JOHN. [Looking at his watch.] How long?

VIDA. [Very anxious to please.] Half a cigar! Benson will call you.

JOHN. [Practically-minded.] Don't make it too long. You see, there's my sheriff's sale on at twelve, and those races this afternoon. Fiddler will be here in ten minutes, remember!

[The door opens.

VIDA. [To JOHN.] Run along! [JOHN leaves and VIDA, instantly practical, makes a broad gesture to BENSON.] Everything just as it was, Benson! [BENSON whisks the roses out of the vase and replaces them in the box. She gives VIDA scissors and empty vases, and, when VIDA finds herself in precisely the same position which preceded JOHN'S entrance, she says:] There!

[BROOKS comes in as VIDA takes a rose from basket.

BROOKS. [With characteristic stolidness.] Your ladyship's dressmaker! M'lady! [Enter SIR WILFRID in morning suit, boutonniere, &c.

VIDA. [With tender surprise and busy with the roses.] Is that really you, Sir Wilfrid! I never flattered myself for an instant that you'd remember to come.

SIR WILFRID. [Moving to the head of the sofa.] Come? 'Course I come! Keen to come see you. By Jove, you know, you look as pink and white as a huntin' mornin'.

VIDA. [Ready to make any man as happy as possible.] You'll smoke?

SIR WILFRID. Thanks! [He watches her as she trims and arranges the flowers.] Awfully long fingers you have! Wish I was a rose, or a ring, or a pair of shears! I say, d'you ever notice what a devil of a fellow I am for originality, what? [Unlike JOHN, is evidently impressed by her.] You've got a delicate little den up here! Not so much low livin' and high thinkin', as low lights and no thinkin' at all, I hope—eh?

[By this time, VIDA has filled a vase with roses and rises to sweep by him and, if possible, make another charming picture to his eyes.

VIDA. [Gliding gracefully past him.] You don't mind my moving about?

SIR WILFRID. [Impressed.] Not if you don't mind my watchin'. [Sitting down on the sofa.] And sayin' how wel you do it.

VIDA. It's most original of you to come here this morning. I don't quite see why you did.

She places the roses here and there, as if to see their effect, and leaves them on a small table near the door through which her visitors entered.

SIR WILFRID. Admiration.

VIDA. [Sauntering slowly toward the mirror as she speaks.] Oh, I saw that you admired her! And of course, she did say she was coming here at eleven! But that was only bravado! She won't come, and besides, I've given orders to admit no one!

SIR WILFRID. [Attempting to dam the stream of her talk which flows gently but steadily on.] May I ask you—

VIDA. And, indeed, if she came now, Mr. Karslake has gone, and her sole object in coming was to make him uncomfortable. [She moves toward the table, stopping a half minute at the mirror to see that she looks as she wishes to look.] Very dangerous symptom, too, that passionate desire to make one's former husband unhappy! But, I can't believe that your admiration for Cynthia Karslake is so warm that it led you to pay me this visit a half hour too early in the hope of seeing—

SIR WILFRID. [Rising; most civil, but speaking his mind like a Briton.] I say, would you mind stopping a moment! [She smiles.] I'm not an American, you know; I was brought up not to interrupt. But you Americans, it's different with you! If somebody didn't interrupt you, you'd go on forever.

VIDA. [Passing him to tantalize.] My point is you come to see Cynthia—

SIR WILFRID. [Believing she means it.] I came hopin' to see—

VIDA. [Provokingly.] Cynthia!

SIR WILFRID. [Perfectly single-minded and entirely taken in.] But I would have come even if I'd known—

VIDA. [Evading him, while he follows.] I don't believe it!

SIR WILFRID. [Protesting whole-heartedly.] Give you my word I—

VIDA. [Leading him on.] You're here to see her! And of course—

SIR WILFRID. [Determined to be heard because, after all, he's a man.] May I have the—eh—the floor? [VIDA sits down in a chair.] I was jolly well bowled over with Mrs. Karslake, I admit that, and I hoped to see her here, but—

VIDA. [Talking nonsense and knowing it.] You had another object in coming. In fact, you came to see Cynthia, and you came to see me! What I really long to know is, why you wanted to see me! For, of course, Cynthia's to be married at three! And, if she wasn't she wouldn't have you!

SIR WILFRID. [Not intending to wound; merely speaking the flat truth.] Well, I mean to jolly well ask her.

VIDA. [Indignant.] To be your wife?

SIR WILFRID. Why not?

VIDA. [Still indignant.] And you came here, to my house—in order to ask her—

SIR WILFRID. [Truthful even on a subtle point.] Oh, but that's only my first reason for coming, you know.

VIDA. [Concealing her hopes.] Well, now I am curious—what is the second?

SIR WILFRID. [Simply.] Are you feelin' pretty robust?

VIDA. I don't know!

SIR WILFRID. [Crosses to the buffet.] Will you have something, and then I'll tell you!

VIDA. [Gaily.] Can't I support the news without—

SIR WILFRID. [Trying to explain his state of mind, a feat which he has never been able to accomplish.] Mrs. Phillimore, you see it's this way. Whenever you're lucky, you're too lucky. Now, Mrs. Karslake is a nipper and no mistake, but as I told you, the very same evenin' and house where I saw her—

[He attempts to take her hand.

VIDA. [Gently rising and affecting a tender surprise.] What!

SIR WILFRID. [Rising with her.] That's it!—You're over! [He suggests with his right hand the movement of a horse taking a hurdle.

VIDA. [Very sweetly.] You don't really mean—

SIR WILFRID. [Carried away for the moment by so much true womanliness.] I mean, I stayed awake for an hour last night, thinkin' about you.

VIDA. [Speaking to be contradicted.] But, you've just told me—that Cynthia—

SIR WILFRID. [Admitting the fact.] Well, she did—she did bowl my wicket, but so did you—

VIDA. [Taking him very gently to task.] Don't you think there's a limit to— [She sits down.

SIR WILFRID. [Roused by so much loveliness of soul.] Now, see here, Mrs. Phillimore! You and I are not bottle babies, eh, are we? You've been married and—I—I've knocked about, and we both know there's a lot of stuff talked about—eh, eh, well, you know:—the one and only—that a fellow can't be awfully well smashed by two at the same time, don't you know! All rubbish! You know it, and the proof of the puddin's in the eatin', I am!

VIDA. [With gentle reproach.] May I ask where I come in?

SIR WILFRID. Well, now, Mrs. Phillimore, I'll be frank with you, Cynthia's my favourite, but you're runnin' her a close second in the popular esteem!

VIDA. [Laughing, determined not to take offense.] What a delightful, original, fantastic person you are!

SIR WILFRID. [Frankly happy that he has explained everything so neatly.] I knew you'd take it that way!

VIDA. And what next, pray?

SIR WILFRID. Oh, just the usual,—eh,—thing,—the—eh—the same old question, don't you know. Will you have me if she don't?

VIDA. [A shade piqued, but determined not to risk showing it.] And you call that the same old usual question?

SIR WILFRID. Yes, I know, but—but will you? I sail in a week; we can take the same boat. And—eh—eh—my dear Mrs.—mayn't I say Vida, I'd like to see you at the head of my table.

VIDA. [With velvet irony.] With Cynthia at the foot?

SIR WILFRID. [Practical, as before.] Never mind Mrs. Karslake,—I admire her—she's—but you have your own points! And you're here, and so'm I!—damme I offer myself, and my affections, and I'm no icicle, my dear, tell you that for a fact, and,—and in fact what's your answer!— [VIDA sighs and shakes her head.] Make it, yes! I say, you know, my dear Vida—

[He catches her hands.

VIDA. [Drawing them from his.] Unhand me, dear villain! And sit further away from your second choice! What can I say? I'd rather have you for a lover than any man I know! You must be a lovely lover!

SIR WILFRID. I am!

[He makes a second effort to catch her fingers.

VIDA. Will you kindly go further away and be good!

SIR WILFRID. [Quite forgetting CYNTHIA.] Look here, if you say yes, we'll be married—

VIDA. In a month!

SIR WILFRID. Oh, no—this evening!

VIDA. [Incapable of leaving a situation unadorned.] This evening! And sail in the same boat with you? And shall we sail to the Garden of Eden and stroll into it and lock the gate on the inside and then lose the key—under a rose-bush?

SIR WILFRID. [After a pause and some consideration.] Yes; yes, I say—that's too clever for me! [He draws nearer to her to bring the understanding to a crisis.

VIDA. [Interrupted by a soft knock.] My maid—come!

SIR WILFRID. [Swinging out of his chair and moving to the sofa.] Eh?

BENSON. [Coming in and approaching VIDA.] The new footman, ma'am—he's made a mistake. He's told the lady you're at home.

VIDA. What lady?

BENSON. Mrs. Karslake; and she's on the stairs, ma'am.

VIDA. Show her in.

SIR WILFRID has been turning over the roses. On hearing this, he faces about with a long stemmed one in his hand. He subsequently uses it to point his remarks.

SIR WILFRID. [To BENSON, who stops.] One moment! [To VIDA.] I say, eh—I'd rather not see her!

VIDA. [Very innocently.] But you came here to see her.

SIR WILFRID. [A little flustered.] I'd rather not. Eh,—I fancied I'd find you and her together—but her— [Coming a step nearer.] findin' me with you looks so dooced intimate,—no one else, d'ye see, I believe she'd—draw conclusions—

BENSON. Pardon me, ma'am—but I hear Brooks coming!

SIR WILFRID. [To BENSON.] Hold the door!

VIDA. So you don't want her to know—?

SIR WILFRID. [To VIDA.] Be a good girl now—run me off somewhere!

VIDA. [To BENSON.] Show Sir Wilfrid the men's room.

[BROOKS comes in.

SIR WILFRID. The men's room! Ah! Oh! Eh!

VIDA. [Beckoning him to go at once.] Sir Wil— [He hesitates; then as BROOKS advances, he flings off with BENSON.

BROOKS. Lady Karslake, milady!

VIDA. Anything more inopportune! I never dreamed she'd come— [CYNTHIA comes in veiled. As she walks quickly into the room, VIDA greets her languorously.] My dear Cynthia, you don't mean to say—

CYNTHIA. [Rather short, and visibly agitated.] Yes, I've come.

VIDA. [Polite, but not urgent.] Do take off your veil.

CYNTHIA. [Complying.] Is no one here?

VIDA. [As before.] Won't you sit down?

CYNTHIA. [Agitated and suspicious.] Thanks, no—That is, yes, thanks. Yes! You haven't answered my question?

[CYNTHIA waves her hand through the haze; glances suspiciously at the smoke, and looks about for the cigarette.

VIDA. [Playing innocence in the first degree.] My dear, what makes you imagine that any one's here!

CYNTHIA. You've been smoking.

VIDA. Oh, puffing away! [CYNTHIA sees the glasses.

CYNTHIA. And drinking—a pair of drinks? [Her eyes lighting on JOHN'S gloves on the table at her elbow.] Do they fit you, dear? [VIDA smiles; CYNTHIA picks up the crop and looks at it and reads her own name.] "Jack, from Cynthia."

VIDA. [Without taking the trouble to double for a mere woman.] Yes, dear; it's Mr. Karslake's crop, but I'm happy to say he left me a few minutes ago.

CYNTHIA. He left the house? [VIDA smiles.] I wanted to see him.

VIDA. [With a shade of insolence.] To quarrel?

CYNTHIA. [Frank and curt.] I wanted to see him.

VIDA. [Determined to put CYNTHIA in the wrong.] And I sent him away because I didn't want you to repeat the scene of last night in my house.

CYNTHIA. [Looks at crop and is silent.] Well, I can't stay. I'm to be married at three, and I had to play truant to get here!

[BENSON comes in.

BENSON. [To VIDA.] There's a person, ma'am, on the sidewalk.

VIDA. What person, Benson?

BENSON. A person, ma'am, with a horse.

CYNTHIA. [Happily agitated.] It's Fiddler with Cynthia K!

