BOBBY. Well, I shan't shoot myself, but I shan't propose to her again. I know when I'm not wanted.

MRS. KNOWLE. But we do want you, Mr. Coote. Both my husband and I—

BOBBY. I say, I'd much rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. I practically promised her that I wouldn't say anything to you this time.

MRS. KNOWLE. What, not say anything to her only mother? But how should I know if I were to call you "Bobby," or not?

BOBBY. Well, of course—I mean I haven't really said anything, have I? Nothing she'd really mind. She's so funny about things.

MRS. KNOWLE. She is indeed, Mr. Coote. I don't know where she gets it from. Neither Henry nor I are in the least funny. It was all the result of being christened in that irreligious way—I quite thought he said Millicent—and reading all those books, instead of visiting the sick as I used to do. I was quite a little Red Riding Hood until Henry sprang at me so fiercely. (MR. KNOWLE and JANE come in by the window, and she turns round towards them.) Ah, there you both are. I was wondering where you had got to. Mr. Coote has been telling me all about his prospects in the city. So comforting. Jane, you didn't get your feet wet, I hope.

JANE. It's quite dry, Aunt Mary.

MR. KNOWLE. It's a most beautiful night, my dear. We've been talking to the fairies—haven't we, Jane?

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, as long as you didn't get cold. Did you see Sandy?

MR. KNOWLE. We didn't see any one but Titania—and Peters. He had an appointment, apparently—but not with Titania.

JANE. He is walking out with Alice, I think.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, Melisande will have to talk to Alice in the morning. I always warned you, Henry, about the danger of having an unmarried chauffeur on the premises. I always felt it was a mistake.

MR. KNOWLE. Apparently, my dear, Peters feels as strongly about it as you. He is doing his best to remedy the error.

MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). Well, I must be going to bed. I have been through a good deal to-night; more than any of you know about.

MR. KNOWLE (cheerfully). What's the matter, my love? Indigestion?

MRS. KNOWLE. Beyond saying that it is not indigestion, Henry, my lips are sealed. I shall suffer my cross—my mental cross—in silence.

JANE. Shall I come with you, Aunt Mary?

MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, dear. (To Heaven) My only daughter has left me, and gone into the night. Fortunately my niece has offered to help me out of my—to help me. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Mr. Coote.

BOBBY. Good-night, Mrs. Knowle.

MRS. KNOWLE. Good-night! And remember (in a loud whisper) what Shakespeare said. (She presses his hand and holds it) Good-night! Good-night! . . . Good-night!

MR. KNOWLE. Shakespeare said so many things. Among others, he said, "Good-night, good-night, parting is such sweet sorrow, that I could say good-night till it be morrow." (MRS. KNOWLE looks at him severely, and then, without saying anything, goes over to him and holds up her cheek.) Good-night, my dear. Sleep well.

MRS. KNOWLE. In five minutes, Jane.

JANE. Yes, Aunt Mary.

(MRS. KNOWLE goes to the door, BOBBY hurrying in front to open it for her.)

MRS. KNOWLE (at the door). I shall not sleep well. I shall lie awake all night. Dr. Anderson will be very much distressed. "Dr. Anderson," I shall say, "it is not your fault. I lay awake all night, thinking of my loved ones." In five minutes, Jane.

[She goes out.

MR. KNOWLE. An exacting programme. Well, I shall be in the library, if anybody wants to think of me—or say good-night to me—or anything like that.

JANE. Then I'd better say good-night to you now, Uncle Henry. (She goes up to him.)

MR. KNOWLE (kissing her). Good-night, dear.

JANE. Good-night.

MR. KNOWLE. If there's anybody else who wants to kiss me—what about you, Bobby? Or will you come into the library and have a smoke first?

BOBBY. Oh, I shall be going to bed directly, I think. Rather tired to-day, somehow.

MR. KNOWLE. Then good-night to you also. Dear me, what a business this is. Sandy has left us for ever, I understand. If she should come back, Jane, and wishes to kiss the top of my head, she will find it in the library—just above the back of the armchair nearest the door. [He goes out.

JANE. Did Sandy go out into the garden?

BOBBY (gloomily). Yes—about five minutes ago.

JANE (timidly). I'm so sorry, Bobby.

BOBBY. Thanks, it's awfully decent of you. (After a pause) Don't let's talk about it.

JANE. Of course I won't if it hurts you, Bobby. But I felt I had to say something, I felt so sorry. You didn't mind, did you?

BOBBY. It's awfully decent of you to mind.

JANE (gently). I mind very much when my friends are unhappy.

BOBBY. Thanks awfully. (He stands up, buttons his coat, and looks at himself) I say, do you see anything wrong with it?

JANE. Wrong with what?

BOBBY. My clothes. (He revolves slowly.)

JANE. Of course not. They fit beautifully.

BOBBY. Sandy's so funny about things. I don't know what she means half the time.

JANE. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do see what you mean. She's so (searching for the right word)—so romantic.

BOBBY (eagerly). Yes, that's just it. It takes a bit of living up to. I say, have a cigarette, won't you?

JANE. No, thank you. Of course, I'm very fond of Melisande, but I do feel sometimes that I don't altogether envy the man who marries her.

BOBBY. I say, do you really feel that?

JANE. Yes. She's too (getting the right word at last)—too romantic.

BOBBY. You're about right, you know. I mean she talks about doing deeds of derring-do. Well, I mean that's all very well, but when one marries and settles down—you know what I mean?

JANE. Exactly. That's just how I feel about it. As I said to Melisande only this evening, this is the twentieth century. Well, I happen to like the twentieth century. That's all.

BOBBY. I see what you mean.

JANE. It may be very unromantic of me, but I like men to be keen on games, and to wear the clothes that everybody else wears—as long as they fit well, of course—and to talk about the ordinary things that everybody talks about. Of course, Melisande would say that that was very stupid and unromantic of me——

BOBBY. I don't think it is at all.

JANE. How awfully nice of you to say that, Bobby. You do understand so wonderfully.

BOBBY (with a laugh). I say, that's rather funny. I was just thinking the same about you.

JANE. I say, were you really? I'm so glad. I like to feel that we are really friends, and that we understand each other. I don't know whether I'm different from other girls, but I don't make friends very easily.

BOBBY. Do you mean men or women friends?

JANE. Both. In fact, but for Melisande and you, I can hardly think of any—not what you call real friends.

BOBBY. Melisande is a great friend, isn't she? You tell each other all your secrets, and that sort of thing, don't you?

JANE. Yes, we're great friends, but there are some things that I could never tell even her. (Impressively) I could never show her my inmost heart.

BOBBY. I don't believe about your not having any men friends. I bet there are hundreds of them, as keen on you as anything.

JANE. I wonder. It would be rather nice to think there were. That sounds horrid, doesn't it, but a girl can't help wanting to be liked.

BOBBY. Of course she can't; nobody can. I don't think it's a bit horrid.

JANE. How nice of you. (She gets up) Well, I must be going, I suppose.

BOBBY. What's the hurry?

JANE. Aunt Mary. She said five minutes.

BOBBY. And how long will you be with her? You'll come down again, won't you?

JANE. No, I don't think so. I'm rather tired this evening. (Holding out her hand) Good-night, Bobby.

BOBBY (taking it). Oh, but look here, I'll come and light your candle for you.

JANE. How nice of you!

(She manages to get her hand back, and they walk to the door together.)

BOBBY. I suppose I may as well go to bed myself.

JANE (at the door). Well, if you are, we'd better put the lights out.

BOBBY. Righto. (He puts them out.) I say, what a night! (The moonlight streams through the windows on them.) You'll hardly want a candle.

[They go out together.

(The hall is empty. Suddenly the front door bell is heard to ring. After a little interval, ALICE comes in, turns on the light, and looks round the hall. She is walking across the hall to the drawing-room when MR. KNOWLE comes in from behind her, and she turns round.)

MR. KNOWLE. Were you looking for me, Alice?

ALICE. Yes, sir. There's a gentleman at the front door, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. Rather late for a call, isn't it?

ALICE. He's in a motor car, sir, and it's broken down, and he wondered if you'd lend him a little petrol. He told me to say how very sorry he was to trouble you——

MR. KNOWLE. But he's not troubling me at all—particularly if Peters is about. I daresay you could find Peters, Alice, and if it's not troubling Peters too much, perhaps he would see to it. And ask the gentleman to come in. We can't keep him standing on the door-mat.

ALICE. Yes, sir. I did ask him before, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, ask him this time in the voice of one who is about to bring in the whiskey.

ALICE. Yes, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. And then—bring in the whiskey.

ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out, and returns a moment later) He says, thank you very much, sir, but he really won't come in, and he's very sorry indeed to trouble you about the petrol.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! I'm afraid we were too allusive for him.

ALICE (hopefully). Yes, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, we won't be quite so subtle this time. Present Mr. Knowle's compliments, and say that I shall be very much honoured if he will drink a glass of whiskey with me before proceeding on his journey.

ALICE. Yes, sir.

MR. KNOWLE. And then—bring in the whiskey.

ALICE. Yes, sir. (She goes out. In a little while she comes back followed by the stranger, who is dressed from head to foot in a long cloak.) Mr. Gervase Mallory.

[She goes out.

MR. KNOWLE. How do you do, Mr. Mallory? I'm very glad to see you. (They shake hands.)

GERVASE. It's very kind of you. I really must apologise for bothering you like this. I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance.

MR. KNOWLE. Not at all. Are you going far?

GERVASE. Collingham. I live at Little Malling, about twenty miles away. Do you know it?

MR. KNOWLE. Yes. I've been through it. I didn't know it was as far away as that.

GERVASE (with a laugh). Well, perhaps only by the way I came. The fact is I've lost myself rather.

MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid you have. Collingham. You oughtn't to have come within five miles of us.

GERVASE. I suppose I oughtn't.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, all the more reason for having a drink now that you are here.

GERVASE. It's awfully kind of you.

(ALICE comes in.)

MR. KNOWLE. Ah, here we are. (ALICE puts down the whiskey.) You've told Peters?

ALICE. Yes, sir. He's looking after it now.

MR. KNOWLE. That's right, (ALICE goes out.) You'll have some whiskey, won't you?

GERVASE. Thanks very much.

(He comes to the table.)

MR. KNOWLE. And do take your coat off, won't you, and make yourself comfortable?

GERVASE. Er—thanks. I don't think—— (He smiles to himself and keeps his cloak on.)

MR. KNOWLE (busy with the drinks). Say when.

GERVASE. Thank you.

MR. KNOWLE. And soda?

GERVASE. Please. . . . Thanks!

(He takes the glass.)

