SIXTEEN FAMOUS BRITISH PLAYS D>v>>>>ad>>>>>o>>>>>02>>>22>>2>>>2>>>2>>>d>>>>> >>> > >>> >>> 9920 \ ‘ -COMPILED BY B\NNETT A. CERF AND VAN H. CARTMELL With an Introduction by phn Mason Brown ‘D>>>>>>>>>>2>22>>2>>>>>>>>>>>>222222>22 2222029. THE MODERN LIBRARY NEW YORKCopyright, 1942, by Random House, Inj ‘p>ppaappoapp>>nagnD>>>D>00D>000oDD>9 999990901 >>>>2 “THE “MODERN LIBRARY 1s puBLisHED BY | RANDOM HOUSE, INC. Eeumevt s.cenr + DOWALpS. RLOPFRR ROBERT K. HAAS, Manufactured is in theUnited Siates of America , By H. WolffACKNOWLEDGMENTS For permission to inclide the following plays, acknowre ‘edgment is here made to the authors of the plays and the’ publishers under whose imprint they were originally issued: The Second Mrs. Tanqueray and The Green Bay Tree reprinted by permission of Walter H. Baker Company. Journey's End reprinted by permission of Coward, Me- Cann, Inc. Milestones, The Circle and,Cavalcade yeprinted by per- mission of Doubleday, Doran and Compypy, Inc. The Green Goddess reprinted by, permission of Curtis Brown,’ Limited. ° Dangerous Corner reprinted by permission of Samuel French. Mr. Pim Passes Bi yy reprinted. by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. . The Barretts of Wimpole Street reprinted by permission of Little, Brown and Company. * ‘Outward Bound reprinted by permission of Liveright Publisiing Corporation. The Importance of Being Earnest teprinted by permis- sion of The Modem Library, Inc. The Corn Is Gréen reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc. me v What Every Woman Knows, Loyalties and Victoria. Regina reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons,FOREWORD ‘The title Sixteen Famous British Plays means, of course; plays that are famous in America. Britjsh playgoers have tastes that we Americans are often unable to fathom, and. there have been occasions when plays that ran for five years in London withered away writhin a week in New York. . The sixteen plays in this collection, however, made the- atrical history in thé United States 2s well as in Britain, and certainly everybody who is at all interested in the drama will recognize every title as qaickly as he did those that we included in our collection of famous American plays, published last year. We were anxious to head this collection with a play by Bernard Shaw, but the gentleman sdid “no.” He does not want his writings to appear in an anthology, regardless of its scope or possible convenience to the reading public. The only other play that we wanted and failed to obtain was John Balderston’s Berkeley’ Square, whose publishers were disinclined to grant the necessary permission. To the authors and publishers of all of the other plays we wanted, and who, in more than one instance, granted our request at some sacrifice to themselves, we offer our gfateful thanks. The plays in this volume are arranged chronologically in the order of their original presentation on the New York stage. We purposely avoided the inclusion of any two plays by the same author. And since ‘the table of contents had been decxded upon before John Mason Brown con- sented to write the introduction, it is obvious that any criticism of the selegtions must be levelled not ‘st Mr. Brown but at the editors.’Both of them ate publishess. They can take itl New York Bennetr A. Cerr January, 1942 Van H. CaRTMELLCONTENTS «FOREWCRD INTRODUCTION ‘THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS * MILESTONES | THE GREEN GODDESS MR. PIM PASSES BY” THE CIRCLE ,.- —k LOYALTIES “OUTWARD BOUND :CAVALCADE ‘JOURNEYS END THE BARRETTS OF WIMPOLE STREETS“ John Masog Brown Arthur Wing Pinero Oscar Wilde J>M. Barrie Amold Bennett’ and Edward, Knoblock William Archer A. A. Milne W. Somerset Maugham John Calsworthy. Sutton Vane Noel Coward R. C. Sherriff Rudolf Bester DANGEROUS CORNEP/ +]. B. Priestley THE GREEN BAY TREE VICTORIA REGINA THE CORN IS GREEN Mordaunt Shairp . . Laurence Housman é Emlyn Williams PAGE 123 189 251 : 361 421 417 545 595 678 751 Bog aba 987INTRODUCTION — BY JOHN MASON BROWN Mrs. Wiggs and her Cabbage ‘Patch are not as familiar ag they once were. And Mrs.° Wiggs, heaven knows, never thought of herself as a rival of the Messrs. Palgrave, Wooll- cott and Fadiman. Yet without knowigg it, in her aproned way, she, too, possessed the courage and the optimism of an anthologist. It was she‘who, when Lovey Mary was journeying to Niagara, pressed an empty bottle into Lovey Mary’s hands, urging her to fill it and to bring it back, so that on her return Mrs. Wiggs could sample in the comfort of her home the grandeur of the Falls: Although Lovey Mary failed in her mission, Bennett Cerf and Van Cartmell have succeeded to a surprising extent.in theirs. As the editors of this volume they, too, have approached a Niagara ‘with the equivalent of a bottle in their hands. Yet from the ‘thousands of plays, many of them of high distinction, written by British dramatists since the modern English theatre came of age, the sixteen in- cluded here manage to suggest’ not oply the quality and variety of that drama, but also the characteristics of some of its major contributors. Mr. Shaw, alas, is missing. One of the few reticences of the Sage of Ayot St, Lawrence happens to bé anthologies. This is a pity. Although it may simplify an editor's task by relieving him of the ugly problem of trying to pick the most typical of Mr. Shaw’s hydra-headed scripts, it still leaves a void. A collection of representative modern British plays which tries to get along without Mr. Shaw is a Golden Treasury decidedly on the silver standard, It is not Hamlet without Hamlet. Far fyom itr But it is like a history of the Comédie which fails to mehtion Moliére, a ‘study of the eighteenth century which omits Voltaire, or a chronicle of strip-teasers which overlooks Gypsy Rose Lee. Mr. Shaw is as well aware of this as are Mr. Cerf, Mr. Cartmell and I.xii JOHN MASON BROWN , What is more, he would be the first to trumpet it, which is not quite the same thing as admitting it. . Why, you may ask, start off by toasting Mr. Shaw at a party he refuses to atterd? The reasons are numerous and pressing. If that very Elderly Gentleman, that Methuselah of Cathleen ni Houlihan’s other island, haunts this volume Banquo-wise, it is because the theatre which most of these sixteen plays represent could never have existed had it not been for Mr. Shaw. Everyone knows, from the point of view of quantity, sometimes quality, that the renaissance of the English drama which began before the turn of the century, and survived that catastrophe now referred to as World War I, was one of the most productive periods in the annals of playwriting. To maistain that.Mr. Shaw was alone respon- sible for it, or to picture him as a David who sallied forth single-handed to fight the Goliath of the Victorian drama, would be worse than an exaggeration. It would be a bare- faced lie. There were others at work—many others in many other countries, who during the same burgeoning years were fighting the same good fight to emancipate the theatre from the bondage of its old-fashioned puerilities. Wide- spread, however, as were the changes which swept through the playhouses of the Old World in the nineties, and finally invaded our own stage in the twenties, the temperature of the new theatre they made possible can be taken with almost clinical accuxacy by noting how different were not the merits but the assumptions of the English stage in 1940 when The Corn Is Green was ‘written from what they had been, in 1893 when The Second Mrs. Tanqueray (or was it Mrs. Patrick Campbell?) took London by storm. The whole of London may have succumbed to “that inte-resting play—The Second Mrs. Tanque-ray.” Not so the red-bearded critic in the Jaeger jacket who was Mr.INTRODUCTIOY xiii Shaw. He put his hobnail boots down on it. A new old play, he galled it, when all England was admiring its nov- elty and saluting its author as a man of daringly origina] ideas. Mr. Shaw knew bettet. Although he did not under- estimate its theatrical merits, he realized that if The Second Mrs. Tanqueray struck Londoners as outrageous, their out- rage was only a measure of their unreadiness for anything more. What was enough for England was not, and never has been, enough for Mr. Shaw. He could not hold his far- ranging mind downto the technical*niceties of what he once described as “Pinerotic” plotting. He did not want the English theatre to be a translated version of the French. He hated “Sardoodledom,” and had as little respect for the big scenes and table-thumpings of Dumas fils. % was not satisfied with one raisonneur however logica’ he wanted truth hewever illogical, and a whole stageful of raisonneurs ventriloquizing for Shaw. *° In the old theatre of over-colored grease-paint, sweet sentiment and valentine ethics, Mr. Shaw was the Devil's Disciple, both creatively and critically, of the new. And the devil—at least in the literary London of those