[She walks rapidly to the window and looks out.

VIDA. [To BENSON.] Tell the man I'll be down in five minutes.

CYNTHIA. [Looking down from the balcony with delight.] Oh, there she is!

VIDA. [Aside to BENSON.] Go to the club-room, Benson, and say to the two gentlemen I can't see them at present—I'll send for them when—

BENSON. [Listening.] I hear some one coming.

VIDA. Quick! [BENSON leaves the door which opens and JOHN comes in slowly, carelessly. VIDA whispers to BENSON.

BENSON. [Moving close to JOHN and whispering.] Beg par—

VIDA. [Under her breath.] Go back!

JOHN. [Not understanding.] I beg pardon!

VIDA. [Scarcely above a whisper.] Go back!

JOHN. [Dense.] Can't! I've a date! With the sheriff!

VIDA. [A little cross.] Please use your eyes.

JOHN. [Laughing and flattering VIDA.] I am using my eyes.

VIDA. [Fretted.] Don't you see there's a lovely creature in the room?

JOHN. [Not knowing what it is all about, but taking a wicked delight in seeing her customary calm ruffled.] Of course there is.

VIDA. Hush!

JOHN. [Teasingly.] But what I want to know is—

VIDA. Hush!

JOHN. [Enjoying his fun.] —is when we're to stroll in the Garden of Eden—

VIDA. Hush!

JOHN. —and lose the key. [To put a stop to this, she lightly tosses her handkerchief into his face.] By George, talk about attar of roses!

CYNTHIA. [At window, excited and moved at seeing her mare once more.] Oh, she's a darling! [Turning.] A perfect darling! [JOHN starts up; he sees CYNTHIA at the same instant that she sees him.] Oh! I didn't know you were here. [After a pause, with "take-it-or-leave-it" frankness.] I came to see you! [JOHN looks extremely dark and angry; VIDA rises.

VIDA. [To CYNTHIA, most gently, and seeing there's nothing to be gained of JOHN.] Oh, pray feel at home, Cynthia, dear! [Stopping by the door to her bedroom; to JOHN.] When I've a nice street frock on, I'll ask you to present me to Cynthia K. [VIDA opens the door and goes out. CYNTHIA and JOHN involuntarily exchange glances.

CYNTHIA. [Agitated and frank.] Of course, I told you yesterday I was coming here.

JOHN. [Irritated.] And I was to deny myself the privilege of being here?

CYNTHIA. [Curt and agitated.] Yes.

JOHN. [Ready to fight.] And you guessed I would do that?

CYNTHIA. No.

JOHN. What?

CYNTHIA. [Speaks with agitation, frankness and good will.] Jack—I mean, Mr. Karslake,—no, I mean, Jack! I came because—well, you see, it's my wedding day!—and—and—I—I—was rude to you last evening. I'd like to apologize and make peace with you before I go—

JOHN. [Determined to be disagreeable.] Before you go to your last, long home!

CYNTHIA. I came to apologize.

JOHN. But you'll remain to quarrel!

CYNTHIA. [Still frank and kind.] I will not quarrel. No!—and I'm only here for a moment. I'm to be married at three, and just look at the clock! Besides, I told Philip I was going to Louise's shop, and I did—on the way here; but, you see, if I stay too long he'll telephone Louise and find I'm not there, and he might guess I was here. So you see I'm risking a scandal. And now, Jack, see here, I lay my hand on the table, I'm here on the square, and,—what I want to say is, why—Jack, even if we have made a mess of our married life, let's put by anger and pride. It's all over now and can't be helped. So let's be human, let's be reasonable, and let's be kind to each other! Won't you give me your hand? [JOHN refuses.] I wish you every happiness!

JOHN. [Turning away, the past rankling.] I had a client once, a murderer; he told me he murdered the man, and he told me, too, that he never felt so kindly to anybody as he did to that man after he'd killed him!

CYNTHIA. Jack!

JOHN. [Unforgiving.] You murdered my happiness!

CYNTHIA. I won't recriminate!

JOHN. And now I must put by anger and pride! I do! But not self-respect, not a just indignation—not the facts and my clear memory of them!

CYNTHIA. Jack!

JOHN. No!

CYNTHIA. [With growing emotion, and holding out her hand.] I give you one more chance! Yes, I'm determined to be generous. I forgive everything you ever did to me. I'm ready to be friends. I wish you every happiness and every—every—horse in the world! I can't do more than that! [She offers it again.] You refuse?

JOHN. [Moved but surly.] I like wildcats and I like Christians, but I don't like Christian wildcats! Now I'm close hauled, trot out your tornado! Let the Tiger loose! It's the tamer, the man in the cage that has to look lively and use the red hot crowbar! But, by Jove, I'm out of the cage! I'm a mere spectator of the married circus! [He puffs vigorously.

CYNTHIA. Be a game sport then! Our marriage was a wager; you wagered you could live with me. You lost; you paid with a divorce; and now is the time to show your sporting blood. Come on, shake hands and part friends.

JOHN. Not in this world! Friends with you, no! I have a proper pride. I don't propose to put my pride in my pocket.

CYNTHIA. [Jealous and plain spoken.] Oh, I wouldn't ask you to put your pride in your pocket while Vida's handkerchief is there. [JOHN looks angered.] Pretty little bijou of a handkerchief! [Pulling out the handkerchief.] And she is charming, and divorced, and reasonably well made up.

JOHN. Oh, well, Vida is a woman. [Toying with the handkerchief.] I'm a man, a handkerchief is a handkerchief, and, as some old Aristotle or other said, whatever concerns a woman, concerns me!

CYNTHIA. [Not oblivious of him, but in a low voice.] Insufferable! Well, yes. [She sits down. She is too much wounded to make any further appeal.] You're perfectly right. There's no possible harmony between divorced people! I withdraw my hand and all good feeling. No wonder I couldn't stand you. Eh? However, that's pleasantly past! But at least, my dear Karslake, let us have some sort of beauty behaviour! If we cannot be decent, let us endeavour to be graceful. If we can't be moral, at least we can avoid being vulgar.

JOHN. Well—

CYNTHIA. If there's to be no more marriage in the world—

JOHN. [Cynically.] Oh, but that's not it; there's to be more and more and more!

CYNTHIA. [With a touch of bitterness.] Very well! I repeat then, if there's to be nothing but marriage and divorce, and re-marriage, and re-divorce, at least, at least, those who are divorced can avoid the vulgarity of meeting each other here, there, and everywhere!

JOHN. Oh, that's where you come out!

CYNTHIA. I thought so yesterday, and to-day I know it. It's an insufferable thing to a woman of any delicacy of feeling to find her husband—

JOHN. Ahem—former!

CYNTHIA. Once a husband always—

JOHN. [In the same cynical tone.] Oh, no! Oh, dear, no.

CYNTHIA. To find her—to find the man she has once lived with—in the house of—making love to—to find you here! [JOHN smiles and rises.] You smile,—but I say, it should be a social axiom, no woman should have to meet her former husband.

JOHN. [Cynical and cutting.] Oh, I don't know; after I've served my term I don't mind meeting my jailor.

CYNTHIA. [As JOHN takes chair near her.] It's indecent—at the horse-show, the opera, at races and balls, to meet the man who once—It's not civilized! It's fantastic! It's half baked! Oh, I never should have come here! [He sympathizes, and she grows irrational and furious.] But it's entirely your fault!

JOHN. My fault?

CYNTHIA. [Working herself into a rage.] Of course. What business have you to be about—to be at large. To be at all!

JOHN. Gosh!

CYNTHIA. [Her rage increasing.] To be where I am! Yes, it's just as horrible for you to turn up in my life as it would be for a dead person to insist on coming back to life and dinner and bridge!

JOHN. Horrid idea!

CYNTHIA. Yes, but it's you who behave just as if you were not dead, just as if I'd not spent a fortune on your funeral. You do; you prepare to bob up at afternoon teas,—and dinners—and embarrass me to death with your extinct personality!

JOHN. Well, of course we were married, but it didn't quite kill me.

CYNTHIA. [Angry and plain spoken.] You killed yourself for me—I divorced you. I buried you out of my life. If any human soul was ever dead, you are! And there's nothing I so hate as a gibbering ghost.

JOHN. Oh, I say!

CYNTHIA. [With hot anger.] Go gibber and squeak where gibbering and squeaking are the fashion!

JOHN. [Laughing and pretending to a coldness he does not feel.] And so, my dear child, I'm to abate myself as a nuisance! Well, as far as seeing you is concerned, for my part it's just like seeing a horse who's chucked you once. The bruises are O. K., and you see him with a sort of easy curiosity. Of course, you know, he'll jolly well chuck the next man!—Permit me! [JOHN picks up her gloves, handkerchief and parasol, and gives her these as she drops them one by one in her agitation.] There's pleasure in the thought.

CYNTHIA. Oh!

JOHN. And now, may I ask you a very simple question? Mere curiosity on my part, but, why did you come here this morning?

CYNTHIA. I have already explained that to you.

JOHN. Not your real motive. Permit me!

CYNTHIA. Oh!

JOHN. But I believe I have guessed your real—permit me—your real motive!

CYNTHIA. Oh!

JOHN. [With mock sympathy.] Cynthia, I am sorry for you.

CYNTHIA. H'm?

JOHN. Of course we had a pretty lively case of the fever—the mutual attraction fever, and we were married a very short time. And I conclude that's what's the matter with you! You see, my dear, seven months of married life is too short a time to cure a bad case of the fancies.

CYNTHIA. [In angry surprise.] What?

JOHN. [Calm and triumphant.] That's my diagnosis.

CYNTHIA. [Slowly and gathering herself together.] I don't think I understand.

JOHN. Oh, yes, you do; yes, you do.

CYNTHIA. [With blazing eyes.] What do you mean?

JOHN. Would you mind not breaking my crop! Thank you! I mean [With polite impertinence.] that ours was a case of premature divorce, and, ahem, you're in love with me still.

He pauses. CYNTHIA has one moment of fury, then she realizes at what a disadvantage this places her. She makes an immense effort, recovers her calm, thinks hard for a moment more, and then, has suddenly an inspiration.

CYNTHIA. Jack, some day you'll get the blind staggers from conceit. No, I'm not in love with you, Mr. Karslake, but I shouldn't be at all surprised if she were. She's just your sort, you know. She's a man-eating shark, and you'll be a toothsome mouthful. Oh, come now, Jack, what a silly you are! Oh, yes, you are, to get off a joke like that; me—in love with—

[She looks at him.

JOHN. Why are you here? [She laughs and begins to play her game.] Why are you here?

CYNTHIA. Guess! [She laughs.

JOHN. Why are you—

CYNTHIA. [Quickly.] Why am I here! I'll tell you. I'm going to be married. I had a longing, an irresistible longing to see you make an ass of yourself just once more! It happened!

JOHN. [Uncertain and discomfited.] I know better!

CYNTHIA. But I came for a serious purpose, too. I came, my dear fellow, to make an experiment on myself. I've been with you thirty minutes; and— [She sighs with content.] It's all right!

JOHN. What's all right?

CYNTHIA. [Calm and apparently at peace with the world.] I'm immune.

JOHN. Immune?

CYNTHIA. You're not catching any more! Yes, you see, I said to myself, if I fly into a temper—

JOHN. You did!

CYNTHIA. If I fly into a temper when I see him, well, that shows I'm not yet so entirely convalescent that I can afford to have Jack Karslake at my house. If I remain calm I shall ask him to dinner.

JOHN. [Routed.] Ask me if you dare! [He rises.

CYNTHIA. [Getting the whip hand for good.] Ask you to dinner? Oh, my dear fellow. [JOHN rises.] I'm going to do much more than that. [She rises.] We must be friends, old man! We must meet, we must meet often, we must show New York the way the thing should be done, and, to show you I mean it—I want you to be my best man, and give me away when I'm married this afternoon.

JOHN. [Incredulous and impatient.] You don't mean that!

[He pushes back his chair.

CYNTHIA. There you are! Always suspicious!