MR. KNOWLE (giving himself one). I'm so glad you came, because I have a horror of drinking alone. Even when my wife gives me cough-mixture, I insist on somebody else in the house having cough-mixture too. A glass of cough-mixture with an old friend just before going to bed—— (He looks up) But do take your coat off, won't you, and sit down and be comfortable?

GERVASE. Er—thanks very much, but I don't think—— (With a shrug and a smile) Oh, well! (He puts down his glass and begins to take it off. He is in fancy dress—the wonderful young Prince in blue and gold of MELISANDE'S dream.)

(MR. KNOWLE turns round to him again just as he has put his cloak down. He looks at GERVASE in amazement.)

MR. KNOWLE (pointing to his whiskey glass). But I haven't even begun it yet. . . . Perhaps it's the port.

GERVASE (laughing). I'm awfully sorry. You must wonder what on earth I'm doing.

MR. KNOWLE. No, no; I wondered what on earth I'd been doing.

GERVASE. You see, I'm going to a fancy dress dance at Collingham.

MR. KNOWLE. You relieve my mind considerably.

GERVASE. That's why I didn't want to come in—or take my cloak off.

MR. KNOWLE (inspecting him). It becomes you extraordinarily well, if I may say so.

GERVASE. Oh, thanks very much. But one feels rather absurd in it when other people are in ordinary clothes.

MR. KNOWLE. On the contrary, you make other people feel absurd. I don't know that that particular style would have suited me, but (looking at himself) I am sure that I could have found something more expressive of my emotions than this.

GERVASE. You're quite right. "Dress does make a difference, Davy."

MR. KNOWLE. It does indeed.

GERVASE. I feel it's almost wicked of me to be drinking a whiskey and soda.

MR. KNOWLE. Very wicked. (Taking out his case) Have a cigarette, too?

GERVASE. May I have one of my own?

MR. KNOWLE. Do.

GERVASE (feeling for it). If I can find it. They were very careless about pockets in the old days. I had a special one put in somewhere, only it's rather difficult to get at. . . . Ah, here it is. (He takes a cigarette from his case, and after trying to put the case back in his pocket again, places it on the table.)

MR. KNOWLE. Match?

GERVASE. Thanks. (Picking up his whiskey) Well, here's luck, and—my most grateful thanks.

MR. KNOWLE (raising his glass). May you slay all your dragons.

GERVASE. Thank you. (They drink.)

MR. KNOWLE. Well, now about Collingham. I don't know if you saw a map outside in the hall.

GERVASE. I saw it, but I am afraid I didn't look at it. I was too much interested in your prints.

MR. KNOWLE (eagerly). You don't say that you are interested in prints?

GERVASE. Very much—as an entire amateur.

MR. KNOWLE. Most of the young men who come here think that the art began and ended with Kirchner. If you are really interested, I have something in the library—but of course I mustn't take up your time now. If you could bear to come over another day—after all, we are neighbours——

GERVASE. It's awfully nice of you; I should love it.

MR. KNOWLE. Hedgling is the name of the village. I mention it because you seem to have lost your way so completely——

GERVASE. Oh, by Jove, now I know where I am. It's so different in the moonlight. I'm lunching this way to-morrow. Might I come on afterwards? And then I can return your petrol, thank you for your hospitality, and expose my complete ignorance of old prints, all in one afternoon.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, but you must come anyhow. Come to tea.

GERVASE. That will be ripping. (Getting up) Well, I suppose I ought to be getting on. (He picks up his cloak.)

MR. KNOWLE. We might just have a look at that map on the way.

GERVASE. Oh yes, do let's.

(They go to the door together, and stand for a moment looking at the casement windows.)

MR. KNOWLE. It really is a wonderful night. (He switches off the lights, and the moon streams through the windows) Just look.

GERVASE (with a deep sigh). Wonderful!

[They go out together.

(The hall is empty for a moment. Then GERVASE reappears. He has forgotten his cigarette-case. He finds it, and on his way out again stops for a moment in the moonlight, looking through the casement windows.)

(MELISANDE comes in by the French windows. He hears her, and at the same moment she sees him. She gives a little wondering cry. It is He! The knight of her dreams. They stand gazing at each other. . . . Silently he makes obeisance to her; silently she acknowledges it. . . . Then he is gone.)



ACT II

(It is seven o'clock on a beautiful midsummer morning. The scene is a glade in a wood a little way above the village of Hedgling.)

GERVASE MALLORY, still in his fancy dress, but with his cloak on, comes in. He looks round him and says, "By Jove, how jolly!" He takes off his cloak, throws it down, stretches himself, turns round, and, seeing the view behind him, goes to look at it. While he is looking he hears an unmelodious whistling. He turns round with a start; the whistling goes on; he says "Good Lord!" and tries to get to his cloak. It is too late. ERN, a very small boy, comes through the trees into the glade. GERVASE gives a sigh of resignation and stands there. ERN stops in the middle of his tune and gazes at him.

ERN. Oo—er! Oo! (He circles slowly round GERVASE.)

GERVASE. I quite agree with you.

ERN. Oo! Look!

GERVASE. Yes, it is a bit dressy, isn't it? Come round to the back—take a good look at it while you can. That's right. . . . Been all round? Good!

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE. You keep saying "Oo." It makes conversation very difficult. Do you mind if I sit down?

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE (sitting down on a log). I gather that I have your consent. I thank you.

ERN. Oo! Look! (He points at GERVASE'S legs.)

GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed those before?

ERN (sitting down in front of GERVASE). Oo!

GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a walk in a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say "Oo." What does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you don't walk all round him and say "Oo!" What does your Uncle George wear when he's reaping? I suppose you don't—By the way, I wish you'd tell me your name. (ERN gazes at him dumbly.) Oh, come! They must have told you your name when you got up this moving.

ERN (smiling sheepishly). Ern.

GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN grins) Thank you.

ERN (tapping himself). I'm Ern.

GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory.

ERN. Ern.

GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, you know, because then we never get any farther. Once an introduction is over, Mr. Hearne, we are—

ERN. Ern.

GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But now—Oh, I see what you mean. Ern—short for Ernest?

ERN (nodding). They calls me Ern.

GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger I shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest— (getting up) Just excuse me a moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree has. It must be a Pomeranian. (He folds his cloak upon it and sits down again) That's better. Now we can talk comfortably together. I don't know if there's anything you particularly want to discuss—nothing?—well, then, I will suggest the subject of breakfast.

ERN (grinning). 'Ad my breakfast.

GERVASE. You've had yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of course, you're wondering why I haven't had mine.

ERN. Bacon fat. (He makes reminiscent noises.)

GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a motor car of your own.

ERN. Don't like moty cars.

GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree with you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't broken down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if you're married or anything of that sort, but I think even your rough stern heart would have been moved by that vision of loveliness which I saw last night. (He is silent for a little, thinking of her.) Well, then, I lost my way. There I was—ten miles from anywhere—in the middle of what was supposed to be a short cut—late at night—Midsummer Night—what would you have done, Ernest?

ERN. Gone 'ome.

GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know where home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen the Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or any wise man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of Her.

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . Have you ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer Night—I don't mean just for a minute or two, but all through the night until the dawn came? You aren't really alone, you know. All round you there are little whisperings going on, little breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is out hunting; somebody stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt of yesterday; somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn, and then, finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little head back under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies are out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in them last night. I heard them whispering.

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE (coming out of his thoughts with a laugh). Well, of course, I can't expect you to believe me. But don't go about thinking that there's nothing in the world but bacon fat and bull's-eyes. Well, then, I suppose I went to sleep, for I woke up suddenly and it was morning, the most wonderful sparkling magical morning—but, of course, you were just settling down to business then.

ERN. Oo! (He makes more reminiscent noises.)

GERVASE. Yes, that's just what I said. I said to myself, breakfast.

ERN. 'Ad my breakfast.

GERVASE. Yes, but I 'adn't. I said to myself, "Surely my old friend, Ernest, whom I used to shoot bison with in the Himalayas, has got an estate somewhere in these parts. I will go and share his simple meal with him." So I got out of the car, and I did what you didn't do, young man, I had a bathe in the river, and then a dry on a pocket-handkerchief—one of my sister's, unfortunately—and then I came out to look for breakfast. And suddenly, whom should I meet but my old friend, Ernest, the same hearty fellow, the same inveterate talker as when we shot dragon-flies together in the swamps of Malay. (Shaking his hand) Ernest, old boy, pleased to meet you. What about it?

ERN. 'Ad my—

GERVASE. S'sh. (He gets up) Now then—to business. Do you mind looking the other way while I try to find my purse. (Feeling for it.) Every morning when you get up, you should say, "Thank God, I'm getting a big boy now and I've got pockets in my trousers." And you should feel very sorry for the poor people who lived in fairy books and had no trousers to put pockets in. Ah, here we are. Now then, Ernest, attend very carefully. Where do you live?

ERN. 'Ome.

GERVASE. You mean, you haven't got a flat of your own yet? Well, how far away is your home? (ERN grins and says nothing) A mile? (ERN continues to grin) Half a mile? (ERN grins) Six inches?

ERN (pointing). Down there.

GERVASE. Good. Now then, I want you to take this— (giving him half-a-crown)—

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE. Yes, I thought that would move you—and I want you to ask your mother if you can bring me some breakfast up here. Now, listen very carefully, because we are coming to the important part. Hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, and a bottle of milk—and anything else she likes. Tell her that it's most important, because your old friend Mallory whom you shot white mice with in Egypt is starving by the roadside. And if you come back here with a basket quickly, I'll give you as many bull's-eyes as you can eat in a week. (Very earnestly) Now, Ernest, with all the passion and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I ask you: have you got that?

ERN (nodding). Going 'ome. (He looks at the half-crown again.)

GERVASE. Going 'ome. Yes. But—returning with breakfast. Starving man—lost in forest—return with basket—save life. (To himself) I believe I could explain it better to a Chinaman. (to ERN) Now then, off you go.

ERN (as he goes off). 'Ad my breakfast.

GERVASE. Yes, and I wonder if I shall get mine.

(GERVASE walks slowly after him and stands looking at him as he goes down the hill. Then, turning round, he sees another stranger in the distance.)

GERVASE. Hullo, here's another of them. (He walks towards the log) Horribly crowded the country's getting nowadays. (He puts on his coat.)

(A moment later a travelling Peddler, name of SUSAN, comes in singing. He sees GERVASE sitting on the log.)

SUSAN (with a bow). Good morning, sir.

GERVASE. (looking round). Good morning.

SUSAN. I had thought to be alone. I trust my singing did not discommode you.

GERVASE. Not at all. I like it. Do go on.

SUSAN. Alas, the song ends there.

GERVASE. Oh, well, couldn't we have it again?

SUSAN. Perhaps later, sir, if you insist. (Taking off his hat) Would it inconvenience you if I rested here for a few minutes?