days— was that surprisingly chilly satan from the north; that brave champion of the Woman who then was New; that enemy of social evils and “the lie” lived; that formidable, dumpy little rebel from Skien; in short (as one of the more scan- dalized English reviewers of the time had dubbed him) that “nookshotten Norwegian’—Henrik Ibsen. Mr. Shaw was an Ibsenite as surely As he was a.Wagner- ite, a Fabian, 9 Nietzschean, an Erewhonian, or for that matter a cyclist and a vegétarian. But he was no more a perfect Ibsenite than he was a perfect Wagnerite. His great- ment of both of his supposed idols was typicab ofthe trea'y ment he has meted out to all the men from whom he has. admitted to havé borrowed. Invariably his borrowings have been more than loans. They have been arrogant and gleefulxiv "JOHN MASON BROWN invasions of the minds of his so-called “influences,” during the course of which Mr. Shaw (at the very moment of swearing allegiance to them) has reduced his “masters” to so many unrecognizable colonials in a giddy intellectual empire of his own. Among his many high talents Mr. Shaw must count the genius which is his for turning his gods into unsuspecting worshippers while genuflecting before them. nos If Ibsen and Wagner, when he was through with them, ended up by beconting perfect Shavians, so, with all its imperfections, has the modern English theatre, which is sampled in this volume, long since ceased to be the theatre of those two doubtful Toms—Reade and Robertson—, of H. J. Byron, Dumas fils, Sardou, Shakespeare 4 la Henry Irving at the Lyceum, actor-managers rampant, or even Henry Arthur Jones ‘and Pinero, those two all-important transitional figures. It has bécome, at least in its freedom, though not in its mentality or its technique, the theatre of Shaw. Not by any means the actual theatre he dreamed of, wrote for, or would approve of in toto, but still an ex- pression of that new theatre which he had helped to make possible. . Although rone of tke plays to be found here is experi- mental in the sense that the word was employed in the Expressionistic twenties, almost all of them—yes, even Mr. Pim Passes By, with its talk of bigamy—would have seemed revolutiopary to aulliences accustomed to Caste, M. P., Soctety, Saints and Sinners, The Silver King or The Money Spinners. If even the more daring of them are conservative enough when now read, the explanation lies in other things hesides theix being British. That they can be accepted without shock or controversy means only that the campaign against prudery which their very existente represents is now forgotten, having long ago heen won.INTRODUCTION xv All of these dramas, with the exception of The Impor- tance of Being Earnest which, speaks a comedic language of Wilde’s own, are written in the image of realism. That is to say, they all endeavor fo make what happens in them appear as if it could have happehed in other places than békind the footlights. The older Victorian playgoers had been willing—if not anxious—to accept the theatre as some- thing happily divorced ‘fron life. The playgoers who fol- lowed them, and who both in England and in this country have applauded the’dramas herein a’sembled, have been trained to a different expectancy. They take it for granted that blood and grease-paint can mix. Like all playgoers, make-believe is their pleasure, but, unlike their grand- fathers, they have grown accustomed to pretending in the interests of life rather than of pretense. The realistic drama resulting from’this changed attitude toward make-believe was, of course, the product of that victory scored by the Naturalists in the Free Theatres, the Independent theatres, the Repertory companies, and the Art Theatres which mushroomed into existence over the whole spread of Europe in the nineties and after the turn of the century. If many of the first realists were identified as Naturalists in the more aggressive days of their youth, it is only because Naturalism was the name*under which realism passed wlten it had to be fought for. The contribu- tion of the insurgent groups which waged their war under Ibsen’s banner and turned their backs on the earlier theatre came as more than the triumph of ah outward form dis- guising make-believe as reality. It meant that the theatre. of the playwright had replaced the theatre of the actor. ° e . To this new theatre with its new freedoms*and ‘its fresh sensing of its own possibilities were drawn a host of authors who would not otherwise have been attracted to the stage. They were far more than jigsaw artists at what had oncexvi JOHN MASON BROWN been prized as theatrical effects. They were men of liter- ary distinction to whom what they had to say mattered more than what they had given others to play. The theatre that enticed them was one in which the mind of Ibsen had demonstrated what could be added to the blueprint of Scribe. In England especially, at the disposal of these new dramatists were the fruits of a whole century of scientific discovery and the benefits of the same century's battling for social reform. The paradox of tht theatre’s endeavors to deny itself as a medium (in other words to have its plays seem like life and not like plays) is that the dramatists employing this form could not help speaking for themselves while speak- ing for others. What was supposed to be a slice of life ended up by being a revelation of the author. Try as he might, the dramatist“could not turn himself into a dicta- phone. He remained a man observing life and seeing other men, not through their eyes but his own. In short, he con- tinued to be an individualist. And that personal possession of the common facts of life which in an author’s transmis- sion of them’is known as style is one of the chief delights of the plays which follow. . If some of them have helped to make theatrical history, they have dene so unconsciously. A dramatist does not write to make history. That is an historian’s job. Theatrical history is something which’ is thrust upon the playwright by scholars rather than by audiences. It is the product of hindsight and has Very little to do with the pleasure of specific instances. And it is as specific instanges of audiences satisfied, of single evenings well spent in the theatre, of the challenges of a difficult medium happily met and put to each drawatist’s individual uses that all sixteen of these plays have justified themselves. Had history been the editors’ solemn concern, this col-INTRODUCTIOWV xvii thologists they would have been compelled to include Michael gnd His Lost Angel along with The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, because Henry Arthur Jones and Pinero are always “discovered” (to use*the guilty verb so dear to the *old stage directions) marching forward in the classrooms as the Siamese twins of transition. The editors would have had to find room, too, for the work of Elizabeth Baker, Stanley Houghton, Granville Barker and St. John Hankin. John Galsworthy would have _ been represented by such of his eaglier (hence innova- - tional) sociological dramas as Strife or Justice rather than by Loyalties, which, though one of his best, was written Jong after its author's dispassionate approach to a problem had become familiar. The Admirable Crichton, because of its toyings with the socially significant, would have prob- ably spoken for Barrie instead of the delights of What Every Woman Knows. . Mr. Pim would have been passed by entirely. Such melo- dramas as The Green Goddess and Dangerous Corner would have knocked in vain for admittance. Mr. Coward’s ‘delegate to history would have been ¢ither such a drama of post-war nerves 4s The Vortex, or such a comedy as Hay _Fever, Private Lives, or Design for Living rather than such an untypical pageant of empire as Cavalcade, eloquent and - supreme of its kind though it happens to be. Some indica- tion would have had to be given of what British dramatists from Stephen Phillips, through T. S. Eliot and right down to Auden and Isherwood have tried ts do to bring poetry back to a stage, which, in an earlier dramatic renaissance, it had once made glorious’ And to cover fully a theatre which, for all its fecundity, has been strangely lacking in dramatists either anxious to, or capable of, dealing with the ecstasies of true tragedy as opposed to the sorrows of the pathetic or the ironic, some place would have been !eft for such an attempt at the tragic as John Masefield’s Nan.xviii JOHN MASON BROWN But in picking these plays, Mr. Cerf and Mr. Cartmell have fortunately had more than cold history in mjnd. They have not forgotten the living theatre which is, after all, the theatre playgoers remember with gratitude. All of the plays they have chosen have been popular successes. Moreover,' though British, they have not been insular, as English prays have, unfortunately, tended to become in recent years, With the exception of Cavalcade, which was applauded here only for