JOHN. You don't mean that!

CYNTHIA. [Hiding her emotion under a sportswoman's manner.] Don't I? I ask you, come! And come as you are! And I'll lay my wedding gown to Cynthia K that you won't be there! If you're there, you get the gown, and if you're not, I get Cynthia K!—

JOHN. [Determined not to be worsted.] I take it!

CYNTHIA. Done! Now, then, we'll see which of us two is the real sporting goods! Shake! [They shake hands on it.] Would you mind letting me have a plain soda? [JOHN goes to the table, and, as he is rattled and does not regard what he is about, he fills the glass three-fourths full with whiskey. He gives this to CYNTHIA who looks him in the eye with an air of triumph.] Thanks. [Maliciously, as VIDA enters.] Your hand is a bit shaky. I think you need a little King William. [JOHN shrugs his shoulders, and, as VIDA immediately speaks, CYNTHIA defers drinking.

VIDA. [To CYNTHIA.] My dear, I'm sorry to tell you your husband—I mean, my husband—I mean Philip—he's asking for you over the 'phone. You must have said you were coming here. Of course, I told him you were not here, and hung up.

BENSON. [Entering hurriedly and at once moving to VIDA.] Ma'am, the new footman's been talking with Mr. Phillimore on the wire. [VIDA, gesture of regret.] He told Mr. Phillimore that his lady was here, and, if I can believe my ears, ma'am, he's got Sir Wilfrid on the 'phone now!

SIR WILFRID. [Making his appearance, perplexed and annoyed.] I say, y' know—extraordinary country; that old chap, Phillimore, he's been damned impertinent over the wire! Says I've run off with Mrs. Karslake—talks about "Louise!" Now, who the dooce is Louise? He's comin' round here, too—I said Mrs. Karslake wasn't here— [Seeing CYNTHIA.] Hello! Good job! What a liar I am!

BENSON. [Coming to the door. To VIDA.] Mr. Fiddler, ma'am, says the mare is gettin' very restive.

[JOHN hears this and moves at once. BENSON withdraws.

JOHN. [To VIDA.] If that mare's restive, she'll break out in a rash.

VIDA. [To JOHN.] Will you take me?

JOHN. Of course. [They go to the door.

CYNTHIA. [To JOHN.] Tata, old man! Meet you at the altar! If I don't, the mare's mine!

[SIR WILFRID looks at her amazed.

VIDA. [To CYNTHIA.] Do the honours, dear, in my absence!

JOHN. Come along, come along, never mind them! A horse is a horse!

JOHN and VIDA go out gaily and in haste. At the same moment CYNTHIA drinks what she supposes to be her glass of plain soda. As it is whiskey straight, she is seized with astonishment and a fit of coughing. SIR WILFRID relieves her of the glass.

SIR WILFRID. [Indicating the contents of the glass.] I say, do you ordinarily take it as high up—as seven fingers and two thumbs.

CYNTHIA. [Coughing.] Jack poured it out. Just shows how groggy he was! And now, Sir Wilfrid—

[She gets her things to go.

SIR WILFRID. Oh, you can't go!

[BROOKS appears at the door.

CYNTHIA. I am to be married at three.

SIR WILFRID. Let him wait. [Aside to BROOKS, whom he meets near the door.] If Mr. Phillimore comes, bring his card up.

BROOKS. [Going.] Yes, Sir Wilfrid.

SIR WILFRID. To me! [Tipping him.

BROOKS. [Bowing.] To you, Sir Wilfrid. [BROOKS goes.

SIR WILFRID. [Returning to CYNTHIA.] I've got to have my innings, y' know! [Looking at her more closely.] I say, you've been crying!—

CYNTHIA. King William!

SIR WILFRID. You are crying! Poor little gal!

CYNTHIA. [Tears in her eyes.] I feel all shaken and cold.

[BROOKS returns with a card.

SIR WILFRID. [Astonished and sympathetic.] Poor little gal.

CYNTHIA. [Her eyes wet.] I didn't sleep a wink last night. [With disgust.] Oh, what is the matter with me?

SIR WILFRID. Why, it's as plain as a pikestaff! You— [BROOKS has carried in the card to SIR WILFRED, who picks it up and says aside, to BROOKS:] Phillimore? [BROOKS assents. Aloud to CYNTHIA, calmly deceitful.] Who's Waldorf Smith? [CYNTHIA shakes her head. To BROOKS, returning card to salver.] Tell the gentleman Mrs. Karslake is not here! [BROOKS leaves the room.

CYNTHIA. [Aware that she has no business where she is.] I thought it was Philip!

SIR WILFRID. [Telling the truth as if it were a lie.] So did I! [With cheerful confidence.] And now, Mrs. Karslake, I'll tell you why you're cryin'. [Sitting down beside her.] You're marryin' the wrong man! I'm sorry for you, but you're such a goose. Here you are, marryin' this legal luminary. What for? You don't know! He don't know! But I do! You pretend you're marryin' him because it's the sensible thing; not a bit of it. You're marryin' Mr. Phillimore because of all the other men you ever saw he's the least like Jack Karslake.

CYNTHIA. That's a very good reason.

SIR WILFRID. There's only one good reason for marrying, and that is because you'll die if you don't!

CYNTHIA. Oh, I've tried that!

SIR WILFRID. The Scripture says: "Try! try! again!" I tell you, there's nothing like a w'im!

CYNTHIA. What's that? W'im? Oh, you mean a whim! Do please try and say Whim!

SIR WILFRID. [For the first time emphasizing his H in the word.] Whim. You must have a w'im—w'im for the chappie you marry.

CYNTHIA. I had—for Jack.

SIR WILFRID. Your w'im wasn't wimmy enough, my dear! If you'd had more of it, and tougher, it would ha' stood, y'know! Now, I'm not proposin'!

CYNTHIA. [Diverted at last from her own distress.] I hope not!

SIR WILFRID. Oh, I will later! It's not time yet! As I was saying—

CYNTHIA. And pray, Sir Wilfrid, when will it be time?

SIR WILFRID. As soon as I see you have a w'im for me! [Rising, looks at his watch.] And now, I'll tell you what we'll do! We've got just an hour to get there in, my motor's on the corner, and in fifty minutes we'll be at Belmont Park.

CYNTHIA. [Her sporting blood fired.] Belmont Park!

SIR WILFRID. We'll do the races, and dine at Martin's—

CYNTHIA. [Tempted.] Oh, if I only could! I can't! I've got to be married! You're awfully nice; I've almost got a "w'im" for you already.

SIR WILFRID. [Delighted.] There you are! I'll send a telegram! [She shakes her head. He sits and writes at the table.

CYNTHIA. No, no, no!

SIR WILFRID. [Reading what he has written.] "Off with Cates-Darby to Races. Please postpone ceremony till seven-thirty."

CYNTHIA. Oh, no, it's impossible!

SIR WILFRID. [Accustomed to have things go his way.] No more than breathin'! You can't get a w'im for me, you know, unless we're together, so together we'll be! [JOHN KARSLAKE opens the door, and, unnoticed, walks into the room.] And to-morrow you'll wake up with a jolly little w'im—, [Reading.] "Postpone ceremony till seven-thirty." There. [He puts on her cloak and turning, sees JOHN.] Hello!

JOHN. [Surly.] Hello! Sorry to disturb you.

SIR WILFRID. [Cheerful as possible.] Just the man! [Giving him the telegraph form.] Just step round and send it, my boy. Thanks! [JOHN reads it.

CYNTHIA. No, no, I can't go!

SIR WILFRID. Cockety-coo-coo-can't. I say, you must!

CYNTHIA. [Positively.] No!

JOHN. [Astounded.] Do you mean you're going—

SIR WILFRID. [Very gay.] Off to the races, my boy!

JOHN. [Angry and outraged.] Mrs. Karslake can't go with you there!

CYNTHIA starts, amazed at his assumption of marital authority, and delighted that she will have an opportunity of outraging his sensibilities.

SIR WILFRID. Oho!

JOHN. An hour before her wedding!

SIR WILFRID. [Gay and not angry.] May I know if it's the custom—

JOHN. [Jealous and disgusted.] It's worse than eloping—

SIR WILFRID. Custom, y' know, for the husband, that was, to dictate—

JOHN. [Thoroughly vexed.] By George, there's a limit!

CYNTHIA. What? What? What? [Gathering up her things.] What did I hear you say?

SIR WILFRID. Ah!

JOHN. [Angry.] I say there's a limit—

CYNTHIA. [More and more determined to arouse and excite JOHN.] Oh, there's a limit, is there?

JOHN. There is! I bar the way! It means reputation—it means—

CYNTHIA. [Enjoying her opportunity.] We shall see what it means!

SIR WILFRID. Aha!

JOHN. [To CYNTHIA.] I'm here to protect your reputation—

SIR WILFRID. [To CYNTHIA.] We've got to make haste, you know.

CYNTHIA. Now, I'm ready—

JOHN. [To CYNTHIA.] Be sensible. You're breaking off the match—

CYNTHIA. [Excitedly.] What's that to you?

SIR WILFRID. It's boots and saddles!

JOHN. [Taking his stand between them and the door.] No thoroughfare!

SIR WILFRID. Look here, my boy—!

CYNTHIA. [Catching at the opportunity of putting JOHN in an impossible position.] Wait a moment, Sir Wilfrid! Give me the wire! [Facing him.] Thanks! [Taking the telegraph form from him and tearing it up.] There! Too rude to chuck him by wire! But you, Jack, you've taken on yourself to look after my interests, so I'll just ask you, old man, to run down to the Supreme Court and tell Philip—nicely, you know—I'm off with Sir Wilfrid and where! Say I'll be back by seven, if I'm not later! And make it clear, Jack, I'll marry him by eight-thirty or nine at the latest! And mind you're there, dear! And now, Sir Wilfrid, we're off.

JOHN. [Staggered and furious, giving way as they pass him.] I'm not the man to—to carry—

CYNTHIA. [Quick and dashing.] Oh, yes, you are.

JOHN. —a message from you.

CYNTHIA. [Triumphant.] Oh, yes, you are; you're just exactly the man! [CYNTHIA and SIR WILFRID whirl out.

JOHN. Great miracles of Moses!

CURTAIN.



ACT III.

SCENE. The same as that of Act I, but the room has been cleared of superfluous furniture, and arranged for a wedding ceremony. MRS. PHILLIMORE is reclining on the sofa at the right of the table, MISS HENEAGE at its left. SUDLEY is seated at the right of the table. GRACE is seated on the sofa. There is a wedding-bell of roses, an arch of orange blossoms, and, girdled by a ribbon of white, an altar of calla lilies. There are cushions of flowers, alcoves of flowers, vases of flowers—in short, flowers everywhere and in profusion and variety. Before the altar are two cushions for the couple to kneel on and, on pedestals, at each side of the arch, are twin candelabra. The hangings are pink and white.

The room, first of all, and its emblems, holds the undivided attention; then slowly engaging it, and in contrast to their gay surroundings, the occupants. About each and everyone of them, hangs a deadly atmosphere of suppressed irritation.

SUDLEY. [Impatiently.] All very well, my dear Sarah. But you see the hour. Twenty to ten! We have been here since half-past two.

MISS HENEAGE. You had dinner?

SUDLEY. I did not come here at two to have dinner at eight, and be kept waiting until ten! And, my dear Sarah, when I ask where the bride is—

MISS HENEAGE. [With forced composure.] I have told you all I know. Mr. John Karslake came to the house at lunch time, spoke to Philip, and they left the house together.

GRACE. Where is Philip?

MRS. PHILLIMORE. [Feebly, irritated.] I don't wish to be censorious or to express an actual opinion, but I must say it's a bold bride who keeps her future mother-in-law waiting for eight hours. However, I will not venture to— [MRS. PHILLIMORE reclines again and fades away into silence.

GRACE. [Sharply and decisively.] I do! I'm sorry I went to the expense of a silver ice-pitcher.