GERVASE. Not a bit. It's a jolly place to rest at, isn't it? Have you come far this morning?

SUSAN. Three or four miles—a mere nothing on a morning like this. Besides, what does the great William say?

GERVASE. I don't think I know him. What does he say?

SUSAN. A merry heart goes all the way.

GERVASE. Oh, Shakespeare, yes.

SUSAN. And why, you ask, am I merry?

GERVASE. Well, I didn't, but I was just going to. Why are you merry?

SUSAN. Can you not guess? What does the great Ralph say?

GERVASE (trying hard). The great Ralph. . . . No, you've got me there. I'm sure I don't know him. Well, what does he say?

SUSAN. Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of Empires ridiculous.

GERVASE. Emerson, of course. Silly of me.

SUSAN. So you see, sir—I am well, the day is well, all is well.

GERVASE. Sir, I congratulate you. In the words of the great Percy—(to himself) that's got him.

SUSAN (at a loss). The—er—great Percy?

GERVASE. Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

SUSAN (eagerly). I take you, I take you! Shelley! Ah, there's a poet, Mr.—er—I don't think I quite caught your name.

GERVASE. Oh! My name's Gervase Mallory—to be referred to by posterity, I hope, as the great Gervase.

SUSAN. Not a poet, too?

GERVASE. Well, no, not professionally.

SUSAN. But one with the poets in spirit—like myself. I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Mallory. It is most good-natured of you to converse with me. My name is Susan, (GERVASE bows.) Generally called Master Susan in these parts, or sometimes Gentleman Susan. I am a travelling Peddler by profession.

GERVASE. A delightful profession, I am sure.

SUSAN. The most delightful of all professions. (He begins to undo his pack,) Speaking professionally for the moment, if I may so far venture, you are not in any need of boot-laces, buttons, or collar-studs?

GERVASE (smiling). Well, no, not at this actual moment. On almost any other day perhaps—but no, not this morning.

SUSAN. I only just mentioned it in passing—en passant, as the French say. (He brings out a paper bag from his pack.) Would the fact of my eating my breakfast in this pleasant resting place detract at all from your appreciation of the beautiful day which Heaven has sent us?

GERVASE. Eating your what?

SUSAN. My simple breakfast.

GERVASE (shaking his head). I'm very sorry, but I really don't think I could bear it. Only five minutes ago Ernest—I don't know if you know Ernest?

SUSAN. The great Ernest?

GERVASE (indicating with his hand). No, the very small one—Well, he was telling me all about the breakfast he'd just had, and now you're showing me the breakfast you're just going to have—no, I can't bear it.

SUSAN. My dear sir, you don't mean to tell me that you would do me the honour of joining me at my simple repast?

GERVASE (jumping up excitedly). The honour of joining you!—the honour! My dear Mr. Susan! Now I know why they call you Gentleman Susan. (Shaking his head sadly) But no. It wouldn't be fair to you. I should eat too much. Besides, Ernest may come back. No, I will wait. It wouldn't be fair.

SUSAN (unpacking his breakfast). Bacon or cheese?

GERVASE. Cheese—I mean bacon—I mean—I say, you aren't serious?

SUSAN (handing him bread and cheese). I trust you will find it up to your expectations.

GERVASE (taking it). I say, you really—(Solemnly) Master Susan, with all the passion and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I say "Thank you." (He takes a bite) Thank you.

SUSAN (eating also). Please do not mention it. I am more than repaid by your company.

GERVASE. It is charming of you to say so, and I am very proud to be your guest, but I beg you to allow me to pay for this delightful cheese.

SUSAN. No, no. I couldn't hear of it.

GERVASE. I warn you that if you will not allow me to pay for this delightful cheese, I shall insist on buying all your boot-laces. Nay, more, I shall buy all your studs, and all your buttons. Your profession would then be gone.

SUSAN. Well, well, shall we say tuppence?

GERVASE. Tuppence for a banquet like this? My dear friend, nothing less than half-a-crown will satisfy me.

SUSAN. Sixpence. Not a penny more.

GERVASE (with a sigh). Very well, then. (He begins to feel in his pocket, and in so doing reveals part of his dress. SUSAN opens his eyes at it, and then goes on eating. GERVASE finds his purse and produces sixpence, which he gives to SUSAN.) Sir, I thank you. (He resumes his breakfast.)

SUSAN. You are too generous. . . . Forgive me for asking, but you are not by chance a fellow-traveller upon the road?

GERVASE. Do you mean professionally?

SUSAN. Yes. There is a young fellow, a contortionist and sword-swallower, known locally in these parts as Humphrey the Human Hiatus, who travels from village to village. Just for a moment I wondered—

(He glances at GERVASE's legs, which are uncovered. GERVASE hastily wraps his coat round them.)

GERVASE. I am not Humphrey. No. Gervase the Cheese Swallower. . . . Er—my costume—

SUSAN. Please say nothing more. It was ill-mannered of me to have inquired. Let a man wear what he likes. It is a free world.

GERVASE. Well, the fact is, I have been having a bathe.

SUSAN (with a bow). I congratulate you on your bathing costume.

GERVASE. Not at all.

SUSAN. You live near here then?

GERVASE. Little Malling. I came over in a car.

SUSAN. Little Malling? That's about twenty miles away.

GERVASE. Oh, much more than that surely.

SUSAN. No. There's Hedgling down there.

GERVASE (surprised). Hedgling? Heavens, how I must have lost my way. . . . Then I have been within a mile of her all night. And I never knew!

SUSAN. You are married, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. No. Not yet.

SUSAN. Get married.

GERVASE. What?

SUSAN. Take my advice and get married.

GERVASE. You recommend it?

SUSAN. I do. . . . There is no companion like a wife, if you marry the right woman.

GERVASE. Oh?

SUSAN. I have been married thirty years. Thirty years of happiness.

GERVASE. But in your profession you must go away from your wife a good deal.

SUSAN (smiling). But then I come back to her a good deal.

GERVASE (thoughtfully). Yes, that must be rather jolly.

SUSAN. Why do you think I welcomed your company so much when I came upon you here this morning?

GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well——

SUSAN. It was something to tell my wife when I got back to her. When you are married, every adventure becomes two adventures. You have your adventure, and then you go back to your wife and have your adventure again. Perhaps it is a better adventure that second time. You can say the things which you didn't quite say the first time, and do the things which you didn't quite do. When my week's travels are ever, and I go back to my wife, I shall have a whole week's happenings to tell her. They won't lose in the telling, Mr. Mallory. Our little breakfast here this morning—she will love to hear about that. I can see her happy excited face as I tell her all that I said to you, and—if I can remember it—all that you said to me.

GERVASE (eagerly). I say, how jolly! (Thoughtfully) You won't forget what I said about the Great Percy? I thought that was rather good.

SUSAN. I hope it wasn't too good, Mr. Mallory. If it was, I shall find myself telling it to her as one of my own remarks. That's why I say "Get married." Then you can make things fair for yourself. You can tell her all the good things of mine which you said.

GERVASE. But there must be more in marriage than that.

SUSAN. There are a million things in marriage, but companionship is at the bottom of it all. . . . Do you know what companionship means?

GERVASE. How do you mean? Literally?

SUSAN. The derivation of it in the dictionary. It means the art of having meals with a person. Cynics talk of the impossibility of sitting opposite the same woman every day at breakfast. Impossible to them, perhaps, poor shallow-hearted creatures, but not impossible to two people who have found what love is.

GERVASE. It doesn't sound very romantic.

SUSAN (solemnly). It is the most romantic thing in the whole world. . . . Some more cheese?

GERVASE (taking it). Thank you. . . . (Thoughtfully) Do you believe in love at first sight, Master Susan?

SUSAN. Why not? If it's the woman you love at first sight, not only the face.

GERVASE. I see. (After a pause) It's rather hard to tell, you know. I suppose the proper thing to do is to ask her to have breakfast with you, and see how you get on.

SUSAN. Well, you might do worse.

GERVASE (laughing). And propose to her after breakfast?

SUSAN. If you will. It is better than proposing to her at a ball as some young people do, carried away suddenly by a snatched kiss in the moonlight.

GERVASE (shaking his head). Nothing like that happened last night.

SUSAN. What does the Great Alfred say of the kiss?

GERVASE. I never read the Daily Mail.

SUSAN. Tennyson, Mr. Mallory, Tennyson.

GERVASE. Oh, I beg your pardon.

SUSAN. "The kiss," says the Great Alfred, "the woven arms, seem but to be weak symbols of the settled bliss, the comfort, I have found in thee." The same idea, Mr. Mallory. Companionship, or the art of having breakfast with a person. (Getting up) Well, I must be moving on. We have been companions for a short time; I thank you for it. I wish you well.

GERVASE (getting up). I say, I've been awfully glad to meet you. And I shall never forget the breakfast you gave me.

SUSAN. It is friendly of you to say so.

GERVASE (hesitatingly). You won't mind my having another one when Ernest comes back—I mean, if Ernest comes back? You won't think I'm slighting yours in any way? But after an outdoor bathe, you know, one does——

SUSAN. Please! I am happy to think you have such an appetite.

GERVASE (holding out his hand). Well, good-bye, Mr. Susan, (SUSAN looks at his hand doubtfully, and GERVASE says with a laugh) Oh, come on!

SUSAN (shaking it). Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.

GERVASE. And I shan't forget what you said.

SUSAN (smiling). I expect you will, Mr. Mallory. Good-bye.

[He goes off.

GERVASE (calling after him). Because it wasn't the moonlight, it wasn't really. It was just Her. (To himself) It was just Her. . . . I suppose the great Whatsisname would say, "It was just She," but then, that isn't what I mean.

(GERVASE watches him going down the hill. Then he turns to the other side, says, "Hallo!" suddenly in great astonishment, and withdraws a few steps.)

GERVASE. It can't be! (He goes cautiously forward and looks again) It is!

(He comes back, and walks gently off through the trees.)

(MELISANDE comes in. She has no hat; her hair is in two plaits to her waist; she is wearing a dress which might belong to any century. She stands in the middle of the glade, looks round it, holds out her hands to it for a moment, and then clasps them with a sigh of happiness. . . .)

(GERVASE, his cloak thrown away, comes in behind her. For a moment he is half-hidden by the trees.)

GERVASE (very softly). Princess!

(She hears but thinks she is still dreaming. She smiles a little.)

GERVASE (a little more loudly). Princess!

(She listens and nods to herself, GERVASE steps out into the open.)

GERVASE. Princess!

(She turns round.)

MELISANDE (looking at him wonderingly). You!

GERVASE. At your service, Princess.

MELISANDE. It was you who came last night.

GERVASE. I was at your father's court last night. I saw you. You looked at me.