one week at the Pasadena Playhouse and then for a considerably longer period‘on the screen, almost all of them have managed to cross the Atlantic trium- phantly. They are plays with which any constant theatre- goer in New York is as happily familiar as the same kind of theatregoer would be in London. Moreover, they are dramas still haunted by the memory of their performance. For mest of us George Arliss stalks even now through our libraries with all his sinister suavity as the wicked Rajah in The Green Goddess, that melodrama which came to William Archer as the most profitable of dreams, and which was thé last kind of play one would ever have expected from the austere Scot who, with Shaw, was one of the sturdiest of Ibsen’s champioris. The frail poetess who escapes from the vile tyranny of her Victorian father in The Barretts is not the Elizabeth Barrett that Robert Browning knew—she is Katherine Cornell in all her shin- ing loveliness. It is Colin: Keith-Johnston who, as Stan- hope with his frayed nerves, still dominates the dugout in Journey's End, that war play as typically British in its reticences as What Price Glory? was American in its vi- tality. ° Though gone, it is Mrs. Leslie Carter and John Drew who insist upon being present as ‘Lady Kitty and Lord Porteous, those older social rebels whose disillusionment is played off contrapuntally against the hopes of the younger runaways in Mr. Maugham’s wise and witty com-INTRODUCTION xix edy, The Circle. It is James Dale who, as the fetid Mr. Dulcimer, is even now arranging the flowers in The Green Bay Tree, and Leo G. Carroll who, as the butler, is handing these same symbolical fleur’ du mal first to Mr. Dale and then to Laurence Olivier as the Boy whose character Mr. Dwicimer has taken away. Quite properly Laurette Taylor, the Mrs. Midget in the revival of two years back, and Dudley Digges, the heavenly customs’ official in the first American production seventeen years ago, join hands in time as the ideal spokesmen for the dead who haunt the decks of that unearthly steamer which is the scene of Outward Bownd. Victoria Regina, Laurence Housman’s amusing series of historical vignettes, is for democrats on this side of the water as much domi- nated by the house of Hayes as that of Hanover. It is Helen Hayes, too, who for the present generation of playgoers still gives the final bloom of charm to the Shandyisms of Maggie Wylie, the invincible, in What Every Woman Knows. And the Ethel Barrymore who may have failed some years back as Paula Tanqueray, is even now con- tributing the finest performance of her career as the Eng- lish schoolmistress ‘who invades a Welsh mining town in The Corn Is Green. In a collection of plays as representative as this one is of Britain’s popular theatre, I, for‘one, wish that room could have been found for Ashley Dukes’s The Man with a Load of Mischief, a script which, though ruined in New-York by a lamentable production, is one of the best comedies of manners to have come out of modern England. Or that such a fantasy as John Balderstone’s Berkeley Square could have been included. Yes, and such a Jules Verne nfelodrama o? what-might-have-happened at No. 10 Downing Street as Robert Nichols’s and Maurice Browne's Wings Over Europe. .xx JOHX MASON BROWN I also wish that since the editors have been too wise to place any academic bans or melodramas, they cauld have followed Dangerous Corner with one more such psycho- logical horror play as Patrick Hamilton’s Rope’s End, Geof- frey Dell’s Payment Deferred, or Reginald Denham’s and Edward Percy’s Ladies in Retirement. The English excet'as much as guignols of this literate sort as we do at straight thrillers, with their clutching hands, And for some of us who are ardent De Quinceyans, these chilling scripts, in which murder is treated as a fine arf, have an inordinate fascination. Only critics, however, expect to get everything for noth- ing. What really matters in this volume are not the editors’ inevitable omissions, which cannot be described as sins, but the virtues of their inclusions. The sixteen plays they have chosen have been “famous” on the modern stage. No one can deny that. They speak not only for themselves and for their authors but for a theatre so free that nowadays we have almost forgotten its freedom ever had to be fought for. There have been, disheartening moments when many of us as Americans, realizing what our stage once owed to England’s, have been forced to wonder if the renaissance of the modern British drama represented in these pages had not run its céurse. One can only hope this is not true. And hoping, be grateful that the final play which speaks here for England (when not only England is threatened but so, too, are all the civilized values for which these dramas stand) is a script possessed of such luminous compassion as The Corn Is Green. / : New York City October; 1941The Second Mrs. Tanqueray BY ARTHUR W. BINEROcoryricHT, 1894, By ARTHUR W. PINERO COPYRIGHT IN RENEWAL, 1922 . a6 : All rights reserved under the International Copyright Act. Performance forbidden and right of representation reserved. Application for the right of performing the following play must be made to the publishers, Walter H. Baker Company, 178 Tremont Street, Boston, Massachusetts.The Second Mrs. Tanqueray was first produced in America at the Star Theatre, New York City, by Daniel Frohman on Oct., 28, 1893. The following is the original cast: Auprey TANQUERAY . William Kendal Sm Gronce Onreyep, Bart. G. P. Huntley Capra How Anpane Oscar Adye CayLey DRuMMLE J. E. Dodson Frank Misqurrn, Q. C., M. P. James East Gorpon Jayne, M.D. , George H® Gray Morse H. Deane Luapy OnREYED Nellie Campbell Mrs. CorreLyon “Mary Talbot ELLEAN Annie Irish PauLa Mrs KendalSCENE The Present Day. The Scene of Act One is laid at Mr. Tanqurnay’s rooms, No. 2 x, the Albany, in the month of November; the occurrences of the succeeding Acts take place at his house, “Highercoombe,” near Willowmere, Surrey, during the early part of the following year. eTHE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY ACT ONE* AUBREY TANQUERAY'’S Chambers in the Albany—a richly and tastefully decorated room, elegantly and luxuriously furnished: on the right a large pair of doors opening into another room, on the left at the further end of the room a small door leading to a bed-chamber. A circular table is laid for a dinner for four persons, which has now reached the stage of dessert and coffee. Everything in the apartment suggests wealth and refinement. The fire is burning brightly. AUBREY TANQUERAY, Misguiri, and jayNe are seated at the dinner- table. ausney is forty-two, handsome, winning in manner, his speech and bearing retaining some of the qualities of young-manhood. musguirn is about forty-seven, genial and portly. JAYNE is a year or two MISQUITH’S senior, soft-speaking and precise—in appearance a type of the prosperous town physician, morse, AvBREY’S servant, place a little cabinet of cigars and ti misguitu. Aubrey, it is a pleasant yet dreadful fact to contemplate, vut it’s nearly fifteen years since I rst dined with you. You lodged in Piccadilly in those days, over a hat- shop. Jayne, I met you at that din- ner, and Cayley Drummle. jayne, Yes, yes. What a pity it is that Cayley isn’t here tonight. auprey. Confound the old gossip! His empty chair has been staring us in the face all through dinner. I ought to have told Morse to take it away. misquitu, Odd, his sending no ex- cuse, aubrey, I'll walk round to his lodg- ings later on and ask after him. isgurtx. I'll go with you. jayne. So will I, spirit-lamp on the table beside ausrey and goes out. AUBREY (opening the cigar-cab- inet). Doctor, it’s useless to tempt you, I know. Frank— (misgurra and auprew smoke) I particularly wished Cayley Drummle to be one of us tonight. You two fellows and Cayley are my closest, my best friends— « ” musguitn. My dear Aubrey! ya¥ne. I rejoice to hear you say so. auprey, And I wanted to see the three of you round this eable. You can’t guess the reason. misguitH. You desired to give us a ‘most excellent dinner. ’ oH jayne. Obviously. auprey (hesitatingly). Well—I— (Glancing at the clock)—Cayley won't turn up now.6 jayne. H’m, hardly. auprey, Then you two shall heir it. Doctor, Frank, this is the last time we are to meet in these‘ rooms, jayne. The last time? wasquiTH. You're going to leave the Albany? aupREy. Yes. You've heard me speak of a house I built in the country years ago, haven’t you? Musgurrn. In Surrey. auBrEY. Well, when wife died I cleared out of that house and let it. I think of trying the place again. masgurrn. But you'll go raving mad * if ever you find yourself down there alone. Auprey. Ah, but I sha’n’t be alone, and that’s what I wanted to: tell you. I'm going to be married. Jayne. Going to be married? Misgurri. Married? AUBREY. Yes—tomorrow. Jayne. Tomorrow? masguitH, You take my breath awayl My dear fellow, I—I-of course, I