MRS. PHILLIMORE sighs. MISS HENEAGE keeps her temper with an effort which is obvious. THOMAS opens the door.

SUDLEY. [To MRS. PHILLIMORE.] For my part, I don't believe Mrs. Karslake means to return here or to marry Philip at all!

THOMAS. [Coming in, and approaching MISS HENEAGE.] Two telegrams for you, ma'am! The choir boys have had their supper. [A slight movement ripples the ominous calm of all. THOMAS steps back.

SUDLEY. [Rising.] At last we shall know!

MISS HENEAGE. From the lady! Probably!

MISS HENEAGE opens the first telegram and reads it at a glance, laying it on the salver again with a look at SUDLEY. THOMAS passes the salver to SUDLEY, who takes the telegram.

GRACE. There's a toot now.

MRS. PHILLIMORE. [Feebly, confused.] I don't wish to intrude, but really I cannot imagine Philip marrying at midnight. [As SUDLEY reads, MISS HENEAGE opens the second telegram, but does not read it.

SUDLEY. [Reading.] "Accident, auto struck"—something! "Gasoline"—did something—illegible, ah! [Reads.] "Home by nine forty-five! Hold the church!"

[A general movement sets in.

MISS HENEAGE. [Profoundly shocked.] "Hold the church!" William, she still means to marry Philip! and to-night, too!

SUDLEY. It's from Belmont Park.

GRACE. [Making a great discovery.] She went to the races!

MISS HENEAGE. This is from Philip! [Reading the second telegram.] "I arrive at ten o'clock. Have dinner ready." [MISS HENEAGE motions to Thomas, who, obeying, retires. Looking at her watch.] They are both due now. [Movement.] What's to be done? [She rises and SUDLEY shrugs his shoulders.

SUDLEY. [Rising.] After a young woman has spent her wedding day at the races? Why, I consider that she has broken the engagement,—and when she comes, tell her so.

MISS HENEAGE. I'll telephone Matthew. The choir boys can go home—her maid can pack her belongings—and when the lady arrives—

Impudently, the very distant toot of an auto-horn breaks in upon her words, producing, in proportion to its growing nearness, an increasing pitch of excitement and indignation. GRACE flies to the door and looks out. MRS. PHILLIMORE, helpless, does not know what to do or where to go or what to say. SUDLEY moves about excitedly. MISS HENEAGE stands ready to make herself disagreeable.

GRACE. [Speaking rapidly and with excitement.] I hear a man's voice. Cates-Darby and brother Matthew.

A loud and brazenly insistent toot outrages afresh. Laughter and voices outside are heard faintly. GRACE looks out of the door, and, as quickly withdraws.

MISS HENEAGE. Outrageous!

SUDLEY. Disgraceful!

MRS. PHILLIMORE. Shocking! [Partly rising as the voices and horn are heard.] I shall not take any part at all, in the—eh—

[She fades away.

MISS HENEAGE. [Interrupting her.] Don't trouble yourself.

Through the growing noise of voices and laughter, CYNTHIA'S voice is heard. SIR WILFRID is seen in the outer hall. He is burdened with wraps, not to mention a newspaper and parasol, which in no wise check his flow of gay remarks to CYNTHIA, who is still outside. CYNTHIA'S voice, and now MATTHEW'S, reach those inside, and, at last, both join SIR WILFRID, who has turned at the door to wait for them. As she reaches the door, CYNTHIA turns and speaks to MATTHEW, who immediately follows her. She is in automobile attire, wearing goggles, a veil, and an exquisite duster of latest Paris style. They come in with a subdued bustle and noise. As their eyes light on CYNTHIA, SUDLEY and MISS HENEAGE exclaim, and there is a general movement.

SUDLEY. 'Pon my word!

GRACE. Hah!

MISS HENEAGE. [Bristling up to her feet, her sensibilities outraged.] Shocking!

GRACE remains standing above sofa. SUDLEY moves toward her, MISS HENEAGE sitting down again. MRS. PHILLIMORE reclines on sofa. CYNTHIA begins to speak as soon as she appears and speaks fluently to the end.

CYNTHIA. No! I never was so surprised in my life, as when I strolled into the paddock and they gave me a rousing reception—old Jimmy Withers, Debt Gollup, Jack Deal, Monty Spiffles, the Governor and Buckeye. All of my old admirers! They simply fell on my neck, and, dear Matthew, what do you think I did? I turned on the water main! [There are movements and murmurs of disapprobation from the family. MATTHEW indicates a desire to go.] Oh, but you can't go!

MATTHEW. I'll return in no time!

CYNTHIA. I'm all ready to be married. Are they ready? [MATTHEW waves a pious, polite gesture of recognition to the family.] I beg everybody's pardon! [Taking off her wrap and putting it on the back of a chair.] My goggles are so dusty, I can't see who's who! [To SIR WILFRID.] Thanks! You have carried it well! [She takes the parasol from SIR WILFRID.

SIR WILFRID. [Aside to CYNTHIA.] When may I—?

CYNTHIA. See you next Goodwood!

SIR WILFRID. [Imperturbably.] Oh, I'm coming back!

CYNTHIA. [Advancing a bit toward the family.] Not a bit of use in coming back! I shall be married before you get here! Ta! Ta! Goodwood!

SIR WILFRID. [Not in the least affected.] I'm coming back. [He goes out quickly. There are more murmurs of disapprobation from the family. There is a slight pause.

CYNTHIA. [Beginning to take off her goggles, and moving nearer "the family."] I do awfully apologize for being so late!

MISS HENEAGE. [Importantly.] Mrs. Karslake—

SUDLEY. [Importantly.] Ahem! [CYNTHIA lays down goggles, and sees their severity.

CYNTHIA. Dear me! [Surveying the flowers and for a moment speechless.] Oh, good heavens! Why, it looks like a smart funeral!

MISS HENEAGE moves; then speaks in a perfectly ordinary natural tone, but her expression is severe. CYNTHIA immediately realizes the state of affairs in its fullness.

MISS HENEAGE. [To CYNTHIA.] After what has occurred, Mrs. Karslake—

CYNTHIA. [Glances quietly toward the table, and then sits down at it, composed and good-tempered.] I see you got my wire—so you know where I have been.

MISS HENEAGE. To the race-course!

SUDLEY. With a rowdy Englishman. [CYNTHIA glances at SUDLEY, uncertain whether he means to be disagreeable, or whether he is only naturally so.

MISS HENEAGE. We concluded you desired to break the engagement!

CYNTHIA. [Indifferently.] No! No! Oh! No!

MISS HENEAGE. Do you intend, despite of our opinion of you—

CYNTHIA. The only opinion that would have any weight with me would be Mrs. Phillimore's.

[She turns expectantly to MRS. PHILLIMORE.

MRS. PHILLIMORE. I am generally asleep at this hour, and, accordingly, I will not venture to express any—eh—any—actual opinion. [She fades away. CYNTHIA smiles.

MISS HENEAGE. [Coldly.] You smile. We simply inform you that as regards us, the alliance is not grateful.

CYNTHIA. [Affecting gaiety and unconcern.] And all this because the gasoline gave out.

SUDLEY. My patience has given out!

GRACE. So has mine. I'm going.

[She makes good her word.

SUDLEY. [Vexed beyond civility. To CYNTHIA.] My dear young lady: You come here, to this sacred—eh—eh—spot—altar!— [Gesture.] odoriferous of the paddock!—speaking of Spiffles and Buckeye,—having practically eloped!—having created a scandal, and disgraced our family!

CYNTHIA. [Affecting surprise at this attitude.] How does it disgrace you? Because I like to see a high-bred, clean, nervy, sweet little four-legged gee play the antelope over a hurdle!

MISS HENEAGE. Sister, it is high time that you—

[She turns to CYNTHIA with a gesture.

CYNTHIA. [With quiet irony.] Mrs. Phillimore is generally asleep at this hour, and accordingly she will not venture to express—

SUDLEY. [Spluttering with irritation.] Enough, madam—I venture to—to—to—to say, you are leading a fast life.

CYNTHIA. [With powerful intention.] Not in this house! For six heavy weeks have I been laid away in the grave, and I've found it very slow indeed trying to keep pace with the dead!

SUDLEY. [Despairingly.] This comes of horses!

CYNTHIA. [Indignant.] Of what?

SUDLEY. C-c-caring for horses!

MISS HENEAGE. [With sublime morality.] What Mrs. Karslake cares for is—men.

CYNTHIA. [Angry and gay.] What would you have me care for? The Ornithorhyncus Paradoxus? or Pithacanthropus Erectus? Oh, I refuse to take you seriously. [SUDLEY begins to prepare to leave; he buttons himself into respectability and his coat.

SUDLEY. My dear madam, I take myself seriously—and madam, I—I retract what I have brought with me [Feeling in his waistcoat pocket.] as a graceful gift,—an Egyptian scarab—a—a—sacred beetle, which once ornamented the person of a—eh—mummy.

CYNTHIA. [Scoring in return.] It should never be absent from your pocket, Mr. Sudley! [SUDLEY walks away in a rage.

MISS HENEAGE. [Rising, to SUDLEY.] I've a vast mind to withdraw my— [CYNTHIA moves.

CYNTHIA. [Interrupts; maliciously.] Your wedding present? The little bronze cat!

MISS HENEAGE. [Moves, angrily.] Oh! [Even MRS. PHILLIMORE comes momentarily to life, and expresses silent indignation.

SUDLEY. [Loftily.] Sarah, I'm going.

GRACE, who has met PHILIP, takes occasion to accompany him into the room. PHILIP looks dusty and grim. As they come in, GRACE speaks to him, and PHILIP shakes his head. They pause near the door.

CYNTHIA. [Emotionally.] I shall go to my room! However, all I ask is that you repeat to Philip— [As she moves toward the door, she comes suddenly upon PHILIP, and speaks to him in a low voice.

SUDLEY. [To MISS HENEAGE, determined to win.] As I go out, I shall do myself the pleasure of calling a hansom for Mrs. Karslake— [PHILIP moves slightly from the door.

PHILIP. As you go out, Sudley, have a hansom called, and when it comes, get into it.

SUDLEY. [Furious.] Eh,—eh,—my dear sir, I leave you to your fate. [PHILIP angrily points him the door and SUDLEY leaves in great haste.

MISS HENEAGE. [With weight.] Philip, you've not heard—

PHILIP. [Interrupting.] Everything—from Grace! My sister has repeated your words to me—and her own! I've told her what I think of her. [PHILIP looks witheringly at GRACE.

GRACE. I shan't wait to hear any more.

[She flounces out of the room.

PHILIP. Don't make it necessary for me to tell you what I think of you. [PHILIP moves to the right, toward his mother, to whom he gives his arm. MISS HENEAGE immediately seeks the opposite side.] Mother, with your permission, I desire to be alone. I expect both you and Grace, Sarah, to be dressed and ready for the ceremony a half hour from now. [As PHILIP and MRS. PHILLIMORE are about to go out, MISS HENEAGE speaks.

MISS HENEAGE. I shall come or not as I see fit. And let me add, my dear brother, that a fool at forty is a fool indeed. [MISS HENEAGE, high and mighty, goes out, much pleased with her quotation.

MRS. PHILLIMORE. [Stupid and weary as usual, to PHILIP, as he leads her to the door.] My dear son—I won't venture to express— [CYNTHIA, in irritation, moves to the table.

PHILIP. [Soothing a silly mother.] No, mother, don't! But I shall expect you, of course, at the ceremony. [MRS. PHILLIMORE languidly retires. PHILIP strides to the centre of the room, taking the tone, and assuming the attitude of, the injured husband.] It is proper for me to tell you that I followed you to Belmont. I am aware—I know with whom—in fact, I know all! [He punctuates his words with pauses, and indicates the whole censorious universe.] And now let me assure you—I am the last man in the world to be jilted on the very eve of—of—everything with you. I won't be jilted. [CYNTHIA is silent.] You understand? I propose to marry you. I won't be made ridiculous.