MELISANDE. I thought it was only a dream when I looked at you. I thought it was a dream when you called me just now. Is it still a dream?

GERVASE. If it is a dream, let us go on dreaming.

MELISANDE. Where do you come from? Fairyland?

GERVASE. This is Fairyland. We are in the enchanted forest.

MELISANDE (with a sigh of happiness). Ah!

GERVASE. You have been looking for it?

MELISANDE. For so long. (She is silent for a little, and then says with a smile) May one sit down in an enchanted forest?

GERVASE. Your throne awaits you. (He spreads his cloak over the log.)

MELISANDE. Thank you. . . . Won't you sit, too?

GERVASE (shaking his head). I haven't finished looking at you yet. . . . You are very lovely, Princess.

MELISANDE. Am I?

GERVASE. Haven't they told you?

MELISANDE. Perhaps I wondered sometimes.

GERVASE. Very lovely. . . . Have you a name which goes with it?

MELISANDE. My name is Melisande.

GERVASE (his whole heart in it). Melisande!

MELISANDE (content at last). Ah!

GERVASE (solemnly). Now the Princess Melisande was very beautiful. (He lies down on the grass near her, looks up at her and is silent for a little.)

MELISANDE (smiling shyly). May we talk about you, now?

GERVASE. It is for the Princess to say what we shall talk about. If your Royal Highness commands, then I will even talk about myself.

MELISANDE. You see, I don't know your name yet.

GERVASE. I am called Gervase.

MELISANDE. Gervase. It is a pretty name.

GERVASE. I have been keeping it for this morning.

MELISANDE. It will be Prince Gervase, will it not, if this is Fairyland?

GERVASE. Alas, no. For I am only a humble woodcutter's son. One of seven.

MELISANDE. Of seven? I thought that humble woodcutters always had three sons, and that it was the youngest who went into the world to seek his fortune.

GERVASE. Three—that's right. I said "one of several." Now that I count them up, three. (Counting on his fingers) Er—Bowshanks, er—Mulberry-face and myself. Three. I am the youngest.

MELISANDE. And the fairies came to your christening?

GERVASE. Now for the first time I think that they did.

MELISANDE (nodding). They always come to the christening of the third and youngest son, and they make him the tallest and the bravest and the most handsome.

GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well.

MELISANDE. You are the tallest and the bravest and the most handsome, aren't you?

GERVASE (with a modest smile). Well, of course, Mulberry-face is hardly a starter, and then Bowshanks— (he indicates the curve of his legs)—I mean, there's not much competition.

MELISANDE. I have no sisters.

GERVASE. The Princess never has sisters. She has suitors.

MELISANDE (with a sigh). Yes, she has suitors.

GERVASE (taking out his dagger). Tell me their names that I may remove them for you.

MELISANDE. There is one dressed in black and white who seeks to win my hand.

GERVASE (feeling the point). He bites the dust to-morrow.

MELISANDE. To-morrow?

GERVASE. Unless it rains in the night. Perhaps it would be safer if we arranged for him to bite it this afternoon.

MELISANDE. How brave you are!

GERVASE. Say no more. It will be a pleasure.

MELISANDE. Ah, but I cannot ask you to make this sacrifice for me.

GERVASE. The sacrifice will be his.

MELISANDE. But are you so certain that you will kill him? Suppose he were to kill you?

GERVASE (getting up). Madam, when the third son of a humble woodcutter engages in mortal combat with one upon whom the beautiful Princess has frowned, there can be but one end to the struggle. To doubt this would be to let Romance go.

MELISANDE. You are right. I should never have doubted.

GERVASE. At the same time, it would perhaps be as well to ask the help of my Uncle Otto.

MELISANDE. But is it fair to seek the assistance of an uncle in order to kill one small black and white suitor?

GERVASE. Ah, but he is a wizard. One is always allowed to ask the help of a wizard. My idea was that he should cast a spell upon the presumptuous youth who seeks to woo you, so that to those who gazed upon him he should have the outward semblance of a rabbit. He would then realise the hopelessness of his suit and . . . go away.

MELISANDE (with dignity). I should certainly never marry a small black and white rabbit.

GERVASE. No, you couldn't, could you?

MELISANDE (gravely). No. (Then their eyes meet. There is a twinkle in his; hers respond; and suddenly they are laughing together.) What nonsense you talk!

GERVASE. Well, it's such an absurdly fine morning, isn't it? There's a sort of sparkle in the air. I'm really trying to be quite sensible.

MELISANDE (making room for him at her feet). Go on talking nonsense. (He sits down on the ground and leans against the log at her side.) Tell me about yourself. You have told me nothing yet, but that (she smiles at him) your father is a woodcutter.

GERVASE. Yes. He—er—cuts wood.

MELISANDE. And you resolved to go out into the world and seek your fortune?

GERVASE. Yes. You see if you are a third son of a humble woodcutter, nobody thinks very much of you at home, and they never take you out with them; and when you are cutting wood, they always put you where the sawdust gets into your mouth. Because, you see, they have never read history, and so they don't know that the third and youngest son is always the nicest of the family.

MELISANDE. And the tallest and the bravest and the most handsome.

GERVASE. And all the other things you mention.

MELISANDE. So you ran away?

GERVASE. So I ran away—to seek my fortune.

MELISANDE. But your uncle the wizard, or your godmother or somebody, gave you a magic ring to take with you on your travels? (Nodding) They always do, you know.

GERVASE (showing the ring on his finger). Yes, my fairy godmother gave me a magic ring. Here it is.

MELISANDE (looking at it). What does it do?

GERVASE. You turn it round once and think very hard of anybody you want, and suddenly the person you are thinking of appears before you.

MELISANDE. How wonderful! Have you tried it yet?

GERVASE. Once. . . . That's why you are here.

MELISANDE. Oh! (Softly) Have you been thinking of me?

GERVASE. All night.

MELISANDE. I dreamed of you all night.

GERVASE (happily). Did you, Melisande? How dear of you to dream of me! (Anxiously) Was I—was I all right?

MELISANDE. Oh, yes!

GERVASE (pleased). Ah! (He spreads himself a little and removes a speck of dust from his sleeve)

MELISANDE (thinking of it still). You were so brave.

GERVASE. Yes, I expect I'm pretty brave in other people's dreams—I'm so cowardly in my own. Did I kill anybody?

MELISANDE. You were engaged in a terrible fight with a dragon when I woke up.

GERVASE. Leaving me and the dragon still asleep—I mean, still fighting? Oh, Melisande, how could you leave us until you knew who had won?

MELISANDE. I tried so hard to get back to you.

GERVASE. I expect I was winning, you know. I wish you could have got back for the finish. . . . Melisande, let me come into your dreams again to-night.

MELISANDE. You never asked me last night. You just came.

GERVASE. Thank you for letting me come.

MELISANDE. And then when I woke up early this morning, the world was so young, so beautiful, so fresh that I had to be with it. It called to me so clearly—to come out and find its secret. So I came up here, to this enchanted place, and all the way it whispered to me—wonderful things.

GERVASE. What did it whisper, Melisande?

MELISANDE. The secret of happiness.

GERVASE. Ah, what is it, Melisande? (She smiles and shakes her head). . . . I met a magician in the woods this morning.

MELISANDE. Did he speak to you?

GERVASE. He told me the secret of happiness.

MELISANDE. What did he tell you?

GERVASE. He said it was marriage.

MELISANDE. Ah, but he didn't mean by marriage what so many people mean.

GERVASE. He seemed a very potent magician.

MELISANDE. Marriage to many people means just food. Housekeeping. He didn't mean that.

GERVASE. A very wise and reverend magician.

MELISANDE. Love is romance. Is there anything romantic in breakfast—or lunch?

GERVASE. Well, not so much in lunch, of course, but—-

MELISANDE. How well you understand! Why do the others not understand?

GERVASE (smiling at her). Perhaps because they have not seen Melisande.

MELISANDE. Oh no, no, that isn't it. All the others—-

GERVASE. Do you mean your suitors?

MELISANDE. Yes. They are so unromantic, so material. The clothes they wear; the things they talk about. But you are so different. Why is it?

GERVASE. I don't know. Perhaps because I am the third son of a woodcutter. Perhaps because they don't know that you are the Princess. Perhaps because they have never been in the enchanted forest.

MELISANDE. What would the forest tell them?

GERVASE. All the birds in the forest are singing "Melisande"; the little brook runs through the forest murmuring "Melisande"; the tall trees bend their heads and whisper to each other "Melisande." All the flowers have put on their gay dresses for her. Oh, Melisande!

MELISANDE (awed). Is it true? (They are silent for a little, happy to be together. . . . He looks back at her and gives a sudden little laugh.) What is it?

GERVASE. Just you and I—together—on the top of the world like this.

MELISANDE. Yes, that's what I feel, too. (After a pause) Go on pretending.

GERVASE. Pretending?

MELISANDE. That the world is very young.

GERVASE. We are very young, Melisande.

MELISANDE (timidly). It is only a dream, isn't it?

GERVASE. Who knows what a dream is? Perhaps we fell asleep in Fairyland a thousand years ago, and all that we thought real was a dream, until now at last we are awake again.

MELISANDE. How wonderful that would be.

GERVASE. Perhaps we are dreaming now. But is it your dream or my dream, Melisande?

MELISANDE (after thinking it out). I think I would rather it were your dream, Gervase. For then I should be in it, and that would mean that you had been thinking of me.

GERVASE. Then it shall be my dream, Melisande.

MELISANDE. Let it be a long one, my dear.

GERVASE. For ever and for ever.

MELISANDE (dreamily). Oh, I know that it is only a dream, and that presently we shall wake up; or else that you will go away and I will go away, too, and we shall never meet again; for in the real world, what could I be to you, or you to me? So go on pretending.

(He stands up and faces her.)

GERVASE. Melisande, if this were Fairyland, or if we were knights and ladies in some old romance, would you trust yourself to me?

MELISANDE. So very proudly.

GERVASE. You would let me come to your father's court and claim you over all your other suitors, and fight for you, and take you away with me?

MELISANDE. If this were Fairyland, yes.

GERVASE. You would trust me?

MELISANDE. I would trust my lord.

GERVASE (smiling at her). Then I will come for the Princess this afternoon. (With sudden feeling) Ah, how can I keep away now that I have seen the Princess?

MELISANDE (shyly—happily). When you saw me last night, did you know that you would see me again?

GERVASE. I have been waiting for you here.

MELISANDE. How did you know that I would come?

GERVASE. On such a morning—in such a place—how could the loved one not be here?

MELISANDE (looking away). The loved one?

GERVASE. I saw you last night.

MELISANDE (softly). Was that enough?

GERVASE. Enough, yes. Enough? Oh no, no, no!

MELISANDE (nodding). I will wait for you this afternoon.