congratulate you. Jayne, And—and—so do I—heartily, ’ AuBREY. Tpanks—thanks. (There is a@ moment or two of sasiquitx. Er—ah—this is an excel- ARTHUR W. PINERO jayne. Ah—um-your coffee is re- markable. ' auprey. Look here; I dare say you two old friends think this treat~ ment very strange, very unkind. So I want you to understand me% You know a marriage often. cools friendships. What’s the usual course of things? A man’s engage- ment is given out, he is congratu- lated, complimented upon his choice;,the church is filled with troops of friends, and he goes away happily to a chorus of good wishese He comes back, sets up house im, town or country, and thinks’ to re- sume the old associations, the old. companionships, My dear: Frank, my dear good doctor, it’s very sel- dom that it can be done. Gencr-, ally, a worm has begun, to eat its” way into those hearty, unreserved, pre-nuptial friendships; a dams nable constraint sets in and acts, like a wasting disease; and so, be- lieve me, in nine cases out of ten’ a man’s marriage severs for hiry more close ties than it forms. masgutri. Well, my dear Aubrey, i earnestly hope—— AuBREY. I know what you're going to say, Frank. I hope so, too. In the meantime let’s face dangers. Tve ceminded you of the usual course of things, but my marriage isn’t even the conventional sort ot marriage likely to satisfy society. Now, Cayley’s,a bachelor, but you “two men have wives. By-the-bye, my love to Mrs. Misquith and to Mrs. Jayne when you get home— don’t forget that. Well, your wives may not—like—the lady I'm going to marry. yarns. Aubrey, gesting that forgive me for sug~ ty you are goingTIDE SECOND MRS. aay not like our wives— re east T beg your purdon, guoney. Quite so; then I must go the way my wife goos. aosguim, Come, come, pray don’t let us anticipate that either sido will be called upon to make such a sacrifice. ausrex, Yes, yes, lot us anticipate jt, And let vie make y canes to have no slow blecding-to-death of our friendship. We'll end a ant chapter here tonight, and after tonight start afresh, Whon my wife and I settle down at Willow- mere it's possible that we shall all come together. But if this isn’t to be, for Heaven's sake let us recog- nise that it is simply beenuse it can't bo, and not wour hypocritical faces and suffor and ha wretched, Dootor, Vrank~(holding out his hands, one to masguyru, the other to yarn) —good luck to all of usl masquirn, But—hut—lo I undor- stand wo aro to ask nothing? Not even the lady’s nama, Aubroy? avaney, The Indy, my dour Frank, belongs to the next chapter, and in that hor name is Mrs, Aubrey Tanqueray, JAYNE, (raising his coffee-cup). Then, in an old-fashioned way, I propose a toast, Aubrey, oT give you “The Next Chapter!” (They drink the toast, saying, “Tha Next Chapter!”) ausney. Doctor, find a comfortable chair; Frank, you too. As we're going to turn out by-and-bye, let me scribble a couple of notes now while I think of them. YANQUERAY 4 sasgumt and jayne. Cortainly- yes, yos, aunnex, It might slip my inom when I get back, py ” (aunney sits at a writing-table a! tha other end of the room, and torites.) Jayne (fo Maguire in a whisper). Frank— (ansgurra quietly leaves Is chair, and sits nearer to yaynz) What is all this? Simply a morbid crank of Aubrey’s with regard te ante-nuptial acquaintances? sasgurra. H'm! Did you notice one expression he used? yaxne. Let me think— misquirn, “My marriage is not even the conventional sort of mar: tinge likely to satisfy society.” jayne, Bless me, yos! What does that suggest? masquimn, That he has a particular rather thun a general reason for gutlefpatiog estrangement from his friends, I'm afraid. yayne. A horrible mésalliancel A dairymaid who has given him a glass of milk during a day’s hunt- or a little anemic shopgirll Frank, I'm utterly wretched! misgurra. My dear Jayne, ing in absolute confidence, pas never been more profoundly de- prose’ in my life. ‘MORSE, enters.) MoRSsE (announcing). Mr. Drum: mie. (cayLey DRUMOALE enters briskly He is a neat little man of about8 ARTHUR W. five. , in manner bright, fee abort, but with an current of seriousness, MORSE fe- tires.) DRUMMLE, I’m in disgrace; nobody realises that more thoroughly than I do, Where's my host? auprey (who has risen), Cayley. proMMLE (shaking hands with him). Don’t speak to me till I have tendered my explanation. A harsh word from anybody would unman me. (masqurra. and jayne shake hands twith DRUMMLE.) aupaey. Have you dined? DRUMMLE. No—unless you call a bit of fish, a cutlet, a pancake dining. avprex. Cayley, this is disgraceful. layne, Tish, a cutlet, and a ill require a great of explanation. My dour fea, your coo ons miserably weak. pruMMiE. Hear mel hear mel jaxne. Now then! Misguite, Come! AuBREY, Well! DRUMMLE. It so that to- night ‘aioe Seceptionally early in For which dinner—the d. cutlet? PINERO prummax. For this dinnor, of course—really, Frank! At a quarter to eight, in fact, I found myself trimming my nails, with ten min- utes to spare, Just enter my man with a note—would I hasten, as fast as cab could carry me, to old Lady in Bruton Street?—“sad. je.” Now, recol- lect, please, I had ten minutes on my hands, old Lady Orreyed was a very dear friend of my mother's, and was in some distress. AUBREY. Cayley, come to the fish and cuilet! MISQUITH and jayne. Yes, yes, and the pancake! DRUMMLE. Upon my word! Well, the scene in Bruton Street beggars ; the women servants looked scared, the men drunk; and there was poor old Lady Orr on the floor of her boudoir Queen Bess among her pillows. ausREY, What's the mattor? DRUMMLE (to . ¥ know George oat) ” masquits. Yes. yaxNeE. I've met him. DRUMMLE. Well, he’s a thing of the past. auprey. Not dead! pRUMMLE, Certainly, in tha worst sense. He’s married Mabel Hervey. MisQuITH. What! DRUMMLE. It’s true-this morning. The poor mother showed me his letter—a dozen ourt words, and some of those ill-spelt.t THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY 9 sequin. (wvalking up to the fires avmnsy, Aud perhay wD lot ma place) « Ym very sony. finish 2 cou TO of | letters which * pr, Pardon ty ignmanee ~vho oss Mabel Hervey? pROMMLE, You don’t-—? Oh, of course not, Miss Nervey--lady Or- ag she now js-was a lady who would have been, perhaps has pean, described in the repaits of tha Police or the Divorce Court ag an actress. Had she belonged to a lower stratum of our advanced civilisation she would, in the event of judicial inquiry, have dofined her calling with equal justification as that of a dressmakor. To do her jastice, she is a typo of a class which is immortal. Physically, by the caprice of creation, cu- riously bocutiful; mentally, sho lacks even tho strength of delib- erste viclousness. Paint her por- trait, it would symboliso a creutare pefeally patrician; lance a voin of suporbly-modellod arm, you would got tho poorest vin ordl- naire! Tor affections, emotions, fie pulses, her vary cxistonce-a bur- desquel Plaxen, five-and-twenty, fesbly frolicsamo; anybody's, in less gontlo socioly T should say everybody's, erty! That, doc- tor, was Miss who is the new Orreyed, t thou like the piste sosquimm. Ve od, Cayley! Bao ‘ery 0" yley AUBREY (laying hie hand on DRUMMLE'S si der). You'd scarcely believe it, Jayne, but none of us really know ese e about this lady, our gay young friend here, I suspect, least of paumocie, Aubrey, I ud your chivalry. we Frank and Jayno have givon me leave to wrile, (Returning to the writing-table) Ring for what you want, like a good follow! (aunney resumes his writing.) Misgotra (to pRuame), Still, the fish and outlet remain unexplained, prusmaxn. Oh, the poor old woman was so weak that I insisted upon her taking some food, and felt there was uothing for it but to sit down opposite her. The fooll the black. guard! Masqurm. Podr Orreyed! Well, he’s gone under for a time, Drumm, For a time! My dear Frank, I toll you he has absolutely consad to be. (ausany, who has boon writing busily, turns his head towards the speakers and listens. TUs lips ave sot, and there te a frown upon his face) Yor all urposas you may regard him as the late George . Tomor- row the very characteristics of his speech, as we remember thom, will have become obsolete. , in the course of wife will out- oo prume, No, 20, Doctor, don’t try to upset one of my settled be- liefs. You may dive into many waters, but there is ong social Dead Sea—! yarng. Perhaps you're right, prumeiz, Right! Good God! I wish m2 could prove me | , for years I've been sitting, watching and waiting.10 ARTHUR W. Misguira. You're in form tonight, Cayley. May we ask where you've been in the habit nf squandering your useful leisure? DRUMMLE. Where? On the shore of that same sea. Mosquire, And, pray, what have you been waiting for? DRUMMLE. For some of my best friends to come up, (AUBREY utters @ half-stifled exclamation of impa- tience; then he hurriedly gathers up his ers from the twriting- table, The three men turn to him) Eh? ausrey. Oh, I-I'll