CYNTHIA. [Glancing at PHILIP.] Philip, I didn't mean to make you—

PHILIP. Why, then, did you run off to Belmont Park with that fellow?

CYNTHIA. Philip, I—eh—

PHILIP. [Sitting down at the table.] What motive? What reason? On our wedding day? Why did you do it?

CYNTHIA. I'll tell you the truth. I was bored.

PHILIP. [Staggered.] Bored? In my company?

CYNTHIA. I was bored, and then—and besides, Sir Wilfrid asked me to go.

PHILIP. Exactly, and that was why you went. Cynthia, when you promised to marry me, you told me you had forever done with love. You agreed that marriage was the rational coming together of two people.

CYNTHIA. I know, I know!

PHILIP. Do you believe that now?

CYNTHIA. I don't know what I believe. My brain is in a whirl! But, Philip, I am beginning to be—I'm afraid—yes, I am afraid that one can't just select a great and good man [Indicating him.] and say: I will be happy with him.

PHILIP. [With complacent dignity.] I don't see why not. You must assuredly do one or the other: You must either let your heart choose or your head select.

CYNTHIA. [Gravely.] No, there's a third scheme: Sir Wilfrid explained the theory to me. A woman should marry whenever she has a whim for the man, and then leave the rest to the man. Do you see?

PHILIP. [Furious.] Do I see? Have I ever seen any thing else? Marry for whim! That's the New York idea of marriage.

CYNTHIA. [Observing cynically.] New York ought to know.

PHILIP. Marry for whim and leave the rest to the divorce court! Marry for whim and leave the rest to the man. That was the former Mrs. Phillimore's idea. Only she spelled "whim" differently; she omitted the "w." [He rises in his anger.] And now you—you take up with this preposterous— [CYNTHIA moves uneasily.] But, nonsense! It's impossible! A woman of your mental calibre—No. Some obscure, primitive, female feeling is at work corrupting your better judgment! What is it you feel?

CYNTHIA. Philip, you never felt like a fool, did you?

PHILIP. No, never.

CYNTHIA. [Politely.] I thought not.

PHILIP. No, but whatever your feelings, I conclude you are ready to marry me.

CYNTHIA. [Uneasy.] Of course, I came back. I am here, am I not?

PHILIP. You are ready to marry me?

CYNTHIA. [Twisting in the coils.] But you haven't had your dinner.

PHILIP. Do I understand you refuse?

CYNTHIA. Couldn't we defer—?

PHILIP. You refuse?

CYNTHIA. [Desperately thinking of an escape from her promise, and finding none.] No, I said I'd marry you. I'm a woman of my word. I will.

PHILIP. [Triumphant.] Ah! Very good, then. Run to your room. [CYNTHIA turns to PHILIP.] Throw something over you. In a half hour I'll expect you here! And Cynthia, my dear, remember! I cannot cuculate like a wood-pigeon, but—I esteem you!

CYNTHIA. [Hopelessly.] I think I'll go, Philip.

PHILIP. I may not be fitted to play the love-bird, but—

CYNTHIA. [Spiritlessly.] I think I'll go, Philip.

PHILIP. I'll expect you,—in half an hour.

CYNTHIA. [With leaden despair.] Yes.

PHILIP. And, Cynthia, don't think any more about that fellow, Cates-Darby.

CYNTHIA. [Amazed and disgusted by his misapprehension.] No. [As CYNTHIA leaves, THOMAS comes in from the opposite door.

PHILIP. [Not seeing THOMAS, and clumsily defiant.] And if I had that fellow, Cates-Darby, in the dock—!

THOMAS. Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby.

PHILIP. Sir what—what—wh-who? [SIR WILFRID enters in evening dress. PHILIP looks SIR WILFRID in the face and speaks to THOMAS.] Tell Sir Wilfrid Cates-Darby I am not at home to him. [THOMAS is embarrassed.

SIR WILFRID. [Undaunted.] My dear Lord Eldon—

PHILIP. [Again addressing THOMAS.] Show the gentleman the door. [There is a pause. SIR WILFRID, with a significant gesture, glances at the door.

SIR WILFRID. [Moving to the door, he examines it and returns to PHILIP.] Eh,—I admire the door, my boy! Fine, old carved mahogany panel; but don't ask me to leave by it, for Mrs. Karslake made me promise I'd come, and that's why I'm here.

[THOMAS does not wait for further orders.

PHILIP. Sir, you are—impudent—!

SIR WILFRID. [Interrupting.] Ah, you put it all in a nutshell, don't you?

PHILIP. To show your face here, after practically eloping with my wife!

SIR WILFRID. [Affecting ignorance.] When were you married?

PHILIP. We are as good as married.

SIR WILFRID. Oh, pooh, pooh! You can't tell me that grace before soup is as good as a dinner! [He takes out his cigar-case and, in the absence of a match, enjoys a smokeless smoke.

PHILIP. Sir—I—demand—

SIR WILFRID. [Calmly carrying the situation.] Mrs. Karslake is not married. That's why I'm here. I am here for the same purpose you are; to ask Mrs. Karslake to be my wife.

PHILIP. Are you in your senses?

SIR WILFRID. [Pricking his American cousin's pet vanity.] Come, come, Judge—you Americans have no sense of humour. [Taking a small jewel-case from his pocket.] There's my regards for the lady—and [Reasonably.], if I must go, I will. Of course, I would like to see her, but—if it isn't your American custom—

THOMAS. [Opens the door and announces.] Mr. Karslake.

SIR WILFRID. Oh, well, I say; if he can come, I can!

JOHN KARSLAKE, in evening dress, comes in quickly, carrying a large and very smart bride's bouquet, which he hands to PHILIP, who stands transfixed. Because it never occurs to him to refuse it or chuck it away, PHILIP accepts the bouquet gingerly, but frees himself of it at the first available moment. JOHN walks to the centre of the room. Deep down he is feeling wounded and unhappy. But, as he knows his coming to the ceremony on whatever pretext is a social outrage, he carries it off by assuming an air of its being the most natural thing in the world. He controls the expression of his deeper emotion, but the pressure of this keeps his face grave, and he speaks with effort.

JOHN. My compliments to the bride, Judge.

PHILIP. [Angry.] And you, too, have the effrontery?

SIR WILFRID. There you are!

JOHN. [Pretending ease.] Oh, call it friendship—

[THOMAS leaves.

PHILIP. [Puts bouquet on table. Ironically.] I suppose Mrs. Karslake—

JOHN. She wagered me I wouldn't give her away, and of course—

Throughout his stay JOHN hides the emotions he will not show behind a daring irony. Under its effects, PHILIP, on his right, walks about in a fury. SIR WILFRID, sitting down on the edge of the table, is gay and undisturbed.

PHILIP. [Taking a step toward JOHN.] You will oblige me—both of you—by immediately leaving—

JOHN. [Smiling and going to PHILIP.] Oh, come, come, Judge—suppose I am here? Who has a better right to attend his wife's obsequies! Certainly, I come as a mourner—for you!

SIR WILFRID. I say, is it the custom?

JOHN. No, no—of course it's not the custom, no. But we'll make it the custom. After all,—what's a divorced wife among friends?

PHILIP. Sir, your humour is strained!

JOHN. Humour,—Judge?

PHILIP. It is, sir, and I'll not be bantered! Your both being here is—it is—gentlemen, there is a decorum which the stars in their courses do not violate.

JOHN. Now, Judge, never you mind what the stars do in their divorces! Get down to earth of the present day. Rufus Choate and Daniel Webster are dead. You must be modern. You must let peroration and poetry alone! Come along now. Why shouldn't I give the lady away?

SIR WILFRID. Hear! Hear! Oh, I beg your pardon!

JOHN. And why shouldn't we both be here? American marriage is a new thing. We've got to strike the pace, and the only trouble is, Judge, that the judiciary have so messed the thing up that a man can't be sure he is married until he's divorced. It's a sort of marry-go-round, to be sure! But let it go at that! Here we all are, and we're ready to marry my wife to you, and start her on her way to him!

PHILIP. [Brought to a standstill.] Good Lord! Sir, you cannot trifle with monogamy!

JOHN. Now, now, Judge, monogamy is just as extinct as knee-breeches. The new woman has a new idea, and the new idea is—well, it's just the opposite of the old Mormon one. Their idea is one man, ten wives and a hundred children. Our idea is one woman, a hundred husbands and one child.

PHILIP. Sir, this is polyandry.

JOHN. Polyandry? A hundred to one it's polyandry; and that's it, Judge! Uncle Sam has established consecutive polyandry,—but there's got to be an interval between husbands! The fact is, Judge, the modern American marriage is like a wire fence. The woman's the wire—the posts are the husbands. [He indicates himself, and then SIR WILFRID and PHILIP.] One—two—three! And if you cast your eye over the future you can count them, post after post, up hill, down dale, all the way to Dakota!

PHILIP. All very amusing, sir, but the fact remains—

JOHN. [Going to PHILIP who at once moves away.] Now, now, Judge, I like you. But you're asleep; you're living in the dark ages. You want to call up Central. "Hello, Central! Give me the present time, 1906, New York!"

SIR WILFRID. Of course you do, and—there you are!

PHILIP. [Heavily.] There I am not, sir! And— [To JOHN.] as for Mr. Karslake's ill-timed jocosity,—sir, in the future—

SIR WILFRID. Oh, hang the future!

PHILIP. I begin to hope, Sir Wilfrid, that in the future I shall have the pleasure of hanging you! [To JOHN.] And as to you, sir, your insensate idea of giving away your own—your former—my—your—oh! Good Lord! This is a nightmare! [He turns to go in despair. MATTHEW, coming in, meets him, and stops him at the door.

MATTHEW. [To PHILIP.] My dear brother, Aunt Sarah Heneage refuses to give Mrs. Karslake away, unless you yourself,—eh—

PHILIP. [As he goes out.] No more! I'll attend to the matter! [The CHOIR BOYS are heard practising in the next room.

MATTHEW. [Mopping his brow.] How do you both do? My aunt has made me very warm. [Ringing the bell.] You hear our choir practising—sweet angel boys! H'm! H'm! Some of the family will not be present. I am very fond of you, Mr. Karslake, and I think it admirably Christian of you to have waived your—eh—your—eh—that is, now that I look at it more narrowly, let me say, that in the excitement of pleasurable anticipation, I forgot, Karslake, that your presence might occasion remark— [THOMAS responds to his ring.] Thomas! I left, in the hall, a small hand-bag or satchel containing my surplice.

THOMAS. Yes, sir. Ahem!

MATTHEW. You must really find the hand-bag at once.

[THOMAS turns to go, when he stops startled.

THOMAS. Yes, sir. [Announcing in consternation.] Mrs. Vida Phillimore. [VIDA PHILLIMORE, in full evening dress, steps gently up to MATTHEW.

MATTHEW. [Always piously serene.] Ah, my dear child! Now this is just as it should be! That is, eh— [He walks to the centre of the room with her, VIDA, the while, pointedly disregarding SIR WILFRID.] That is, when I come to think of it—your presence might be deemed inauspicious.

VIDA. But, my dear Matthew,—I had to come. [Aside to him.] I have a reason for being here.

[THOMAS, who has left the room, again appears.

MATTHEW. [With a helpless gesture.] But, my dear child—

THOMAS. [With sympathetic intention.] Sir, Mr. Phillimore wishes to have your assistance, sir—with Miss Heneage immediately!

MATTHEW. Ah! [To VIDA.] One moment! I'll return. [To THOMAS.] Have you found the bag with my surplice?

He goes out with THOMAS, speaking. SIR WILFRID moves at once to VIDA. JOHN, moving to a better position, watches the door.

SIR WILFRID. [To VIDA.] You're just the person I most want to see!

VIDA. [With affected iciness.] Oh, no, Sir Wilfrid, Cynthia isn't here yet! [She moves to the table, and JOHN, his eyes on the door, coming toward her, she speaks to him with obvious sweetness.] Jack, dear, I never was so ravished to see any one.