GERVASE. And you will come away with me? Out into the world with me? Over the hills and far away with me?

MELISANDE (softly). Over the hills and far away.

GERVASE (going to her). Princess!

MELISANDE. Not Princess.

GERVASE. Melisande!

MELISANDE (holding out her hand to him). Ah!

GERVASE. May I kiss your hands, Melisande?

MELISANDE. They are my lord's to kiss.

GERVASE (kissing them). Dear hands.

MELISANDE. Now I shall love them, too.

GERVASE. May I kiss your lips, Melisande?

MELISANDE (proudly). Who shall, if not my lord?

GERVASE. Melisande! (He touches her lips with his.)

MELISANDE (breaking away from him). Oh!

GERVASE (triumphantly). I love you, Melisande! I love you!

MELISANDE (wonderingly). Why didn't I wake up when you kissed me? We are still here. The dream goes on.

GERVASE. It is no dream, Melisande. Or if it is a dream, then in my dream I love you, and if we are awake, then awake I love you. I love you if this is Fairyland, and if there is no Fairyland, then my love will make a faery land of the world for you. For I love you, Melisande.

MELISANDE (timidly). Are we pretending still?

GERVASE. No, no, no!

(She looks at him gravely for a moment and then nods her head.)

MELISANDE (pointing). I live down there. You will come for me?

GERVASE. I will come.

MELISANDE. I am my lord's servant. I will wait for him. (She moves away from him. Then she curtsies and says) This afternoon, my lord.

(She goes down the hill.)

(He stands looking after her. While he is standing there, ERN comes through the trees with breakfast.)



ACT III

(It is about four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day. JANE is sitting on the sofa in the hall, glancing at a paper, but evidently rather bored with it, and hoping that somebody—BOBBY, did you say?—will appear presently. However, it is MR. KNOWLE who comes in.)

MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Jane!

JANE (looking up). Hallo, Uncle Henry. Did you have a good day?

MR. KNOWLE. Well, Peters and I had a very enjoyable drive.

JANE. But you found nothing at the sale? What a pity!

MR. KNOWLE (taking a catalogue from his pocket). Nothing which I wanted myself, but there were several very interesting lots. Peters was strongly tempted by Lot 29—"Two hip-baths and a stuffed crocodile." Very useful things to have by you if you think of getting married, Jane, and setting up house for yourself. I don't know if you have any thoughts in that direction?

JANE (a little embarrassed). Well, I suppose I shall some day.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Where's Bobby?

JANE (carelessly). Bobby? Oh, he's about somewhere.

MR. KNOWLE. I think Bobby would like to hear about Lot 29. (Returning to his catalogue) Or perhaps Lot 42. "Lot 42—Twelve aspidistras, towel-horse, and 'The Maiden's Prayer.'" All for seven and sixpence. I ought to have had Bobby with me. He could have made a firm offer of eight shillings. . . . By the way, I have a daughter, haven't I? How was Sandy this morning?

JANE. I didn't see her. Aunt Mary is rather anxious about her.

MR. KNOWLE. Has she left us for ever?

JANE. There's nothing to be frightened about really.

MR. KNOWLE. I'm not frightened.

JANE. She had breakfast before any of us were up, and went out with some sandwiches afterwards, and she hasn't come back yet.

MR. KNOWLE. A very healthy way of spending the day. (MRS. KNOWLE comes in) Well, Mary, I hear that we have no daughter now.

MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, there you are, Henry. Thank Heaven that you are back safely.

MR. KNOWLE. My dear, I always meant to come back safely. Didn't you expect me?

MRS. KNOWLE. I had given up hope. Jane here will tell you what a terrible morning I have had; prostrate on the sofa, mourning for my loved ones. My only child torn from me, my husband—dead.

MR. KNOWLE (surprised). Oh, I was dead?

MRS. KNOWLE. I pictured the car smashed to atoms, and you lying in the road, dead, with Peters by your side.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! How was Peters?

MRS. KNOWLE (with a shrug). I didn't look. What is a chauffeur to one who has lost her husband and her only child in the same morning?

MR. KNOWLE. Still, I think you might have looked.

JANE. Sandy's all right, Aunt Mary. You know she often goes out alone all day like this.

MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, is she alone? Jane, did you count the gardeners as I asked you?

MR. KNOWLE. Count the gardeners?

MRS. KNOWLE. To make sure that none of them is missing too.

JANE. It's quite all right, Aunt Mary. Sandy will be back by tea-time.

MRS. KNOWLE (resigned). It all comes of christening her Melisande. You know, Henry, I quite thought you said Millicent.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, talking about tea, my dear—at which happy meal our long-lost daughter will be restored to us—we have a visitor coming, a nice young fellow who takes an interest in prints.

MRS. KNOWLE. I've heard nothing of this, Henry.

MR. KNOWLE. No, my dear, that's why I'm telling you now.

MRS. KNOWLE. A young man?

MR. KNOWLE. Yes.

MRS. KNOWLE. Nice-looking?

MR. KNOWLE. Yes.

MRS. KNOWLE. Rich?

MR. KNOWLE. I forgot to ask him, Mary. However, we can remedy that omission as soon as he arrives.

MRS. KNOWLE. It's a very unfortunate day for him to have chosen. Here's Sandy lost, and I'm not fit to be seen, and—Jane, your hair wants tidying——

MR. KNOWLE. He is not coming to see you or Sandy or Jane, my dear; he is coming to see me. Fortunately, I am looking very beautiful this afternoon.

MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, you had better be in the garden, dear, and see if you can stop Sandy before she comes in, and just give her a warning. I don't know what she'll look like after roaming the fields all day, and falling into pools——

MR. KNOWLE. A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a wantonness.

MRS. KNOWLE. I will go and tidy myself. Jane, I think your mother would like you to—but, after all, one must think of one's own child first. You will tell Sandy, won't you? We had better have tea in here. . . . Henry, your trousers—(she looks to see that JANE is not listening, and then says in a loud whisper) your trousers——

MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear, Mary. It's a young fellow who is coming to see my prints; not the Prince of Wales who is coming to see my trousers.

MRS. KNOWLE (turning to JANE). You'll remember, Jane?

JANE (smiling). Yes, Aunt Mary.

MRS. KNOWLE. That's a good girl.

[She goes out.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Your aunt wasn't very lucid, Jane. Which one of you is it who is going to marry the gentleman?

JANE. Don't be so absurd, Uncle Henry.

MR. KNOWLE (taking out his catalogue again). Perhaps he would be interested in Lot 29. (BOBBY comes in through the windows.) Ah, here's Bobby. Bobby, they tell me that you think of setting up house.

BOBBY (looking quickly at JANE). Who told you that?

MR. KNOWLE. Now, starting with two hip-baths and a stuffed crocodile for nine shillings and sixpence, and working up to twelve aspidistras, a towel-horse and "The Maiden's Prayer" for eight shillings, you practically have the spare room furnished for seventeen and six. But perhaps I had better leave the catalogue with you. (He presses it into the bewildered BOBBY'S hands) I must go and tidy myself up. Somebody is coming to propose to me this afternoon.

[He hurries out.

(BOBBY looks after him blankly, and then turns to JANE.)

BOBBY. I say, what's happened?

JANE. Happened?

BOBBY. Yes, why did he say that about my setting up house?

JANE. I think he was just being funny. He is sometimes, you know.

BOBBY. You don't think he guessed——

JANE. Guessed what? About you and Melisande?

BOBBY. I say, shut up, Jane. I thought we agreed not to say anything more about that.

JANE. But what else could he have guessed?

BOBBY. You know well enough.

JANE (shaking her head). No, I don't.

BOBBY. I told you this morning.

JANE. What did you tell me?

BOBBY. You know.

JANE. No, I don't.

BOBBY. Yes, you do.

JANE. No, I don't.

BOBBY (coming closer). All right, shall I tell you again?

JANE (edging away). I don't want to hear it.

BOBBY. How do you know you don't want to hear it, if you don't know what it is?

JANE. I can guess what it is.

BOBBY. There you are!

JANE. It's what you say to everybody, isn't it?

BOBBY (loftily). If you want to know, Miss Bagot, I have only said it to one other person in my life, and that was in mistake for you.

JANE (coldly). Melisande and I are not very much alike, Mr. Coote.

BOBBY. No. You're much prettier.

JANE (turning her head away). You don't really think so. Anyhow, it isn't true.

BOBBY. It is true, Jane. I swear it.

JANE. Well, you didn't think so yesterday.

BOBBY. Why do you keep talking about yesterday? I'm talking about to-day.

JANE. A girl has her pride, Bobby.

BOBBY. So has a man. I'm awfully proud of being in love with you.

JANE. That isn't what I mean.

BOBBY. What do you mean?

JANE (awkwardly). Well—well—well, what it comes to is that you get refused by Sandy, and then you immediately come to me and expect me to jump at you.

BOBBY. Suppose I had waited a year and then come to you, would that have been better?

JANE. Of course it would.

BOBBY. Well, really I can't follow you, darling.

JANE (indignantly). You mustn't call me darling.

BOBBY. Mustn't call you what?

JANE (awkwardly). Darling.

BOBBY. Did I call you darling?

JANE (shortly). Yes.

BOBBY (to himself). "Darling." No, I suppose I mustn't. But it suits you so awfully well—darling. (She stamps her foot) I'm sorry, darl—— I mean Jane, but really I can't follow you. Because you're so frightfully fascinating, that after twenty-four hours of it, I simply have to tell you how much I love you, then your pride is hurt. But if you had been so frightfully unattractive that it took me a whole year to see anything in you at all, then apparently you'd have been awfully proud.

JANE. You have known me a whole year, Bobby.

BOBBY. Not really, you know. Directly I saw you and Sandy together I knew I was in love with one of you, but—well, love is a dashed rummy thing, and I thought it was Sandy. And so I didn't really see you till last night, when you were so awfully decent to me.

JANE (wistfully). It sounds very well, but the trouble is that it will sound just as well to the next girl.

BOBBY. What next girl?

JANE. The one you propose to to-morrow.

BOBBY. You know, Jane, when you talk like that I feel that you don't deserve to be proposed to at all.

JANE (loftily). I'm sure I don't want to be.

BOBBY (coming closer). Are you?

JANE. Am I what?

BOBBY. Quite sure.

JANE. I should have thought it was pretty obvious seeing that I've just refused you.

BOBBY. Have you?

JANE. Have I what?

BOBBY. Refused me.

JANE. I thought I had.

BOBBY. And would you be glad if I went away and never saw you again? (She hesitates) Honest, Jane. Would you?

JANE (awkwardly). Well, of course, I like you, Bobby. I always have.

BOBBY. But you feel that you would like me better if I were somebody else's husband?