finish my letters in the other room if you’ me for five minutes. Tell Cayley the news. (He goes out.) DRUMMLE (hurrying to the door). My dear fellow, my jabbering has disturbed you! Il never talk again as long as I livel sasquita, Close the door, Cayley. (pRUMMLE shuts the door.) yayng. Cayley— pruMMLE (advancing to the din- ner table). A smoke, a smoke, or I ish! (Sele th ese po Jayne. Cayley, marriages are in the aur, DRUMMLE. Are they? Discover the bacillus, Doctor, and destroy it, jayne. I mean, among our friends. pRuMMLE. Oh, Nugent Warrinder’s engagement to Lady Alice Tring. PINERO Tve heard of that. They're not to be married till the spring. yayng, Another marriage that con- cerns us a little takes place tomor- Tow. DRUMMLE. Whose marriage? yayng. Aubrey’s. pruMMLE, Aub—I! (Looking to- wards wasgurrH) Is it a joke? MasquiTH, No. DRUMMLE (looking from MIsQUITR to yay). To whom? masguirx. He doesn’t tell us. yayng. We three were asked here tonight to receive the announce- ment. Aubrey has some theory that marriage is likely to alienate a man from his friends, and it seems to me he has taken the precaution to wish us good-bye. masguira, No, no. JAYNE. Practically, surely, proace (thoughtfully). Mar- riage in general, he mean, or this marriage? jayne. That's the point. Frank says— Masgurmu. No, no, no; I feared it suggested — JAYNE. Well, well. (To DRUMMLE) ‘What do you think of it? DRUMMLE (after @ slight pause). Is there a light there’ (Tighting his cigar) He—wraps the lady—in mystery—you say?THY SECOND MRS, sasquirm, Mast modestly, goumaag. Aubrey's- nol-a very - young matt, jana, Forty-threa, prowag. Ah! Liage critique! saquire. A dangerous age—yes, ye. pRUMMLE, When you two fellows home, do you mind leaving mo Bind here? masgurm. Not at all, yamns, By all means. . proms, All right, (Anxtously) Deucs take it, the man’s second marriage musin’t bo another mis- takel (With his heact bent he talks up t¢ tha fireplace.) yaynz, You know lita in his short married life, Cayley. Torribly un~ salisfuctory, wasn't it? mooi. Well—(Looking at the door) I quite closed that door? wosqurrn. Yes. (Settles hinself on ihe sofa; jayne [s seated in an arm- DRUMMLE (smoking with his back io the fre). Ho married a Miss Her- lott; that was in the year eighteen confound dates—twenty years age, She was a, lovely creature—by Jove, she was; by religion a Roman Catholia, She was one of your cold sort, you know—all marble arms and black velvet. I remember her with painful distinctmess as the only women who ever made me nervous, TANQUERAY rT Muourr Fla, hal pane, He loved hor-ta dis- traction, ns they say, inter, how fervently that poor dovil comted her! But T don’t belleve she allowed him even to squeeze her fingers, She teas nn iceberg! As for kissing, the mere contact would have given him chapped lips. Towever, he married hor and took her away, the latter greatly te my relicf, JAYNE. Abroad, you mean? DRUMMLE. Eh? Yes, I imagine he gratified her by renting 2 villa in Lapland, but I don’t know. After a while’they retumed, and then I saw how wofully Aubrey hed mis- calculated results. JAYNE. Miscalculated—? puuMMiz. Ho had reckoned, poor wretch, that in the early days of marriago she would thaw. But she didn’t. I used to picture him closing his doors and making 1 the fire in tho hope of sooing hor features re- . her, the thaw never sot in! I believe she kept a thermeme- ter in hor stays and always regis tered ton dogrees below zero. How ever, in time a child came—a daughter, yaxne. Didn’t that——? DRUMMLE, Not a bit of it; it made matters worse, Frightened at her failure to stir up in some sym- pathetio religious belief, she ‘de- termined upon strong measures with regard to the child. He op- posed her for a miserable year or so, but she wore him down, and the insensible little brat was placed in a convent, first in France, then1g ARTHUR W. in Ireland, Not long afierwards the mother died, stiangely enough, of fever, the only warmth, I bolicve, that ever came to that woman's body. wasgurrm. Don’t, Cayley! yay. The child is living, we know. promos. Yes, if you choose to call it ving, Miss Tanqueray—a young woman of nineteen now—is in the Loretto convent at Armagh. She professes to have found er ‘rus vocation in a religious ant within a month or two will take final vows. Masquira. He ought to have re- moved his daughter from the con- vent when the mother died. pRUMMLE, Yes, yes, but absolutely at the end there was reconciliation between husband and wife, and she won his promise that the child should complete her conventual ed- uoation. He reaped his reward. When he attempted to gain his girl’s confidenco and affection he was too late; he found he was deal- ing with the spirit of the mother. You remember his visil to Ireland Tast month? jayne. Yes, DRUMMLE. That was to wish his gitl good-bye. asqurra. Poor fellow! DRUMMLE. He sent for me when he came back, I think he must have had a lin ering hope that the gitl would relent—would come to life, ag it were—at the last moment, for, for an hour or g0, in this room, he PINERO was terribly shaken. I'm sure he'd clung io that hope from the por. sistent way in which he kept break- ing off in his talk to repoat ono dis- mal word, as if he couldn’t realise his position without dinning this damued word into his head. jayne. What word was that? DRUMMLE. Alone—alone. (AUBREY enters, ) avsney, A thousand apologies! DRUMMLE (gaily). We are talkin: about you, my dear Atl . 8 (During the telling of ti masguire has risen and gone to the fite, and prumacix has thrown him- self full-length on the sofa, avanEy now joins wasqurra and JAYNE.) Avner. Well, Cayley, are you sur- DRUMMLE, Surp-—! I haven’t beon surprised for twenty years. averey, And you're not angry with mae? pruMMiE. Angryl (Rising) Be- cause you considerately withhold the name of a lady with whom it is now the object of my life to be- come acquainted? My dear fellow, you pique my curiotity, you give zest to my existence! as for a wedding, who on earth wants to attend that familiar and probabl; draughty funotion? Ugh! My cigar’ out, ACEREY. Let's talk about something Ge masgurra (looking at his watch) Not tonight, Aubrey.THM SECOND MRS TANQURRAY 1g ausngy. My dear Frank! ansgorm. 1 go up to Scatland to- monow, aud there are some little matters— yarn, I ain off too. avaary. No, no. jazne, I must: J have to give a look to a caso in Clifford Straet on my way home. avprey (going to the door). Welll (sosgurrit and JAYNE exchange looks with pRUMMLE. Opening the door and calling) Morse, hats and coats! I shall write to you all next weok from Genoa or Florence, Now, Doctor, Frank, remember, ary love to Mrs. Misquith and to Mrs, Joynol (ouse’ onters with hats and outs.) wasgurmit and yavnn, Yos, yos—yos, yon. avangy, Aud your yom ‘pouplal (As aasgurett and Jayne put on thelr coats thera ts the clatter of careless talk.) yaene, Cay J moot you at dinner on Sete , ” pauMa. At the Stratfclds’, That's very pleasant. sasgurTe (putting on his coat with ausrey’s aid), Ah-h! auprey. What's wrong? masquirg. A twinge. Why didn’t T go to Aix in Augast? JAYNE (. ands with pau wiz), Good night, Cayley. purmork, Good night, my dear dovtort sasqurm (shaking hands with puunarg), Cayley, ore you in town for long? wnonmatur, Doar friend, Pm no- where for long. Good night. Masquint. Good night. (auprey, JAYNE, and go out, followed by monsx; the hum of talk is continued outside.) aupreY, A cigar, Frank? masqurtit, No, thank you. aunrey. Going to walk, Doctor? yayng. If Frank will. misgurim, By all menns. avnauy, It’s a cold night, (Tha door 4s olosed, paumuan te- smatns standing with Is coat on his arn and his hat in his hand.) puuMMLE (to himself, thought fully), Now thent What the devil~ (auBREY returns.) aunney (eyeing prumaax a little awkwardly). Well, Cayley? Drum. Well, Aubrey? (ausney walks up to the fire and stands looking into tt.) Avsrey, You're not going, old chap? DRUMMLE (sitting). No. avsREY (after o slight , with ood. sh). Hah! Cayley, J nefer thought should feol-cy- with you.I4 ARTHUR W. promMLs. Why do you? Avaney. Never mind, DRUMMLE. Now, I can auite under- stand 2 man wishing to be married in the dark, as it wera. ausrey, You can? pRUMMLE, In your place I should very likely adopt the same course, avaney, You think soP DRUMMLE. And if J intended mar- tying & lady not prominently in so- ciety, es I presume you as I presume you do— Aunney. Well? DRUMMLE. As J presume do, Cm not sure that T should tender her for preliminary dissection at afternoon tea-tables. PINERO Ausney, Some acts which one must trust to time to put right, (promi twatehes him for a io ment, then takes up Its hat ond coat.) pauses, Well, I'll be moving, ausnry, Cayley! Confound you and your old friendship! Do you think I forget it? Put your coat down! Why did you stay behind here? Cayley, the lady I am going to mary is the lady—who is known as—Mrs, Jarman, (There 1s a pause.) promaiz (in a