SIR WILFRID. [Taken aback.] By Jove!

VIDA. [Very sweet.] I knew I should find you here!

JOHN. [Annoyed but civil.] Now don't do that!

VIDA. [Sweeter than ever.] Jack! [They sit down.

JOHN. [Civil but plain spoken.] Don't do it!

VIDA. [In a voice dripping with honey.] Do what, Jack?

JOHN. Touch me with your voice! I have troubles enough of my own. [He sits not far from her; the table between them.

VIDA. And I know who your troubles are! Cynthia!

[From this moment VIDA abandons JOHN as an object of the chase and works him into her other game.

JOHN. I hate her. I don't know why I came.

VIDA. You came, dear, because you couldn't stay away—you're in love with her.

JOHN. All right, Vida, what I feel may be love—but all I can say is, if I could get even with Cynthia Karslake—

VIDA. You can, dear—it's as easy as powdering one's face; all you have to do is to be too nice to me!

JOHN. [Looking at her inquiringly.] Eh!

VIDA. Don't you realize she's jealous of you? Why did she come to my house this morning? She's jealous—and all you have to do—

JOHN. If I can make her wince, I'll make love to you till the Heavenly cows come home!

VIDA. Well, you see, my dear, if you make love to me it will [Delicately indicating SIR WILFRID.] cut both ways at once!

JOHN. Eh,—what! Not Cates-Darby? [Starting.] Is that Cynthia?

VIDA. Now don't get rattled and forget to make love to me.

JOHN. I've got the jumps. [Trying to follow her instructions.] Vida, I adore you.

VIDA. Oh, you must be more convincing; that won't do at all.

JOHN. [Listening.] Is that she now?

[MATTHEW comes in and passes to the inner room.

VIDA. It's Matthew. And, Jack, dear, you'd best get the hang of it before Cynthia comes. You might tell me all about your divorce. That's a sympathetic subject. Were you able to undermine it?

JOHN. No. I've got a wire from my lawyer this morning. The divorce holds. She's a free woman. She can marry whom she likes. [The organ is heard, very softly played.] Is that Cynthia? [He rises quickly.

VIDA. It's the organ!

JOHN. [Overwhelmingly excited.] By George! I should never have come! I think I'll go.

[He makes a movement toward the door.

VIDA. [Rises and follows him remonstratingly.] When I need you?

JOHN. I can't stand it.

VIDA. Oh, but, Jack—

JOHN. Good-night!

VIDA. I feel quite ill. [Seeing that she must play her last card to keep him, pretends to faintness; sways and falls into his arms.] Oh!

JOHN. [In a rage, but beaten.] I believe you're putting up a fake.

The organ swells as CYNTHIA enters sweepingly, dressed in full evening dress for the wedding ceremony. JOHN, not knowing what to do, keeps his arms about VIDA as a horrid necessity.

CYNTHIA. [Speaking as she comes in, to MATTHEW.] Here I am. Ridiculous to make it a conventional thing, you know. Come in on the swell of the music, and all that, just as if I'd never been married before. Where's Philip? [She looks for PHILIP and sees JOHN with VIDA in his arms. She stops short.

JOHN. [Uneasy and embarrassed.] A glass of water! I beg your pardon, Mrs. Karslake— [The organ plays on.

CYNTHIA. [Ironical and calm.] Vida!

JOHN. She has fainted.

CYNTHIA. [Cynically.] Fainted? [Without pausing.] Dear, dear, dear, terrible! So she has. [SIR WILFRID takes the flowers from a vase and prepares to sprinkle VIDA'S forehead with the water it contains.] No, no, not her forehead, Sir Wilfrid, her frock! Sprinkle her best Paquin! If it's a real faint, she will not come to!

VIDA. [Coming quickly to her senses as her Paris importation is about to suffer.] I almost fainted.

CYNTHIA. Almost!

VIDA. [Using the stock phrase as a matter of course, and reviving rapidly.] Where am I? [JOHN glances at CYNTHIA sharply.] Oh, the bride! I beg every one's pardon. Cynthia, at a crisis like this, I simply couldn't stay away from Philip!

CYNTHIA. Stay away from Philip? [JOHN and CYNTHIA exchange glances.

VIDA. Your arm, Jack; and lead me where there is air.

JOHN and VIDA go into the further room. The organ stops. SIR WILFRID and CYNTHIA are practically alone in the room. JOHN and VIDA are barely within sight. He is first seen to take her fan and give her air; then to pick up a book and read to her.

SIR WILFRID. I've come back.

CYNTHIA. [To SIR WILFRID.] Asks for air and goes to the greenhouse. [CYNTHIA crosses the room and SIR WILFRID offers her a seat.] I know why you are here. It's that intoxicating little whim you suppose me to have for you. My regrets! But the whim's gone flat! Yes, yes, my gasoline days are over. I'm going to be garaged for good. However, I'm glad you're here; you take the edge off—

SIR WILFRID. Mr. Phillimore?

CYNTHIA. [Sharply.] No, Karslake. I'm just waiting to say the words [THOMAS comes in unnoticed.] "love, honour and obey" to Phillimore— [Looking back.] and at Karslake! [Seeing THOMAS.] What is it? Mr. Phillimore?

THOMAS. Mr. Phillimore will be down in a few minutes, ma'am. He's very sorry, ma'am [Lowering his voice and coming nearer to CYNTHIA, mindful of the respectabilities], but there's a button off his waistcoat.

CYNTHIA. [Rising. With irony.] Button off his waistcoat!

[THOMAS goes out.

SIR WILFRID. [Delightedly.] Ah! So much the better for me. [CYNTHIA looks into the other room.] Now, then, never mind those two! [CYNTHIA moves restlessly.] Sit down.

CYNTHIA. I can't.

SIR WILFRID. You're as nervous as—

CYNTHIA. Nervous! Of course I'm nervous! So would you be nervous if you'd had a runaway and smash up, and you were going to try it again. [She is unable to take her eyes from VIDA and JOHN, and SIR WILFRID, noting this, grows uneasy.] And if some one doesn't do away with those calla lilies—the odor makes me faint! [SIR WILFRID moves.] No, it's not the lilies! It's the orange blossoms!

SIR WILFRID. Orange blossoms.

CYNTHIA. The flowers that grow on the tree that hangs over the abyss! [SIR WILFRID promptly confiscates the vase of orange blossoms.] They smell of six o'clock in the evening. When Philip's fallen asleep, and little boys are crying the winners outside, and I'm crying inside, and dying inside and outside and everywhere.

SIR WILFRID. [Returning to her side.] Sorry to disappoint you. They're artificial. [CYNTHIA shrugs her shoulders.] That's it! They're emblematic of artificial domesticity! And I'm here to help you balk it. [He sits down and CYNTHIA half rises and looks toward JOHN and VIDA.] Keep still now, I've a lot to say to you. Stop looking—

CYNTHIA. Do you think I can listen to you make love to me when the man who—who—whom I most despise in all the world, is reading poetry to the woman who—who got me into the fix I'm in!

SIR WILFRID. [Leaning over her chair.] What do you want to look at 'em for? [CYNTHIA moves.] Let 'em be and listen to me! Sit down; for damme, I'm determined.

CYNTHIA. [Now at the table and half to herself.] I won't look at them! I won't think of them. Beasts! [SIR WILFRID interposes between her and her view of JOHN. THOMAS opens the door and walks in.

SIR WILFRID. Now, then— [He sits down.

CYNTHIA. Those two here! It's just as if Adam and Eve should invite the snake to their golden wedding. [Seeing THOMAS.] What is it, what's the matter?

THOMAS. Mr. Phillimore's excuses, ma'am. In a very short time— [THOMAS goes out.

SIR WILFRID. I'm on to you! You hoped for more buttons!

CYNTHIA. I'm dying of the heat; fan me.

[SIR WILFRID fans CYNTHIA.

SIR WILFRID. Heat! No! You're dying because you're ignorin' nature. Certainly you are! You're marryin' Phillimore! [CYNTHIA appears faint.] Can't ignore nature, Mrs. Karslake. Yes, you are; you're forcin' your feelin's. [CYNTHIA glances at him.] And what you want to do is to let yourself go a bit—up anchor and sit tight! I'm no seaman, but that's the idea! [CYNTHIA moves and shakes her head.] So just throw the reins on nature's neck, jump this fellow Phillimore and marry me!

[He leans toward CYNTHIA.

CYNTHIA. [Naturally, but with irritation.] You propose to me here, at a moment like this? When I'm on the last lap—just in sight of the goal—the gallows—the halter—the altar, I don't know what its name is! No, I won't have you! [Looking toward KARSLAKE and VIDA.] And I won't have you stand near me! I won't have you talking to me in a low tone! [Her eyes glued on JOHN and VIDA.] Stand over there—stand where you are.

SIR WILFRID. I say—

CYNTHIA. I can hear you—I'm listening!

SIR WILFRID. Well, don't look so hurried and worried. You've got buttons and buttons of time. And now my offer. You haven't yet said you would—

CYNTHIA. Marry you? I don't even know you!

SIR WILFRID. [Feeling sure of being accepted.] Oh,—tell you all about myself. I'm no duke in a pickle o' debts, d'ye see? I can marry where I like. Some o' my countrymen are rotters, ye know. They'd marry a monkey, if poppa-up-the-tree had a corner in cocoanuts! And they do marry some queer ones, y' know. [CYNTHIA looks beyond him, exclaims and turns. SIR WILFRID turns.

CYNTHIA. Do they?

SIR WILFRID. Oh, rather. That's what's giving your heiresses such a bad name lately. If a fellah's in debt he can't pick and choose, and then he swears that American gals are awfully fine lookers, but they're no good when it comes to continuin' the race! Fair dolls in the drawin'-room, but no good in the nursery.

CYNTHIA. [Thinking of JOHN and VIDA and nothing else.] I can see Vida in the nursery.

SIR WILFRID. You understand when you want a brood mare, you don't choose a Kentucky mule.

CYNTHIA. I think I see one.

SIR WILFRID. Well, that's what they're saying over there. They say your gals run to talk [He plainly remembers VIDA'S volubility.] and I have seen gals here that would chat life into a wooden Indian! That's what you Americans call being clever.—All brains and no stuffin'! In fact, some of your American gals are the nicest boys I ever met.

CYNTHIA. So that's what you think?

SIR WILFRID. Not a bit what I think—what my countrymen think!

CYNTHIA. Why are you telling me?

SIR WILFRID. Oh, just explaining my character. I'm the sort that can pick and choose—and what I want is heart.

CYNTHIA. [VIDA and JOHN ever in mind.] No more heart than a dragon-fly! [The organ begins to play softly.

SIR WILFRID. That's it, dragon-fly. Cold as stone and never stops buzzing about and showin' off her colours. It's that American dragon-fly girl that I'm afraid of, because, d'ye see, I don't know what an American expects when he marries; yes, but you're not listening!

CYNTHIA. I am listening. I am!

SIR WILFRID. [Speaking directly to her.] An Englishman, ye see, when he marries expects three things: love, obedience, and five children.

CYNTHIA. Three things! I make it seven!

SIR WILFRID. Yes, my dear, but the point is, will you be mistress of Traynham?

CYNTHIA. [Who has only half listened to him.] No, Sir Wilfrid, thank you, I won't. [She turns to see JOHN walk across the drawing-room with VIDA, and apparently absorbed in what she is saying.] It's outrageous!

SIR WILFRID. Eh? Why you're cryin'?

CYNTHIA. [Almost sobbing.] I am not.

SIR WILFRID. You're not crying because you're in love with me?

CYNTHIA. I'm not crying—or if I am, I'm crying because I love my country. It's a disgrace to America—cast-off husbands and wives getting together in a parlour and playing tag under a palm-tree. [JOHN, with intention and determined to stab CYNTHIA, kisses VIDA'S hand.

SIR WILFRID. Eh! Oh! I'm damned! [To CYNTHIA.] What do you think that means?

