agony of terror). Philip! Mercy! What are your terms?

PHILIP (picking him up by the scruff, and helping him into the chair). Good man, that's the way to talk. I'll get them for you. Make yourself comfortable in front of the fire till I come back. Here's the paper. (He gives his uncle the paper, and goes out into the hall.)

***

(JAMES opens his eyes with a start and looks round him in a bewildered way. He rubs his heart, takes out his match and looks at it, and then stares round the room again. The door from the dining-room opens, and PHILIP comes in with a piece of toast in his hand.)

PHILIP (his mouth full). You wanted to see me, Uncle James?

JAMES (still bewildered). That's all right, my boy, that's all right. What have you been doing?

PHILIP (surprised). Breakfast. (Putting the last piece in his mouth) Rather late, I'm afraid.

JAMES. That's all right. (He laughs awkwardly.)

PHILIP. Anything the matter? You don't look your usual bright self.

JAMES. I—er—seem to have dropped asleep in front of the fire. Most unusual thing for me to have done. Most unusual.

PHILIP. Let that be a lesson to you not to get up so early. Of course, if you're in the Army you can't help yourself. Thank Heaven I'm out of it, and my own master again.

JAMES. Ah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Sit down, Philip. (He indicates the chair by the fire.)