low voice). Mrs, Jarman! Are you serious? (He walks up io the fireplace, where he leans upon she mantol- piece uttering something like a groan.)THe promnnE, Certainly, avanex. fu Alford Street, Go on. pRUMMEE. Diesel aveney. I fusist. pAUMMIE (with @ slight shrug of the shoulders). Some time Tast your was asked hy a man to snp at his house, ono night after tho theatre. avergy. Mr. Selwyn Ethurst—-a bachelor. DRUMALE. Yes. ausney, You wero surprised thero- fore to find Mr, Ethurst aided in his eursod hospitality by a lady. proaara, T was waprepared, avnnvy. Tho lady you had known as Mis, Durty? Cmtuanis inclines his head silently) Thero is somo~ thing of a yuehting eruse in tho Modilerrimom ton, is thore not? paumatias, J joined Polor Jarman’s yacht ot Marsailles, in tho Spring, a month before he dicd. avprex. Mrs, Jarman was on board? pRUMMLE, She was a kind hostoss. ausnzy, And an old acquaintance? DRUMMLE, Yes, ausney. You havo told your story. DRUMMLE. With your assistance. AusneY, I have put you to the pain of telling it to show you that this is not the case of a man en- SECOND MRS, TANQUERAY Ww trapped by an artful woman, Let mo add thet Mrs, Jarman has no Jegal right to that namo; that she g simply Miss Ray~Miss Paula LY DRUMMLE (after a patise), I should like to expross my rogret, Aubrey, for the way in which I spoke of Goorge Onreyed’s marriage. AupREY. You mean you compare Lady Orreyed with Miss Ray? (pRumaa.x is silent) Oh, of course! To you, Cayley, all women who have been roughly treated, and who dare to survive by borrowing a little of our philosophy, are alike, ‘You soo in tho crowd of the ill-used only one pattern; you can't detect the shades of goodness, intelli. co, oven nobility there. Well, how should you? The crowd is dimly lighted! And, besides, yours is tho way of tho world. DRUMMLE. My dear Aubrey, I Hoo in tho world. auprry. The namo we Milo parish of St, Jamos's, DRUMMLE (laying a hand on av- BnEY’S shoulder). And ou. are fuito , my friend, to for- it thé edieem of your litle parish? our Avsrey. I avoid mortification by shifting from one parish to another. I give up Pall Mall for the Surrey ; leave off varnishing my boots, and double the thickness of the soles. pauMMie. And your skin—do yov double the thickness of that also? AUBREY. I know you think me a fool, Cayley—you needn't infor that16 ARIHUR W. I'm a coward into the bargain. No! I know what I'm doing, and I do it deliberately, debantly, T'm alone: J injure no living soul by the step T’m going to take; and so you can’t urge the one argument which might restrain me. Of course, I don’t ex- ect you to think compassionately, ly even, of the woman whom I whom I am drawn to— DRUMMLE. My dear Aubrey, I as- sure you I consider Mrs.~Miss Jar- man—Mrs. Ray—Miss Ray—delight- ful. say confess there is ‘be form of chi which I gravely distrust, especially in a man of-our age. avsney, Thanks. I've heard you say that from forty till fifty a man is at heart either a stoic or a satyr. DRUMMLE (protestingly). Ah! now—~ ausreY. I am neither. I have a temperate, honourable affection for ‘Mrs. Jarman. She has never mat a man who has treated her well—I intend to treat her well. That's all. And in a few years, Cayley, if you've not quite forsaken me, I prove to you that it’s possible to year a life of happiness, of good repute, on a~miserable foundation. DRUMMLE (offering his hand). Do prove itl Ausrey (taking his hand). We have spoken too freely of—of Mrs. Jar- men. I was excited-—angry. Please forget itl DRUMMLE. My dear Aubrey, when we next meet I shall remember nothing but my respoct for the lady who bears your name, (ssonse enters, closing the door be- hind him carefully.) PINERO auprey, What is it? mouse (hestlatingly). May I speak to you, sir? (In an undertone) Mrs, Jarman, sir. ausrEY (softly io MonsE). Mrs, famman! Do you mean she is al the ige in her carriage? mora, No, sir—here. (avsrney looks towards pruMMLE, perplexed) ‘There’s a nice fire ia your~in that room, sir, (Gla in the direc. fon of he door ing to the bed- toom, ausrey (between his teeth, an- lly). Very well, ators, retires.) DRUMMLE (looking at his watch). A quarter to elevon—horrible! (Tak- ing up his hat and coat) Must get to bed—up late every night is (AUBREY agesists DRUMMLE with his coat) Thank you. Well, d night, Aubrey. I feel I've been leuced serious, quite out of keep- ing with myself; pray overlook it. Aupney (kindly). Ah, Cayley! DRUMMLE (putting on a neck-hand- kerohief). And remember that, after all, I'm merely a spectator in life; nothing more than 2 man at a play, in faot; only, like the old-fashioned playgoer, I love to see certain characters happy and comfortable at the finish. You understand? avpney, I think I do, DRUM then, for as Jong as you cau, o} , will you~keep a stall for me? avsney. Yes, Cayley.THE SECOND MRS. TAN®UERAY DRUMMLE (gaily). Ah, hal Good night! (Bustligg to the door) Don’t bother! Ill let myself out! Good night! God bless yer! (He goes out; ausrey follows him. Mmense enters by the other door, carrying some «unopened letters, which after a little consideration he places an the mantelpiece against the clock. AUBREY returns.) ausney. Yes? ° morse. You hadn’t seen your letters that came by the nine o'clock post, sir; I’ve put em where they'll catch your eye by-and-bye. auBrEY. Thank you. Morse (hesitatingly). Gunter’s cook and waiter *have gone, sir. Would you prefer me to go to bed? auBREY (frowning). Certainly not. monsu. Very well, sir. (He goes out.) auBreY (opening the upper door). Paulal Pavlal "6 Pe (pauLa enters and throws her arms round his neck. She is a young woman of about twanty-seven: beautiful, fresh, innocent-looking. She is in superb evening dress.) Pauta. Dearest! ausngy. Why have ygu come here? pauLa. Angry? AuBrey. Yes—no. But it’s eleven o’clock, . PauLa (laughing). I know. Ausrey. What on earth will Morse, “think? W7 PauLa, Do you trouble yourself abqut what servants think? Ausrey. Of course. PAULA. »Goose! They're only ma- chines made to wait upon people— and to give qvidence in the Divorce Court. (Looking round) Oh, in- deed! A snug little dinner! aupney. Three men. . PAULA (suspiciously). Men? AUBREY. Men. PAULA (penitently). Abl (Sitting at the table) I’m so hungry. auBREY. Let me get you some game pie, or some— . pauta. No, no, hungry for this. What beautiful fruit! I love fruit when it’s expensive. (He clears a space on the table, places a plate before her, and helps her to fruit) I haven’t dined, Aubrey dear. AuBreY. My poor girl! Why? PauLa. In the first place, I forgot to order any dinner, and my cook, who has always loathed me, thought he'd pay me out before he departed. Aubrey, The beast! + pauta. That's precisely what I— AUBREY. No, Paulal > PauLa. What I toldemy maid to call him, What next will you think of me? avpnex. Forgive me. You must be starved,18 PAULA (eating fruit). I didn’t care. As there was nothing to eat, I sat in wy best frock, with my toes on the dining-room fender, and dreamt, oh, such a lovely dinner’ party. ausrey, Dear lonely ljttle woman! PAULA. It was perfect. I saw you at the end of a very long table, op- posite me, and we exchanged % glances now and again over the wers. We were host and hostess, Aubrey, and had been married about five years. auBREY (kissing her hand). Five pauta. And on each side of us was the nicest set imaginable—you" know, dearest, the sort of men and women that can’t be imitated. AupREY. Yes, yes. Eat some more PAULA. But I haven’t told you the best part of my dream. -AuBREY. Tell me. PauLa. Well, although we had been married only such a few years, I seemed to know by the look on their faces that none of our guests had ever, heard anything—anythiny anything peculiar about the fae cinating hostess, ausrey. That's just how it will be,, Paula. The world moves so quickly. That's just how it will be. PAULA (with a little grimace), 1 wonderl (Glancing at the fire) Ugh! Do throw another log on, ARTHUR W. PINERO AuBREY (mending the fire). There, But you musn’t be here long. pauzaA. Hospitable wretch! Ive something important to tell you. No, stay where you are. (Purirg from him, her face averted) {.00! here, that was my dream, Aubrey; but the fire went out while I was dozing, and I woke up with a regu- Jar fit of the shivers. And the result of it all was that I ran upstairs and scribbted you a letter. auprey, Dear baby! PAULA. Remain where you are. (Taking a letter from her pocket) This is it. I've given you an account of mvself, furnished you with a list of my adventures since I-you know. (Weighing the letter in her hand) I wonder if it would go for a penny. Most of it you're ac- quainted with; I’ve told you a good deal, haven’t I? AuBREY. Oh, Paulal pauta. What I haven't told you I dare say you've heard from others. But in case they’ve omitted any- thing—the dears—it’s all here. auprey. In Heaven's name, why must you talk like this tonight? PAULA. It may save discussion by- and-bye, don’t you think? (Hold- ing out the legter) There you are, AuBREY. No, dear, no. pauta. Take it. (He takes the let- ter) Read it* through after I've gone, and then—read it again, and turn the matter over in your mind finally. And if, even at the very last thoment, you feel you-oughtn’t toTHE SECOND MRS. go to church with me, send a mes- senger to Pont, Street, any time be- fore eleven tomorrow, telling me that you're afraid, and I—I’ll take the blow. AUBREY. Why, what—what do you think 1*am? PauLa. That’s it. It’s because I know you're such a dear good fel- low that I want to save you the chance of ever feeling sorry you married me. I really love you so much, Aubrey, that to save you that, I’d rather you treated me as— as the others have done. AUBREY (turning from her with a ery). Ohl pauta (after a slight pause). 