CYNTHIA. I don't doubt it means a wedding here, at once—after mine! [VIDA and JOHN leave the drawing-room and walk slowly toward them.

VIDA. [Affecting an impossible intimacy to wound CYNTHIA and tantalize SIR WILFRID.] Hush, Jack—I'd much rather no one should know anything about it until it's all over!

CYNTHIA. [Starting and looking at SIR WILFRID.] What did I tell you?

VIDA. [To CYNTHIA.] Oh, my dear, he's asked me to champagne and lobster at your house—his house! Matthew is coming! [CYNTHIA starts, but controls herself.] And you're to come, Sir Wilfrid. [Intending to convey the idea of a sudden marriage ceremony.] Of course, my dear, I would like to wait for your wedding, but something rather—rather important to me is to take place, and I know you'll excuse me. [The organ stops.

SIR WILFRID. [Piqued at being forgotten.] All very neat, but you haven't given me a chance, even.

VIDA. Chance? You're not serious?

SIR WILFRID. I am!

VIDA. [Striking while the iron is hot.] I'll give you a minute to offer yourself.

SIR WILFRID. Eh?

VIDA. Sixty seconds from now.

SIR WILFRID. [Uncertain.] There's such a thing as bein' silly.

VIDA. [Calm and determined.] Fifty seconds left.

SIR WILFRID. I take you—count fair. [He hands her his watch and goes to where CYNTHIA stands.] I say, Mrs. Karslake—

CYNTHIA. [Overwhelmed with grief and emotion.] They're engaged; they're going to be married to-night, over champagne and lobster at my house!

SIR WILFRID. Will you consider your—

CYNTHIA. [Hastily, to get rid of him.] No, no, no, no! Thank you, Sir Wilfrid, I will not.

SIR WILFRID. [Calm, and not to be laid low.] Thanks awfully. [CYNTHIA walks away. Returning to VIDA.] Mrs. Phillimore—

VIDA. [Returning his watch.] Too late! [To KARSLAKE.] Jack, dear, we must be off.

SIR WILFRID. [Standing and making a general appeal for information.] I say, is it the custom for American girls—that sixty seconds or too late? Look here! Not a bit too late. I'll take you around to Jack Karslake's, and I'm going to ask you the same old question again, you know. [To VIDA.] By Jove, you know in your country it's the pace that kills.

[SIR WILFRID follows VIDA out the door.

JOHN. [Gravely to CYNTHIA, who has walked away.] Good-night, Mrs. Karslake, I'm going; I'm sorry I came.

CYNTHIA. Sorry? Why are you sorry? [JOHN looks at her; she winces a little.] You've got what you wanted. [After a pause.] I wouldn't mind your marrying Vida—

JOHN. [Gravely.] Oh, wouldn't you?

CYNTHIA. But I don't think you showed good taste in engaging yourselves here.

JOHN. Of course, I should have preferred a garden of roses and plenty of twilight.

CYNTHIA. [Rushing into speech.] I'll tell you what you have done—you've thrown yourself away! A woman like that! No head, no heart! All languor and loose—loose frocks—she's the typical, worst thing America can do! She's the regular American marriage worm!

JOHN. I have known others—

CYNTHIA. [Quickly.] Not me. I'm not a patch on that woman. Do you know anything about her life? Do you know the things she did to Philip? Kept him up every night of his life—forty days out of every thirty—and then, without his knowing it, put brandy in his coffee to make him lively at breakfast.

JOHN. [Banteringly.] I begin to think she is just the woman—

CYNTHIA. [Unable to quiet her jealousy.] She is not the woman for you! A man with your bad temper—your airs of authority—your assumption of—of—everything. What you need is a good, old-fashioned, bread-poultice woman!

[CYNTHIA comes to a full stop and faces him.

JOHN. [Sharply.] Can't say I've had any experience of the good old-fashioned bread-poultice.

CYNTHIA. I don't care what you say! If you marry Vida Phillimore—you sha'n't do it. [Tears of rage choking her.] No, I liked your father and, for his sake, I'll see that his son doesn't make a donkey of himself a second time.

JOHN. [Too angry to be amused.] Oh, I thought I was divorced. I begin to feel as if I had you on my hands still.

CYNTHIA. You have! You shall have! If you attempt to marry her, I'll follow you—and I'll find her—I'll tell Vida— [He turns to her.] I will. I'll tell Vida just what sort of a dance you led me.

JOHN. [Quickly on her last word but speaking gravely.] Indeed! Will you? And why do you care what happens to me?

CYNTHIA. [Startled by his tone.] I—I—ah—

JOHN. [Insistently and with a faint hope.] Why do you care?

CYNTHIA. I don't. Not in your sense—

JOHN. How dare you then pretend—

CYNTHIA. I don't pretend.

JOHN. [Interrupting her; proud, serious and strong.] How dare you look me in the face with the eyes that I once kissed, and pretend the least regard for me? [CYNTHIA recoils and looks away. Her own feelings are revealed to her clearly for the first time.] I begin to understand our American women now. Fire-flies—and the fire they gleam with is so cold that a midge couldn't warm his heart at it, let alone a man. You're not of the same race as a man! You married me for nothing, divorced me for nothing, because you are nothing!

CYNTHIA. [Wounded to the heart.] Jack! What are you saying?

JOHN. [With unrestrained emotion.] What,—you feigning an interest in me, feigning a lie—and in five minutes— [With a gesture, indicating the altar.] Oh, you've taught me the trick of your sex—you're the woman who's not a woman!

CYNTHIA. [Weakly.] You're saying terrible things to me.

JOHN. [Low and with intensity.] You haven't been divorced from me long enough to forget—what you should be ashamed to remember.

CYNTHIA. [Unable to face him and pretending not to understand him.] I don't know what you mean?

JOHN. [More forcibly and with manly emotion.] You're not able to forget me! You know you're not able to forget me; ask yourself if you are able to forget me, and when your heart, such as it is, answers "no," then— [The organ is plainly heard.] Well, then, prance gaily up to the altar and marry that, if you can!

He abruptly quits the room and CYNTHIA, moving to an armchair, sinks into it, trembling. MATTHEW comes in and is joined by MISS HENEAGE and PHILIP. They do not see CYNTHIA buried deeply in her chair. Accordingly, MISS HENEAGE moves over to the sofa and waits. They are all dressed for an evening reception and PHILIP is in the traditional bridegroom's rig.

MATTHEW. [As he enters.] I am sure you will do your part, Sarah—in a spirit of Christian decorum. [To PHILIP.] It was impossible to find my surplice, Philip, but the more informal the better.

PHILIP. [With pompous responsibility.] Where's Cynthia?

[MATTHEW gives a glance around the room.

MATTHEW. Ah, here's the choir! [He moves forward to meet it. CHOIR BOYS come in very orderly; divide and take their places, an even number on each side of the altar of flowers. MATTHEW vaguely superintends. PHILIP gets in the way of the bell and moves out of the way. THOMAS comes in.] Thomas, I directed you—One moment, if you please. [He indicates the tables and chairs which THOMAS hastens to push against the wall.

PHILIP. [Walking forward and looking around him.] Where's Cynthia? [CYNTHIA rises, and, at the movement, PHILIP sees her and moves toward her. The organ grows suddenly silent.

CYNTHIA. [Faintly.] Here I am.

[MATTHEW comes down. Organ plays softly.

MATTHEW. [To CYNTHIA.] Ah, my very dear Cynthia, I knew there was something. Let me tell you the words of the hymn I have chosen:

"Enduring love; sweet end of strife! Oh, bless this happy man and wife!"

I'm afraid you feel—eh—eh!

CYNTHIA. [Desperately calm.] I feel awfully queer—I think I need a scotch.

Organ stops. PHILIP remains uneasily at a little distance. MRS. PHILLIMORE and GRACE enter back slowly, as cheerfully as if they were going to hear the funeral service read. They remain near the doorway.

MATTHEW. Really, my dear, in the pomp and vanity—I mean—ceremony of this—this unique occasion, there should be sufficient exhilaration.

CYNTHIA. [With extraordinary control.] But there isn't!

[Feeling weak, she sits down.

MATTHEW. I don't think my Bishop would approve of—eh—anything before!

CYNTHIA. [Too agitated to know how much she is moved.] I feel very queer.

MATTHEW. [Piously sure that everything is for the best.] My dear child—

CYNTHIA. However, I suppose there's nothing for it—now—but—to—to—

MATTHEW. Courage!

CYNTHIA. [Desperate and with a sudden explosion.] Oh, don't speak to me. I feel as if I'd been eating gunpowder, and the very first word of the wedding service would set it off!

MATTHEW. My dear, your indisposition is the voice of nature. [CYNTHIA speaks more rapidly and with growing excitement. MATTHEW makes a movement toward the CHOIR BOYS.

CYNTHIA. Ah,—that's it—nature! [MATTHEW shakes his head.] I've a great mind to throw the reins on nature's neck.

PHILIP. Matthew! [He moves to take his stand for the ceremony.

MATTHEW. [Looks at PHILIP. To CYNTHIA.] Philip is ready. [PHILIP comes forward and the organ plays the wedding march.

CYNTHIA. [To herself, as if at bay.] Ready? Ready? Ready?

MATTHEW. Cynthia, you will take Miss Heneage's arm. [MISS HENEAGE moves stiffly nearer to the table.] Sarah! [He waves MISS HENEAGE in the direction of CYNTHIA, at which she advances a joyless step or two. MATTHEW goes over to give the choir a low direction.] Now please don't forget, my boys. When I raise my hands so, you begin, "Enduring love, sweet end of strife," etc. [CYNTHIA has risen. On the table by which she stands is her long lace cloak. MATTHEW assumes sacerdotal importance and takes his position inside the altar of flowers.] Ahem! Philip! [He signs to PHILIP to take his position.] Sarah! [CYNTHIA breathes fast, and supports herself against the table. MISS HENEAGE, with the silent air of a martyr, goes toward her and stands for a moment looking at her.] The ceremony will now begin.

The organ plays Mendelssohn's wedding march. CYNTHIA turns and faces MISS HENEAGE. MISS HENEAGE slowly reaches CYNTHIA and extends her hand in her readiness to lead the bride to the altar.

MISS HENEAGE. Mrs. Karslake!

PHILIP. Ahem! [MATTHEW walks forward two or three steps. CYNTHIA stands as if turned to stone.

MATTHEW. My dear Cynthia. I request you—to take your place. [CYNTHIA moves one or two steps as if to go up to the altar. She takes MISS HENEAGE'S hand and slowly they walk toward MATTHEW.] Your husband to be—is ready, the ring is in my pocket. I have only to ask you the—eh—necessary questions,—and—eh—all will be blissfully over in a moment.

[The organ grows louder.

CYNTHIA. [At this moment, just as she reaches PHILIP, stops, faces round, looks him, MATTHEW, and the rest in the face, and cries out in despair.] Thomas! Call a hansom! [THOMAS goes out, leaving the door open. MISS HENEAGE crosses the room quickly; MRS. PHILLIMORE, shocked into action, rises. CYNTHIA catches up her cloak from the table. PHILIP turns and CYNTHIA comes forward and stops.] I can't, Philip—I can't. [Whistle of hansom is heard off; the organ stops.] It is simply a case of throwing the reins on nature's neck—up anchor—and sit tight! [MATTHEW moves to CYNTHIA.] Matthew, don't come near me! Yes, yes, I distrust you. It's your business, and you'd marry me if you could.

PHILIP. [Watching her in dismay as she throws on her cloak.] Where are you going?

CYNTHIA. I'm going to Jack.

PHILIP. What for?

CYNTHIA. To stop his marrying Vida. I'm blowing a hurricane inside, a horrible, happy hurricane! I know myself—I know what's the matter with me. If I married you and Miss Heneage—what's the use of talking about it—he mustn't marry that woman. He sha'n't. [CYNTHIA has now all her wraps on and walks toward the door rapidly. To PHILIP.] Sorry! So long! Good-night and see you later.