JANE (indignantly). Oh, I never said that.

BOBBY. Dash it, you've been saying it all this afternoon.

JANE (weakly). Bobby, don't; I can't argue with you. But really, dear, I can't say now that I will marry you. Oh, you must understand. Oh, think what Sandy——

BOBBY. We won't tell Sandy.

JANE (surprised). But she's bound to know.

BOBBY. We won't tell anybody.

JANE (eagerly). Bobby!

BOBBY (nodding). Just you and me. Nobody else for a long time. A little private secret.

JANE. Bobby!

BOBBY (coming to her). Is it a bargain, Jane? Because if it's a bargain——

JANE (going away from him). No, no, Bobby. Not now. I must go upstairs and tidy myself—no, I mustn't, I must wait for Melisande—no, Bobby, don't. Not yet. I mean it, really. Do go, dear, anybody might come in.

(BOBBY, who has been following her round the hall, as she retreats nervously, stops and nods to her.)

BOBBY. All right, darling, I'll go.

JANE. You mustn't say "darling." You might say it accidentally in front of them all.

BOBBY (grinning). All right, Miss Bagot . . . I am going now, Miss Bagot. (At the windows) Good-bye, Miss Bagot. (JANE blows him a kiss. He bows) Your favour to hand, Miss Bagot. (He turns and sees MELISANDE coming through the garden) Hallo, here's Sandy! (He hurries off in the opposite direction.)

MELISANDE. Oh, Jane, Jane! (She sinks into a chair.)

JANE. What, dear?

MELISANDE. Everything.

JANE. Yes, but that's so vague, darling. Do you mean that——

MELISANDE (dreamily). I have seen him; I have talked to him; he has kissed me.

JANE (amazed). Kissed you? Do you mean that he has—kissed you?

MELISANDE. I have looked into his eyes, and he has looked into mine.

JANE. Yes, but who?

MELISANDE. The true knight, the prince, for whom I have been waiting so long.

JANE. But who is he?

MELISANDE. They call him Gervase.

JANE. Gervase who?

MELISANDE (scornfully). Did Elaine say, "Lancelot who" when they told her his name was Lancelot?

JANE. Yes, dear, but this is the twentieth century. He must have a name.

MELISANDE (dreamily). Through the forest he came to me, dressed in blue and gold.

JANE (sharply). Sandy! (Struck with an idea) Have you been out all day without your hat, darling?

MELISANDE (vaguely). Have I?

JANE. I mean—blue and gold. They don't do it nowadays.

MELISANDE (nodding to her). He did, Jane.

JANE. But how?—Why? Who can he be?

MELISANDE. He said he was a humble woodcutter's son. That means he was a prince in disguise. He called me his princess.

JANE. Darling, how could he be a prince?

MELISANDE. I have read stories sometimes of men who went to sleep and woke up thousands of years afterwards and found themselves in a different world. Perhaps, Jane, he lived in those old days, and——

JANE. Did he talk like an ordinary person?

MELISANDE. Oh no, no!

JANE. Well, it's really extraordinary. . . . Was he a gentleman?

MELISANDE (smiling at her). I didn't ask him, Jane.

JANE (crossly). You know what I mean.

MELISANDE. He is coming this afternoon to take me away.

JANE (amazed). To take you away? But what about Aunt Mary?

MELISANDE (vaguely). Aunt Mary? What has she got to do with it?

JANE (impatiently). Oh, but—— (With a shrug of resignation) I don't understand. Do you mean he's coming here? (MELISANDE nods gravely) Melisande, you'll let me see him?

MELISANDE. Yes. I've thought it all out. I wanted you here, Jane. He will come in; I will present you; and then you must leave us alone. But I should like you to see him. Just to see how different, how utterly different he is from every other man. . . . But you will promise to go when you have seen him, won't you?

JANE (nodding). I'll say, "I'm afraid I must leave you now, and——" Sandy, how can he be a prince?

MELISANDE. When you see him, Jane, you will say, "How can he not be a prince?"

JANE. But one has to leave princes backward. I mean—he won't expect—you know——

MELISANDE. I don't think so. Besides, after all, you are my cousin.

JANE. Yes. I think I shall get that in; just to be on the safe side. "Well, cousin, I must leave you now, as I have to attend my aunt." And then a sort of—not exactly a curtsey, but—(she practises, murmuring the words to herself). I suppose you didn't happen to mention me to him this morning?

MELISANDE (half smiling). Oh no!

JANE (hurt). I don't see why you shouldn't have. What did you talk about?

MELISANDE. I don't know. (She grips JANE'S arm suddenly) Jane, I didn't dream it all this morning, did I? It did happen? I saw him—he kissed me—he is coming for me—he——

(Enter ALICE)

ALICE. Mr. Gervase Mallory.

MELISANDE (happily). Ah!

(GERVASE comes in, an apparently ordinary young man in a loud golfing suit.)

GERVASE. How do you do?

MELISANDE (looking at him with growing amazement and horror). Oh!

(JANE looks from one to the other in bewilderment.)

GERVASE. I ought to explain. Mr. Knowle was kind enough to lend me some petrol last night; my car broke down; he was good enough to say I might come this afternoon and see his prints. I am hoping to be allowed to thank him again for his kindness last night. And—er—I've brought back the petrol.

MELISANDE (still with her eyes on him). My father will no doubt be here directly. This is my cousin, Miss Bagot.

GERVASE (bowing). How do you do?

JANE (nervously). How do you do? (After a pause) Well, I'm afraid I must leave you now, as——

MELISANDE (with her eyes still on GERVASE, putting out a hand and clutching at JANE). No!

JANE (startled). What?

MELISANDE. Don't go, Jane. Do sit down, won't you, Mr.—er——

GERVASE. Mallory.

MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory.

GERVASE. Thank you.

MELISANDE. Where will you sit, Mr. Mallory? (She is still talking in an utterly expressionless voice.)

GERVASE. Thank you. Where are you—— (he indicates the sofa.)

MELISANDE (moving to it, but still holding JANE). Thank you.

(MELISANDE and JANE sit down together on the sofa. GERVASE sits on a chair near. There is an awkward silence.)

JANE (half getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must——

(MELISANDE pulls her down. She subsides.)

MELISANDE. Charming weather we are having, are we not, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE (enthusiastically). Oh, rather. Absolutely top-hole.

MELISANDE (to JANE). Absolutely top-hole weather, is it not, Jane?

JANE. Oh, I love it.

MELISANDE. You play golf, I expect, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Oh, rather. I've been playing this morning. (With a smile) Pretty rotten, too, I'm afraid.

MELISANDE. Jane plays golf. (to JANE) You're pretty rotten, too, aren't you, Jane?

JANE. Bobby and I were both very bad to-day.

MELISANDE. I think you will like Bobby, Mr. Mallory. He is staying with us just now. I expect you will have a good deal in common. He is on the Stock Exchange.

GERVASE (smiling). So am I.

MELISANDE (valiantly repressing a shudder). Jane, Mr. Mallory is on the Stock Exchange. Isn't that curious? I felt sure that he must be directly I saw him.

(There is another awkward silence.)

JANE (getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must——

MELISANDE (pulling her down). Don't go, Jane. I suppose there are a great many of you on the Stock Exchange, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Oh, quite a lot.

MELISANDE. Quite a lot, Jane. . . . You don't know Bobby—Mr. Coote?

GERVASE. N—no, I don't think so.

MELISANDE. I suppose there are so many of you, and you dress so much alike, and look so much alike, that it's difficult to be quite sure whom you do know.

GERVASE. Yes, of course, that makes it more difficult.

MELISANDE. Yes. You see that, don't you, Jane? . . . You play billiards and bridge, of course, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Oh yes.

MELISANDE. They are absolutely top-hole games, aren't they? Are you—pretty rotten at them?

GERVASE. Well——

MELISANDE (getting up). Ah, here's my father.

(Enter MR. KNOWLE)

MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Mr. Mallory, delighted to see you. And Sandy and Jane to entertain you. That's right.

(They shake hands)

GERVASE. How do you do?

(ALICE comes in with tea)

MR. KNOWLE. I've been wasting my day at a sale. I hope you spent yours more profitably, (GERVASE laughs pleasantly) And what have you been doing, Sandy?

MELISANDE. Wasting mine, too, Father.

MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. Well, they say that the wasted hours are the best.

MELISANDE (moving to the door). I think I will go and—— (MRS. KNOWLE comes in with outstretched hands)

MR. KNOWLE. My dear, this is Mr. Mallory.

MRS. KNOWLE. My dear Mr. Mallory! (Turning round) Sandy, dear! (MELISANDE comes slowly back) How do you do?

GERVASE (shaking hands). How do you do?

MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy, dear! (to GERVASE) My daughter, Melisande, Mr. Mallory. My only child.

GERVASE. Oh—er—we——

MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory and I have met, Mother.

MRS. KNOWLE (indicating JANE). And our dear Jane.

My dear sister's only daughter. But dear Jane has a brother. Dear Harold! In the Civil Service. Sandy, dear, will you pour out tea?

MELISANDE (resigned). Yes, Mother. (She goes to the tea-table.)

MRS. KNOWLE (going to the sofa). I am such an invalid now, Mr. Mallory——

GERVASE (helping her). Oh, I'm so sorry. Can I——?

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. Dr. Anderson insists on my resting as much as possible. So my dear Melisande looks after the house for me. Such a comfort. You are not married yourself, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. No. Oh no.

MRS. KNOWLE (smiling to herself). Ah!

MELISANDE. Jane, Mother's tea. (JANE takes it.)

GERVASE (coming forward). Oh, I beg your pardon. Let me——

JANE. It's all right.

(GERVASE takes up a cake-stand.)

MR. KNOWLE. Where's Bobby? Bobby is the real expert at this.

MELISANDE. I expect Mr. Mallory is an expert, too, Father. You enjoy tea-parties, I expect, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. I enjoy most things, Miss Knowle. (To MRS. KNOWLE) What will you have?

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. I have to be careful. Dr. Anderson insists on my being careful, Mr. Mallory. (Confidentially) Nothing organic, you understand. Both my husband and I—Melisande has an absolutely sound constitution.

MELISANDE (indicating cup). Jane . . . Sugar and milk, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Please. (To MR. KNOWLE) Won't you have this, sir?

MR. KNOWLE. No thank you. I have a special cup.

(He takes a large cup from MELISANDE). A family tradition, Mr. Mallory. But whether it is that I am supposed to require more nourishment than the others, or that I can't be trusted with anything breakable, History does not relate.

GERVASE (laughing). Well, I think you're lucky. I like a big cup.

MR. KNOWLE. Have mine.

GERVASE. No, thanks.

BOBBY (coming in). Hallo! Tea?

MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Bobby, you're just in time. (to GERVASE) This is Mr. Coote. Bobby, this is Mr. Mallory. (They nod to each other and say, "How do you do?")

MELISANDE (indicating a seat next to her). Come and sit here, Bobby.

BOBBY (who was making for JANE). Oh—er—righto. (He sits down.)

MR. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). And how did the dance go last night?

JANE. Oh, were you at a dance? How lovely!

MELISANDE. Dance?

MR. KNOWLE. And a fancy dress dance, too, Sandy. You ought to have been there.

MELISANDE (understanding). Ah!

MRS. KNOWLE. My daughter is devoted to dancing, Mr. Mallory. Dances so beautifully, they all say.

BOBBY. Where was it?

GERVASE. Collingham.

MR. KNOWLE. And did they all fall in love with you? You ought to have seen him, Sandy.

GERVASE. Well, I'm afraid I never got there.

MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. . . . Peters is in love just now. . . . I hope he didn't give you cider in mistake for petrol.

MRS. KNOWLE. You have a car, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Yes.

MRS. KNOWLE. Ah! (to MELISANDE) Won't Mr. Mallory have some more tea, Sandy?

MELISANDE. Will you have some more tea, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Thank you. (to MRS. KNOWLE) Won't you——

(He begins to get up.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Please don't trouble. I never have more than one cup. Dr. Anderson is very firm about that. Only one cup, Mrs. Knowle.

BOBBY (to MELISANDE). Sandwich? Oh, you're busy. Sandwich, Jane?

JANE (taking one). Thank you.

BOBBY (to GERVASE). Sandwich?

GERVASE. Thank you.

BOBBY (to MR. KNOWLE). Sandwich?

MR. KNOWLE. Thank you, Bobby. Fortunately nobody minds what I eat or drink.

BOBBY (to himself). Sandwich, Mr. Coote? Thank you. (He takes one.)

MRS. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). Being such an invalid, Mr. Mallory, it is a great comfort to me to have Melisande to look after the house.

GERVASE. I am sure it is.

MRS. KNOWLE. Of course, I can't expect to keep her for ever.

MELISANDE (coldly). More tea, Jane?

JANE. Thank you, dear.

MRS. KNOWLE. It's extraordinary how she has taken to it. I must say that I do like a girl to be a good housekeeper. Don't you agree, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Well, of course, all that sort of thing is rather important.

MRS. KNOWLE. That's what I always tell Sandy. "Happiness begins in the kitchen, Sandy."

MELISANDE. I'm sure Mr. Mallory agrees with you, Mother.

GERVASE (laughing). Well, one must eat.

BOBBY (passing plate). Have another sandwich?

GERVASE (taking one). Thanks.

MRS. KNOWLE. Do you live in the neighbourhood, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. About twenty miles away. Little Malling.

JANE (helpfully). Oh, yes.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I hope we shall see you here again.

GERVASE. That's very kind of you indeed. I shall love to come.

MELISANDE. More tea, Father?

MR. KNOWLE. No, thank you, my love.

MELISANDE. More tea, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. No, thank you.

MR. KNOWLE (getting up). I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Mallory, but if you have really finished——

GERVASE (getting up). Right.

MRS. KNOWLE. You won't go without seeing the garden, Mr. Mallory? Sandy, when your father has finished with Mr. Mallory, you must show him the garden. We are very proud of our roses, Mr. Mallory. Melisande takes a great interest in the roses.

GERVASE. I should like very much to see the garden. (Going to her) Shall I see you again, Mrs. Knowle. . . . Don't get up, please.

MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). In case we don't—(she holds out her hand).

GERVASE (shaking it). Good-bye. And thank you so much.

MRS. KNOWLE. Not good-bye. Au revoir.

GERVASE (smiling). Thank you. (With a bow to JANE and BOBBY) Good-bye, in case——

BOBBY. Cheero.

JANE. Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, come along. (As they go out) It is curious how much time one has to spend in saying "How do you do" and "Good-bye." I once calculated that a man of seventy. . . .

[MR. KNOWLE and GERVASE go out.

MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, dear, would you mind coming with me to the drawing-room, and helping me to—er——

JANE (resigned). Of course, Aunt Mary.

[They go towards the door.

BOBBY (with his mouth full). May I come too, Mrs. Knowle?

MELISANDE. You haven't finished your tea, Bobby.

BOBBY. I shan't be a moment. (He picks up his cup.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Please come, dear Mr. Coote, when you have finished.

[MRS. KNOWLE goes out.

(JANE turns at the door, sees that MELISANDE is not looking, and blows a hasty kiss to BOBBY.)

MELISANDE. More tea, Bobby?

BOBBY. No thanks.

MELISANDE. Something more to eat?

BOBBY. No thanks. (He gets up and walks towards the door.)

MELISANDE. Bobby!

BOBBY (turning). Yes?

MELISANDE. There's something I want to say to you. Don't go.

BOBBY. Oh! Righto. (He comes slowly back.)

MELISANDE (with difficulty, after a pause). I made a mistake yesterday.

BOBBY (not understating). A mistake? Yesterday?

MELISANDE. Yes. . . . You were quite right.

BOBBY. How do you mean? When?

MELISANDE. When you said that girls didn't know their own minds.

BOBBY. Oh! (With an awkward laugh) Yes. Well—er—I don't expect any of us do, really, you know. I mean—er—that is to say——

MELISANDE. I'm sorry I said what I did say to you last night, Bobby. I oughtn't to have said all those things.

BOBBY. I say, that's all right

MELISANDE. I didn't mean them. And—and Bobby—I will marry you if you like.

BOBBY (staggered). Sandy!

MELISANDE. And it was silly of me to mind your calling me Sandy, and to say what I did about your clothes, and I will marry you, Bobby. And—and thank you for wanting it so much.

BOBBY. I say, Sandy. I say! I say——

MELISANDE (offering her cheek). You may kiss me if you like, Bobby.

BOBBY. I say! . . . Er—er—(he kisses her gingerly) thanks! . . . Er—I say——

MELISANDE. What is it, Bobby?

BOBBY. I say, you know—(he tries again) I don't want you to—to feel that—I mean, just because I asked you twice—I mean I don't want you to feel that—well, I mean you mustn't do it just for my sake, Sandy. I mean Melisande.

MELISANDE. You may call me Sandy.

BOBBY. Well, you see what I mean, Sandy.

MELISANDE. It isn't that, Bobby. It isn't that.

BOBBY. You know, I was thinking about it last night—afterwards, you know—and I began to see, I began to see that perhaps you were right. I mean about my not being romantic and—and all that. I mean, I'm rather an ordinary sort of chap, and——

MELISANDE (sadly). We are all rather ordinary sort of chaps.

BOBBY (eagerly). No, no. No, that's where you're wrong, Sandy. I mean Melisande. You aren't ordinary. I don't say you'd be throwing yourself away on me, but—but I think you could find somebody more suitable. (Earnestly). I'm sure you could. I mean somebody who would remember to call you Melisande, and who would read poetry with you and—and all that. I mean, there are lots of fellows——

MELISANDE. I don't understand. Don't you want to marry me now?

BOBBY (with dignity). I don't want to be married out of pity.

MELISANDE (coldly). I have told you that it isn't out of pity.

BOBBY. Well, what is it out of? I mean, after what you said yesterday about my tie, it can't be love. If you really loved me——

MELISANDE. Are you under the impression that I am proposing to you?

BOBBY (taken aback). W-what?

MELISANDE. Are you flattering yourself that you are refusing me?

BOBBY. I say, shut up, Sandy. You know it isn't that at all.

MELISANDE. I think you had better join Jane. (Carelessly) It is Jane, isn't it?

BOBBY. I say, look here—— (She doesn't) Of course, I know you think I'm an awful rotter. . . . Well . . . well—oh, damn!

MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.

(MRS. KNOWLE comes in.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Mr. Coote, Jane is waiting for you.

BOBBY. Oh—er——

MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.

BOBBY (realising that he is not quite at his best). Er—oh—er, righto. (He goes to the door and hesitates there) Er—(Now if he can only think of something really good, he may yet carry it off.) Er—(something really witty)—er—er, righto! (He goes out—to join JANE, who is waiting for him.)

MRS. KNOWLE (in a soft gentle voice). Where is your father, dear? In the library with Mr. Mallory? . . . I want to speak to him. Just on a little matter of business. . . . Dear child!

[She goes to the library.

MELISANDE. Oh! How horrible!

(She walks about, pulling at her handkerchief and telling herself that she won't cry. But she feels that she is going to, and she goes to the open windows, and stands for a moment looking out, trying to recover herself)

(GERVASE comes in.)

GERVASE (gently). Princess! (She hears; her hand closes and tightens; but she says nothing.) Princess!

(With an effort she controls herself, turns round and speaks coldly)

MELISANDE. Please don't call me by that ridiculous name.

GERVASE. Melisande!

MELISANDE. Nor by that one.

GERVASE. Miss Knowle.

MELISANDE. Yes? What do you want, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. I want to marry you.

MELISANDE (taken by surprise). Oh! . . . How dare you!

GERVASE. But I told you this morning.

MELISANDE. I think you had better leave this morning out of it.

GERVASE. But if I leave this morning out of it, then I have only just met you.

MELISANDE. That is what I would prefer.

GERVASE. Oh! . . . Then if I have only just met you, perhaps I oughtn't to have said straight off that I want to marry you.

MELISANDE. It is unusual.

GERVASE. Yes. But not unusual to want to marry you.

MELISANDE. I am not interested in your wants.

GERVASE. Oh! (Gently) I'm sorry that we've got to forget about this morning. (Going closer to her) Is it so easy to forget, Melisande?

MELISANDE. Very easy for you, I should think.

GERVASE. But not for you?

MELISANDE (bitterly). You dress up and amuse yourself, and then laugh and go back to your ordinary life again—you don't want to remember that, do you, every time you do it?

GERVASE. You let your hair down and flirt with me and laugh and go home again, but you can't forget. Why should I?

MELISANDE (furiously). How dare you say I flirted with you?

GERVASE. How dare you say I laughed at you?

MELISANDE. Do you think I knew you would be there when I went up to the wood?

GERVASE. Do you think I knew you would be there when I went up?

MELISANDE. Then why were you there all dressed up like that?

GERVASE. My car broke down and I spent the night in it. I went up the hill to look for breakfast.

MELISANDE. Breakfast! That's all you think about.

GERVASE (cheerfully). Well, it's always cropping up.

MELISANDE (in disgust). Oh! (She moves away from him and then turns round holding out her hand) Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.

GERVASE (taking it). Good-bye, Miss Knowle. . . . (Gently) May I kiss your hands, Melisande?

MELISANDE (pathetically). Oh, don't! (She hides her face in them.)