1 suppose I'vé sh you. I can’t help it if I have. (She sits, with assumed languor and indifference. He turns to her, advances, and kneels by her.) auBREY. My dearest, you don’t un- derstand me. I—I can’t bear to hear you ‘always talking about—what’s done with. I tell you I'll never re- member it; Paula, can’t you dis- miss it? Try. Darling, if we promise each other to forget, jo forget, we're bound to be happy. After all, it’s a mechanical matter; the mo- ment a wretched thought enters your head, you quickly think of TANQUERAY 19 auprey. There’s an end of it. (Re- turing to her) What,s the matter? PAULA (rising, coldly). Oh, noth- ifg! Il go and put my cloak on. AUBREY’ (detaining her). What is the matter? , pauta. Well, I think you might have said, “You're very generous, Paula,” or at least, “Thank you, dear,” whenel offered to set you free. AuBREY (catching her in his arms). Ah! ° pauta. Ah! ah! Hal hal It’s all very well, but you don’t know what it cost me to make such an offer. I do $0 want to be married. . ausrey. But you never imagined—? pauta. Perhaps not. And yet I did think of what I'd do at the end of our dcquaintance if you had pre- ferred to behave like the rest. (Taking a flower from her bodice.) aupRey, Hush! PAULA. Oh, I forgot! » AuBREY, What would you have dorte when we parted? PauLA. Why, killed myself. something bright—it depends on |. ’ one’s will. Shall I buyn this, dear? ausney. Paula, dear! (Referring to the letter he holds in * pauta, It’s true. (Putting the his hand) Let me, let met flower in his buttonhole) Do you ‘know, I feel certain I should raake PAULA (with a shrug of the shoul- away with myself if anything seri- ders). 1 don’t supposé there’s much gus happened to me. that’s new to you in it,—just as you like. Avprey. Anything serious! What, (He goes to the fire and burns the has nothing ever been serious to letter.) * you, Paulaizu ARTHUR W. PAULA, Not lately; not since a long while ago. I made up my mind then to have done with taking things seriously. If I hadn't, I~ However, we won't talk about that. . AuBREY. But now, now, life will be different to you, won't it—quite different? Eh, dear? PauLa. Oh, yes, now. Only, Aubrey, mind you keep me always happy. ausrey. I will try to. pauta. I know I couldn’t swallow a second big dose of misery. I know that if ever I felt wretched again -truly wretched—I should take a leaf ‘out of Connie Tirlemont’s book. You remember? They found her— (With a look of horror.) * auBREY. For God’s sake, don’t let your thoughts run on such things! pauta (laughing). Ha, ha, how scared you look! There, think of the timel Dearest, what will my coachman say? My cloak! (She runs off, gaily, by the upper door. AuBREY looks after her for a moment, the. he walks up to the fire and stands warming his feet at the bars. As he does so he raises his head and observes the letters PINERO upon the mantelpiece. He takes one down quickly.) aubrey. Ah! Ellean! (Opening the letter and reading) “My deay father,—A great change has come over me. I believe my mother in Heaven has spoken to nie, and counselled me to tum to you in your loneliness. At any rate, your words have reached my heart, and I no longer feel fitted for this sol- emn Hfe. I am ready to take my place by you. Dear father, will you receive me?—ELLEAN.” (pauLa re-enters, dressed in a handsome cloak. He stares at her as if he hardly realised her pres- ence.) pauca. What are you staring at? Don’t you admire my cloakP AUBREY. Yes. pauLa. Couldn’t you wait till I'd gone before reading your letters? AUBREY (putting the letter away). I beg your pardon. pauta. Take me downstairs to the carriage. (Slipping her arm through bis) How I tease youl Tomorrow! I’m so happy! (They go out.) ACT'TWO A morning-reom in AupRey TANQUERAY’s house, “Highercoombe,” near Willowmere, Surret lar shape, with dou ht and prettily furnished apartment of irregu- dee opening intove small hall at the back, anothe door on the left, and a larg recessed window through which is obtained @ view of extensive grou graceful. The fire is burning in tl Everything about the room is charming and grate, and a small table is tastefullyTHE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY ai laid for breakfast. It is a morning in early spring, and the sun is streaming a through the window. . AUBREY ‘and pauta are seated at breakfast, and ausyey is silently read- ing his letters. Two servants, a man and a woman, hand dishes and then retire. After a little while avsney put’ his letters aside and looks across to,the window. AuBREY. Sunshinel Spring! PAULA (glancing at the clock). Ex- actly six minutes. AuBREY. Six minutes? PAULA. Six minutes, Aubrey dear, since you made your last remark, aubrey, I beg your pardon: I was reading my letters. Have you seen Ellean this morning? PAULA (coldly). Your last observa- tion but one was about Ellean. Aubrey. Dearest, what shall I talk about? PAuLA. Ellean breakfasted two hours ago, Morgan tells me, and then went out walking with her dog. AUBREY. She wraps up warmly, I hope; this sunshine is deceptive. pauta. I ran about the lawn last night, after dinner, in satin shoes. ‘ere you anxious about me? ausrey. Certainly. ° PAULA (melting). Really? auBREY. You make me wretchedly anxious; you delight in doing in- cautious things. You are incurable. pauta. Ah, what a beast I am! (Go- ing to him and kissing him, thet glancing at Phe letters by his side) A letter from Cayley? AuBREY. He is staying very neat here, with Mrs. ~— Very near here. pauta. With the lady whose chim- neys we have the honour of con- templating from our windows? avsney, With Mrs. Cortelyon—yes. PAULA. Mrs. Cortelyon! The woman «who migh? have set the example of calling on me when we threw out roots in this deadly- lively soil! Deuce take Mrs. Cor- telyon! AUBREY, Hush! my dear girl! PAULA (returning to her seat). Oh, I know she’s an old acquaintance of yours—and of the first Mrs. Tanqueray. And she joins the rest of ’em in’slapping thé second Mrs, Tanqueray in the face. However. I have my revenge—she’s six-and- forty, and I wish nothing worse te happen to any woman. ausreyY. Well, she’s going’to town, , Cayley says here, and his visit’s at an end. He’s coming over this morning to call on you. Shall we “ask him to transfer himself td? us? Do say yes, ae PAULA. Yes. fuaney (gladly). Ah, hat old Cay- ryae PAULA (coldly). He'll amuse you.” auprey. And' you too. . PAULA. Because you find a comi- panion, shall I be boisterously hi- ious? ausrey. Come, conlel He talks London, and you know you like that. Pauta. London! or Heaven! which is farther from mel auBrey. Paulal pauta. Ohl Oh, I am so bored, Aubrey! AUBREY (gathering up his letters and going to her, leaning over her shoulder), Baby, what can I do for you? Pauta. I suppose, nothing, You have done all you can for me, avpney. What do you mean? pauLa. You have married me. (He walks away from her thought- fully, to the writing table. As he places his letters on the table he sees an addressed letter, stamped for the post, lying on the blotting- ook; he picks it up.) auBrEy (in an altered tone). You've been writing this morning before breakfast? pauta (looking at him quickly, then away again). Ex—that letters : AUBREY with the letter in his hand). To Lady Orreyed. Why? rauLa. Why not? Mabel’s an old friend of mine. ARTHUR W. PINERO ‘ AuBREY, Are you—corresponding? pauxa. I heard from‘her yesterday. They've just returned from the Riviera. She seems happy. AUBREY (sarcastically). That's good news. . PauLa. Why are you always so cut- ting about Mabel? She’s a kind- hearted girl. Everything’s altered; she eyen thinks of letting her hair back to brown. She's Lady rreyed. She’s married to George. What's the matter with her? AUBREY (turning away). Oh! pauLa. You drive me mad some- times with the tone you take about things! Great goodness, if you come to that, George Orreyed!s wife isn’t a bit worse tl yours! (He faces her suddenly) 1 suppose I needn't have made that observation. aupReY. No, there was scarcely a necessity. (He throws the letter on to the table, and takes up the newspaper.) pau, I am very sorry. avprey. All right, dear. PAULA (erifing with the letter). 