Reaching the door, she goes out in blind haste and without further ceremony. MATTHEW, in absolute amazement, throws up his arms. PHILIP is rigid. MRS. PHILLIMORE sinks into a chair. MISS HENEAGE stands supercilious and unmoved. GRACE, the same. The choir, at MATTHEW'S gesture, mistakes it for the concerted signal, and bursts lustily into the Epithalamis:

"Enduring love—sweet end of strife! Oh, bless this happy man and wife!"

CURTAIN.



ACT IV.

SCENE. The scene is laid in JOHN KARSLAKE'S study and smoking-room. There is a bay window on the left. A door on the left leads to stairs and the front of the house, while a door at the back leads to the dining-room. A fireplace and a mantel are on the right. A bookcase contains law and sporting books. On the wall is a full-length portrait of CYNTHIA. Nothing of this portrait is seen by audience except the gilt frame and a space of canvas. A large table with writing materials is littered over with law books, sporting books, papers, pipes, crops, a pair of spurs, &c. A wedding ring lies on it. There are three very low easy-chairs. The general appearance of the room is extremely gay and garish in colour. It has the easy confusion of a man's room. There is a small table on which, lying open, is a woman's sewing-basket, and, beside it, a piece of rich fancy work, as if a lady had just risen from sewing. Laid on the further end of it are a lady's gloves. On a chair-back is a lady's hat. It is a half hour later than the close of Act III. Curtains are drawn over the window. A lamp on the table is lighted, as are, too, the various electric lights. One chair is conspicuously standing on its head.

NOGAM is busy at the larger table. The door into the dining-room is half open.

SIR WILFRID. [Coming in from the dining-room.] Eh—what did you say your name was?

NOGAM. Nogam, sir.

SIR WILFRID. Nogam? I've been here thirty minutes. Where are the cigars? [NOGAM motions to a small table near the entrance door.] Thank you. Nogam, Mr. Karslake was to have followed us here, immediately. [He lights a cigar.

NOGAM. Mr. Karslake just now 'phoned from his club [SIR WILFRID walks toward the front of the room.], and he's on his way home, sir.

SIR WILFRID. Nogam, why is that chair upside down?

NOGAM. Our orders, sir.

VIDA. [Speaking as she comes in.] Oh, Wilfrid! [SIR WILFRID turns. VIDA coming slowly toward him.] I can't be left longer alone with the lobster! He reminds me too much of Phillimore!

SIR WILFRID. Karslake's coming; stopped at his club on the way! [To NOGAM.] You haven't heard anything of Mrs. Karslake—?

NOGAM. [Surprised.] No, sir!

SIR WILFRID. [In an aside to VIDA, as they move right to appear to be out of NOGAM'S hearing.] Deucedly odd, ye know—for the Reverend Matthew declared she left Phillimore's house before he did,—and she told them she was coming here!

[NOGAM evidently takes this in.

VIDA. Oh, she'll turn up.

SIR WILFRID. Yes, but I don't see how the Reverend Phillimore had the time to get here and make us man and wife, don't y' know—

VIDA. Oh, Matthew had a fast horse and Cynthia a slow one—or she's a woman and changed her mind! Perhaps she's gone back and married Phillimore. And besides, dear, Matthew wasn't in the house four minutes and a half; only just long enough to hoop the hoop. [She twirls her new wedding ring gently about her finger.] Wasn't it lucky he had a ring in his pocket?

SIR WILFRID. Rather.

VIDA. And are you aware, dear, that Phillimore bought and intended it for Cynthia? Do come [Going toward the door through which she has just entered.], I'm desperately hungry! Whenever I'm married that's the effect it has! [VIDA goes out and SIR WILFRID, following, stops to talk to NOGAM.

SIR WILFRID. We'll give Mr. Karslake ten minutes, Nogam. If he does not come then, you might serve supper.

[He joins VIDA.

NOGAM. [To SIR WILFRID.] Yes, sir. [The outside door opens and FIDDLER walks in.

FIDDLER. [Easy and business-like.] Hello, Nogam, where's the guv'nor? That mare's off her oats, and I've got to see him.

NOGAM. He'll soon be here.

FIDDLER. Who was the parson I met leaving the house?

NOGAM. [Whispering.] Sir Wilfrid and Mrs. Phillimore have a date with the guv'nor in the dining-room, and the reverend gentleman— [He makes a gesture as of giving an ecclesiastical blessing.

FIDDLER. [Amazed.] He hasn't spliced them? [NOGAM assents.] He has? They're married? Never saw a parson could resist it!

NOGAM. Yes, but I've got another piece of news for you. Who do you think the Rev. Phillimore expected to find here?

FIDDLER. [Proud of having the knowledge.] Mrs. Karslake? I saw her headed this way in a hansom with a balky horse only a minute ago. If she hoped to be in at the finish—

[Fiddler is about to set the chair on its legs.

NOGAM. [Quickly.] Mr. Fiddler, sir, please to let it alone.

FIDDLER. [Putting the chair down in surprise.] Does it live on its blooming head?

NOGAM. Don't you remember? She threw it on its head when she left here, and he won't have it up. Ah, that's it—hat, sewing-basket and all,—the whole rig is to remain as it was when she handed him his knock-out. [A bell rings outside.

FIDDLER. There's the guv'nor—I hear him!

NOGAM. I'll serve the supper. [Taking a letter from his pocket and putting it on the mantel.] Mr. Fiddler, would you mind giving this to the guv'nor? It's from his lawyer—his lawyer couldn't find him and left it with me. He said it was very important. [The bell rings again. Speaking from the door to SIR WILFRID.] I'm coming, sir!

NOGAM goes out, shutting the door. JOHN KARSLAKE comes in. His hat is pushed over his eyes; his hands are buried in his pockets, and his appearance generally is one of weariness and utter discouragement. He walks into the room slowly and heavily. He sees FIDDLER, who salutes, forgetting the letter. JOHN slowly sinks into the arm-chair near his study table.

JOHN. [As he walks to his chair.] Hello, Fiddler! [After a pause, JOHN throws himself into a chair, keeping his hat on. He throws down his gloves, sighing.

FIDDLER. Came in to see you, sir, about Cynthia K.

JOHN. [Drearily.] Damn Cynthia K!—

FIDDLER. Couldn't have a word with you?

JOHN. [Grumpy.] No!

FIDDLER. Yes, sir.

JOHN. Fiddler.

FIDDLER. Yes, sir.

JOHN. Mrs. Karslake— [FIDDLER nods.] You used to say she was our mascot?

FIDDLER. Yes, sir.

JOHN. Well, she's just married herself to a—a sort of a man—

FIDDLER. Sorry to hear it, sir.

JOHN. Well, Fiddler, between you and me, we're a pair of idiots.

FIDDLER. Yes, sir!

JOHN. And now it's too late!

FIDDLER. Yes, sir—oh, beg your pardon, sir—your lawyer left a letter. [JOHN takes letter; opens it and reads it, indifferently at first.

JOHN. [As he opens the letter.] What's he got to say, more than what his wire said?—Eh— [Dumbfounded as he reads.] what?—Will explain.—Error in wording of telegram.—Call me up.— [Turning quickly to the telephone.] The man can't mean that she's still—Hello! Hello! [JOHN listens.

FIDDLER. Would like to have a word with you, sir—

JOHN. Hello, Central!

FIDDLER. That mare—

JOHN. [Consulting the letter, and speaking into the 'phone.] 33246a 38! Did you get it?

FIDDLER. That mare, sir, she's got a touch of malaria—

JOHN. [At the 'phone.] Hello, Central—33246a—38!—Clayton Osgood—yes, yes, and say, Central—get a move on you!

FIDDLER. If you think well of it, sir, I'll give her a tonic—

JOHN. [Still at the 'phone.] Hello! Yes—yes—Jack Karslake. Is that you, Clayton? Yes—yes—well—

FIDDLER. Or if you like, sir, I'll give her—

JOHN. [Turning on FIDDLER.] Shut up! [To 'phone.] What was that? Not you—not you—a technical error? You mean to say that Mrs. Karslake is still—my—Hold the wire, Central—get off the wire! Get off the wire! Is that you, Clayton? Yes, yes—she and I are still—I got it! Good-bye! [He hangs up the receiver; falls back into a chair. For a moment he is overcome. He takes up telephone book.

FIDDLER. All very well, Mr. Karslake, but I must know if I'm to give her—

JOHN. [Turning over the leaves of the telephone book in hot haste.] What's Phillimore's number?

FIDDLER. If you've no objections, I think I'll give her a—

JOHN. L—M—N—O—P—It's too late! She's married by this! Married!—and—my God—I—I am the cause. Phillimore—

FIDDLER. I'll give her—

JOHN. Give her wheatina!—give her grape-nuts—give her away! [FIDDLER, biding his time, walks toward the window.] Only be quiet! Phillimore!

[SIR WILFRID comes in.

SIR WILFRID. Hello! We'd almost given you up!

JOHN. [In his agitation unable to find Phillimore's number.] Just a moment! I'm trying to get Phillimore on the 'phone to—to tell Mrs. Karslake—

SIR WILFRID. No good, my boy—she's on her way here! [JOHN drops the book and looks up dumbfounded.] The Reverend Matthew was here, y' see—and he said—

JOHN. [Rising, turns.] Mrs. Karslake is coming here? [SIR WILFRID nods.] To this house? Here?

SIR WILFRID. That's right.

JOHN. Coming here? You're sure? [SIR WILFRID nods assent.] Fiddler, I want you to stay here, and if Mrs. Karslake comes, don't fail to let me know! Now then, for heaven's sake, what did Matthew say to you?

SIR WILFRID. Come along in and I'll tell you.

JOHN. On your life now, Fiddler, don't fail to let me—

[SIR WILFRID carries JOHN off with him.

VIDA. [From the dining-room.] Ah, here you are!

FIDDLER. Phew!

A moment's pause, and CYNTHIA opens the front door, and comes in very quietly, almost shyly, as if she were uncertain of her welcome.

CYNTHIA. Fiddler! Where is he? Has he come? Is he here? Has he gone?

FIDDLER. [Rattled.] Nobody's gone, ma'am, except the Reverend Matthew Phillimore.

CYNTHIA. Matthew? He's been here and gone? [FIDDLER nods assent.] You don't mean I'm too late? He's married them already?

FIDDLER. Nogam says he married them!

CYNTHIA. He's married them! Married! Married before I could get here! [Sinking into an armchair.] Married in less time than it takes to pray for rain! Oh, well, the church—the church is a regular quick marriage counter. [VIDA and JOHN are heard in light-hearted laughter.] Oh!

FIDDLER. I'll tell Mr. Karslake—

CYNTHIA. [Rising and going to the dining-room door, turns the key in the lock and takes it out.] No—I wouldn't see him for the world! [Moving to the work-table with the key.] If I'm too late, I'm too late! and that's the end of it! [Laying the key on the table, she remains standing near it.] I've come, and now I'll go! [There is a long pause during which CYNTHIA looks slowly about the room, then sighs and changes her tone.] Well, Fiddler, it's all a good deal as it used to be in my day.

FIDDLER. No, ma'am—everything changed, even the horses.

CYNTHIA. [Absent-mindedly.] Horses—how are the horses?

[Throughout her talk with Fiddler she gives the idea that she is saying good-bye to her life with JOHN.

FIDDLER. Ah, when husband and wife splits, ma'am, it's the horses that suffer. Oh, yes, ma'am, we're all changed since you give us the go-by,—even the guv'nor.

CYNTHIA. How's he changed?

FIDDLER. Lost his sharp for horses, and ladies, ma'am—gives 'em both the boiled eye.

CYNTHIA. I can't say I see any change; there's my portrait—I suppose he sits and pulls faces at me.

FIDDLER. Yes, ma'am, I think I'd better tell him of your bein' here.

CYNTHIA. [Gently but decidedly.] No, Fiddler, no! [Again looking about her.] The room's in a terrible state of disorder. However, your new mistress will attend to that. [Pause.] Why, that's not her hat!