GERVASE. Dear hands. . . . May I kiss your lips, Melisande? (She says nothing. He comes closer to her) Melisande!

(He is about to put his arms round her, but she breaks away from him.)

MELISANDE. Oh, don't, don't! What's the good of pretending? It was only pretence this morning—what's the good of going on with it? I thought you were so different from other men, but you're just the same, just the same. You talk about the things they talk about, you wear the clothes they wear. You were my true knight, my fairy Prince, this morning, and this afternoon you come down dressed like that (she waves her hand at it) and tell me that you are on the Stock Exchange! Oh, can't you see what you've done? All the beautiful world that I had built up for you and me—shattered, shattered.

GERVASE (going to her). Melisande!

MELISANDE. No, no!

GERVASE (stopping). All right.

MELISANDE (recovering herself). Please go.

GERVASE (with a smile). Well, that's not quite fair, you know.

MELISANDE. What do you mean?

GERVASE. Well, what about my beautiful world—the world that I had built up?

MELISANDE. I don't understand.

GERVASE. What about your pretence this morning? I thought you were so different from other women, but you're just the same, just the same. You were my true lady, my fairy Princess, this morning; and this afternoon the Queen, your mother, disabled herself by indigestion, tells me that you do all the housekeeping for her just like any ordinary commonplace girl. Your father, the King, has obviously never had a battle-axe in his hand in his life; your suitor, Prince Robert of Coote, is much more at home with a niblick than with a lance; and your cousin, the Lady Jane——

MELISANDE (sinking on to the sofa and hiding her face). Oh, cruel, cruel!

GERVASE (remorsefully). Oh, forgive me, Melisande. It was horrible of me.

MELISANDE. No, but it's true. How could any romance come into this house? Now you know why I wanted you to take me away—away to the ends of the earth with you.

GERVASE. Well, that's what I want to do.

MELISANDE. Ah, don't! When you're on the Stock Exchange!

GERVASE. But there's plenty of romance on the Stock Exchange. (Nodding his head) Oh yes, you want to look out for it.

MELISANDE (reproachfully). Now you're laughing at me again.

GERVASE. My dear, I'm not. Or if I am laughing at you, then I am laughing at myself too. And if we can laugh together, then we can be happy together, Melisande.

MELISANDE. I want romance, I want beauty. I don't want jokes.

GERVASE. I see what it is. You don't like my knickerbockers.

MELISANDE (bewildered). Did you expect me to?

GERVASE. No. (After a pause) I think that's why I put 'em on. (She looks at him in surprise.) You see, we had to come back to the twentieth century some time; we couldn't go on pretending for ever. Well, here we are—(indicating his clothes)—back. But I feel just as romantic, Melisande. I want beauty—your beauty—just as much. (He goes to her.)

MELISANDE. Which Melisande do you want? The one who talked to you this morning in the wood, or the one who—(bitterly) does all the housekeeping for her mother? (Violently) And badly, badly, badly!

GERVASE. The one who does all the housekeeping for her mother—and badly, badly, badly, bless her, because she has never realised what a gloriously romantic thing housekeeping is.

MELISANDE (amazed). Romantic!

GERVASE (with enthusiasm). Most gloriously romantic. . . . Did you ever long when you were young to be wrecked on a desert island?

MELISANDE (clasping her hands). Oh yes!

GERVASE. You imagined yourself there—alone or with a companion?

MELISANDE. Often!

GERVASE. And what were you doing? What is the romance of the desert island which draws us all? Climbing the bread-fruit tree, following the turtle to see where it deposits its eggs, discovering the spring of water, building the hut—housekeeping, Melisande. . . . Or take Robinson Crusoe. When Man Friday came along and left his footprint in the sand, why did Robinson Crusoe stagger back in amazement? Because he said to himself, like a good housekeeper, "By Jove, I'm on the track of a servant at last." There's romance for you!

MELISANDE (smiling and shaking her head at him). What nonsense you talk!

GERVASE. It isn't nonsense; indeed, indeed it isn't. There's romance everywhere if you look for it. You look for it in the old fairy-stories, but did they find it there? Did the gentleman who had just been given a new pair of seven-league boots think it romantic to be changed into a fish? He probably thought it a confounded nuisance, and wondered what on earth to do with his boots. Did Cinderella and the Prince find the world romantic after they were married? Think of the endless silent evenings which they spent together, with nothing in common but an admiration for Cinderella's feet—do you think they didn't long for the romantic days of old? And in two thousand or two hundred thousand years, people will read stories about us, and sigh and say, "Will those romantic days never come back again?" Ah, they are here now, Melisande, for us; for the people with imagination; for you and for me.

MELISANDE. Are they? Oh, if I could believe they were!

GERVASE. You thought of me as your lover and true knight this morning. Ah, but what an easy thing to be! You were my Princess. Look at yourself in the glass—how can you help being a princess? But if we could be companions, Melisande! That's difficult; that's worth trying.

MELISANDE (gently). What do you want me to do?

GERVASE. Get used to me. See me in a top-hat—see me in a bowler-hat. Help me with my work; play games with me—I'll teach you if you don't know how. I want to share the world with you for all our lives. That's a long time, you know; we can't do it on one twenty-minutes' practice before breakfast. We can be lovers so easily—can we be friends?

MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). You are very wise.

GERVASE. I talked with a wise man in the wood this morning; I've been thinking over what he said. (Suddenly) But when you look at me like that, how I long to be a fool and say, "Come away with me now, now, now," you wonderful, beautiful, maddening woman, you adorable child, you funny foolish little girl. (Holding up a finger) Smile, Melisande. Smile! (Slowly, reluctantly, she gives him a smile.) I suppose the fairies taught you that. Keep it for me, will you—but give it to me often. Do you ever laugh, Melisande? We must laugh together sometimes—that makes life so easy.

MELISANDE (with a happy little laugh). Oh, what can I say to you?

GERVASE. Say, "I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase."

MELISANDE (shyly). I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase.

GERVASE. Say, "Please come and see me again, Gervase."

MELISANDE. Please come and see me again, Gervase.

GERVASE (Jumping up and waving his hand) Say, "Hooray for things!"

MELISANDE (standing up, but shyly still). Hooray for things!

GERVASE. Thank you, Melisande . . . I must go. (He presses her hand and goes; or seems to be going. But suddenly he comes back, bends on one knee, raises her hand on his, and kisses it) My Princess!

[Then GERVASE goes out.

(MELISANDE stays there, looking after him, her hand to her cheek. . . . But one cannot stand thus for ever. The new life must begin. With a little smile at herself, at GERVASE, at things, she fetches out the Great Book from its hiding-place, where she had buried it many weeks ago in disgust. Now it comes into its own. She settles down with it in her favourite chair. . . .)

MELISANDE (reading). To make Bread-Sauce. . . . Take an onion, peel and quarter it, and simmer it in milk. . . .

(But you know how the romantic passage goes. We have her with it, curled up in the chair, this adorable child, this funny foolish little girl.)



THE STEPMOTHER

A PLAY IN ONE ACT



CHARACTERS

SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. LADY PEMBURY. PERKINS. THE STRANGER.

* * * * *

The first performance of this play was given at the Alhambra Theatre on November 16, 1920, with the following cast:

Sir John Pembury—GILBERT HARE. Lady Pembury—WINIFRED EMERY. Perkins—C.M. LOWNE. The Stranger—GERALD DU MAURIER.



THE STEPMOTHER

(A summer morning. The sunniest and perhaps the pleasantest room in the London house of SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. For this reason LADY PEMBURY uses it a good deal, although it is not officially hers. It is plainly furnished, and probably set out to be a sort of waiting-room for SIR JOHN'S many callers, but LADY PEMBURY has left her mark upon it.)

(PERKINS, the butler, inclining to stoutness, but not yet past his prime, leads the may in, followed by THE STRANGER, PERKINS has already placed him as "one of the lower classes," but the intelligent person in the pit perceives that he is something better than that, though whether he is in the process of falling from a higher estate, or of rising to it, is not so clear. He is thirty odd, shabbily dressed (but then, so are most of us nowadays), and ill at ease; not because he is shabby, but because he is ashamed of himself. To make up for this, he adopts a blustering manner, as if to persuade himself that he is a fine fellow after all. There is a touch of commonness about his voice, but he is not uneducated.)

PERKINS. I'll tell Sir John you're here, but I don't say he'll see you, mind.

STRANGER. Don't you worry about that. He'll see me right enough.

PERKINS. He's busy just now. Well—— (He looks at THE STRANGER doubtfully.)

STRANGER (bitterly). I suppose you think I've got no business in a gentleman's house. Is that it?

PERKINS. Well, I didn't say so, did I? Maybe you're a constituent? Being in the 'Ouse of Commons, we get some pretty queer ones at times. All sorts, as you might say. . . . P'raps you're a deputation?

STRANGER (violently). What the hell's it got to do with you who I am. You go and tell your master I'm here—that's all you've got to do. See?

PERKINS (unruffled). Easy, now, easy. You 'aven't even told me your name yet. Is it the Shah of Persia or Mr. Bottomley?

STRANGER. The less said about names the better. You say, "Somebody from Lambeth"—he'll know what I mean.

PERKINS (humorously). Ah, I beg your pardon—the Archbishop of Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace.

STRANGER (angrily). It's people like you who make one sick of the world. Parasites—servile flunkeys, bolstering up an effete aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to do?

PERKINS (good-naturedly). Now, look here, young man, this isn't the time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you want to get off your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever it may be, keep it till Sunday afternoon—when I'm off duty. (He comes a little closer to THE STRANGER) Four o'clock Sunday afternoon—(jerking his thumb over his shoulder)—just round the corner—in the Bolton Mews. See? Nobody there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and secluded, and a friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (He edges closer as he talks.)

STRANGER (retreating nervously). No offence meant, mate. We're in the same boat—you and me; we don't want to get fighting. My quarrel isn't with you. You go and tell Sir John that there's a gentleman come to see him—wants a few minutes of his valuable time—from Lambeth way. He'll know. That's all right.

PERKINS (drawing back, disappointedly). Then I shan't be seeing you Sunday afternoon?

STRANGER (laughing awkwardly). There, that's all right. No offence meant. Somebody from Lambeth—that's what you've got to say. And tell 'im I'm in a hurry. He'll know what I mean.

PERKINS (going slowly to the door). Well, it's a queer game, but being in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be surprised. All sorts, as you might say, all sorts.

[Exit PERKINS.

(THE STRANGER, left alone, walks up and down the room, nervously impatient.)

(LADY PEMBURY comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married life, she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has never had a son—her only sorrow. Her motto might be, "It is just as easy to be kind"; and whether you go to her for comfort or congratulation, you will come away feeling that she is the only person who really understands.)