1 —Id better tell you what I’ve writ- ten. I meant to do so, of course. I —I’ve' asked the Orreyeds to come and stay with us. (He looks at her, and lets the paper fall to the ground in a helpless way) George was a t friend of Cayley’s; I'm sure Re would be delighted to meet them here. thing mirthlessly). i hal They sey Oreyed ne takaTHE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY to tippling at dinner. Heavens abovel pauta. Oh! I’ve no patience with you! You'll kill me with this lifel (She selects some flowers from a vése on the table, cuts and arranges them, end fastens them in her bod- ice) What is my existence, Sunday to Saturday? In the moming, a drive down to the village, with the groom, to give my orders to the tradespeople. At lunch, yoy and Ellean. In the afternoon, a novel, the newspapers: if fine, another drive—if fel Tea—you and Ellean, Then two hours of dusk; then din- ner—you and Ellean. Then a game of Bésique, you and I, while reads a religious book in a dull corner. Then a yawn from me, an- other from you, a sigh from Ellean; three figures suddenly rise—“Good night, good night, good night!” (Tenitating a kiss) “God bless you!” Al ausrey. Yes, yes, Paula—yes, dear- est—that’s what it is now. But by- and-bye, if people begin to come round us— pauta, Hah! That’s where we've made the mistake, my friend Au- brey! (Pointing to the window) Do you believe these people will ever come round us? Your former crony, Mrs. Cortelyon? Or the grim old vicar, or that wife of his whose huge nose is positively indecent? Or the Ullathornes, or the Gollans, or Lady William Petres? 1 know better! And when the young ones gradually take the place of the old, ere will still remain the sacred tradition that the dreadful person who lives at the top of the hill is never, under any circumstances, to . be called upon! And so we shall 23 go on here, year in and year out, until the sap is run out of our lives, and we're stale and ry and with- ered from sheer, solitary respecta- bility. Upon my word, I wonder we didn’t see that we should have been far happier if we'd gone in for the devil-may-care, café-living sort of life *in town! After all, 7 have a set, and you might have joined it. It’s true, I did want, dearly, dearly, to be a married woman, but where’s the pride in being a married woman amon; married women who are~ married! If— (Seeing that avsrey’s head has sunk into his hands) Aubrey! My dear boy! You're not—crying? (He looks up, with a flushed face. ELLEAN enters, dressed very simplt for walking. She is a low-voiced, grave girl of about nineteen, with asface somewhat resembling a Ma- donna. Towards PauLa her manner is cold and distant.) AuBREY (in an undertone). Ellean! ELLEAN, Géod mornin; . Good morning, Paula. & pape (pauLa puts her arms round EL. LEAN and kisses her. ELLEAN makes little response.) . pauLA. Good morning. (Brightly) We've been breakfasting this side of the house, to get the sun. (She Sits at the piano and rattles at .a 5a, melod). Seeing that, pava’s k is turned to them, ELLEAN goes to ausrey and kisses him; he returns the kiss almost furtively. As they separate, the servants re- boron tnd Proceed to carry out the breakfast table.) ° © AUBREY (#0 ELLEAN). I guess where you've been: there’s some gorse clinging to your frock.24 ELLEAN (removing a of gorse from her serie Rove and I walked nearly as far as Black Moor. The poor fellow has a thorn in his pad; I am going up-stairc for my tweezers. . ausrey. Ellean! (She returns to him) Paula is a little depressed -out of sorts. She complains that she has no companion. ELLEAN. J am with Paula nearly all the day, papa. ausrey. Ah, but you're such a little mouse. Paula likes cheerful people about her. . ELLEAN. I'm afraid I am naturally rather silent; and it’s so difficult to seem to be what one isnot. . auprey. I don’t wish that, Ellean. ELLEAN, I will offer to go down to the village with Paula this morning —shall IP . ausrey (fouching her hand gently). Thank you—do. ELLEAN. When I’ve looked after Rover, I'll come back to her. (She Boes out; PAULA ceases Playing, and turns on the music-stool, - ing at AuBREY.) PAULA. Well, have youl and Ellean had your little confidence? auprey. Confidence? ravLa. Do you think I couldn’é feel it, Mixe*a pain between my shoulders? auprey. Ellean is coming back in a few minutes to be with you. AGTHUR W. PINERO (Bending over her) Paula, Paula dear, is this how you keep your promise? . pauta. Oh! (Rising impatiently, and crossing swiftly to the settee, where she sits, moving restlessly) I can't keep my promisey 1 am jealous; it won't be smothered. I see you looking at her, watching her; your voice drops when you speak to her. I know how fond you are ofthat girl, Aubrey. auprey. What would you have? I’ve no other home for her. She is my daughter. PAULA. She is your saint. Saint Ellean! aubrey. You have often told me how good and sweet you think her. PAULA. Good!—yes! Do you imag- ine that makes me less jealous? (Going to him and clinging to his arm) Aubrey, there are two sorts of affection—the love for a woman you respect, and the love for the woman you—love. She gets the first from you: I never can. ausrEY. Hush, hush! You don’t realise what you say. pauta. If Ellean cared for me only a little, it would be different. I shouldn’t be jealous then. Why doesn’t she care for me? ausrey. She-“she—she will, in time. pauta. You can’t say that without stuttering. Ausrey. Her disposition seems a little unresponsive; she resembles her mother in many ways; I can see it every day,THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY 25 PauLA. She’s marble, It’s a shame. There’s not the slightest excuse; for all she knows, I’m as much a saint as she—only married. Dearest, help me to win her over! AUpREY. Help you? pauta. You can. Teach her that it is her duty to love me; she hangs on to every word you speak, I'm sure, Aubrey, that the love of a nice woman who believed me to be like herself would do ‘me a world of good. You'd get the bene- fit of it as well as I. It would soothe me; it would make me less horribly restless; it would take this —this—mischievous feeling from me. (Coaxingly) Aubrey! AuBREY. Have patience; everything will come right. pauta. Yes, if you help me. aubrey. In the meantime you will tear up your letter to Lady Or- reyed, won't you? pauta (kissing his hand). Of course I will—anything! auBrEY. Ah, thank you, dearest! (Laughing) Why, good gracious! —ha, ha!—just imagine “Saint El- Jean” and that woman side by side! PauLa (going back with a ). Ah! 8 ” AUBREY. What? . pauta (passionately). It's Ellean you're considering, not me? It’s all Ellean with you! Ellean! Ellean! (ELLEAN re-enters.) * ELLEAN. Did you call me, Paula? (Clenching his hands, auprey turns away and goes out) Is papa angry?e pauta. I drive him distracted sometimes. There, I confess it! ° : ELLEAN. Do you? Oh, why do you? Because I—because I’m PAULA. jealous.° ELLEAN. Jealous? pauLa. Yes—of you. (ELLEAN is silent) Well, what do you think of that? . ELLEAN. I knew it; I’ve seen it. It hurts me dreadfully, What do you wish me to do? Go away? pauLa. Leave us! (Beckoning her with a motion of the head) Look here! (ELLEAN goes to PAULA slowly and unresponsively) You tould cure ‘me of my jealousy very easily. Why don’t you—like me? ELLEAN. What do you mean by— like you? I don’t understand. pautA. Love me. . ELLEAN, Love is not a feeling that is under one’s control. I shall alter as time goes on, perhaps. I didn’t begin to love my father deeply till a few nfonths ago, *and n I obeyed my mother. pavta. Ah, yes, you dream things, don’t you-see them in your sleep? You fancy your mother speaks to youP . ELLEAN, When you have lost your mother it is a comfort to believe that she is dead only to this dife, that she still watches over her child. I do believe that of my mother. pauLa. Well, and so you haven’t been bidden to love me?26 ELLEAN (after a e, almost in- audibly). No. pas . pauLa. Dreams are only a hash- up of one’s day-thoughts, I suppose you know. Think intently of any- thing, and it’s bound to come back to you at night. I don’t cultivate dreams myself. v ELLEAN. Ah, I knew you would only sneer! pauLa. I’m not sneering; I’m speaking the truth. I say that if you cared for me in the daytime I should soon make friends with those nightmares of yours. Ellean, why don’t you try to look on me as your second mother? Of course there are not many years between us, but I’m ever so much older than you—in experience. I shall have no children of my own, ‘I know that; it would be a real com- fort to me if you would make me feel we belonged to each other. Won't you? Perhaps you think. I'm odd—not nice, Well, the fact is I've two sides to my nature, and I’ve let the one almost smother the other. A few years ago I went through some trouble, and since then I haven’t shed, a tear. I believe if you put your arms round me just once I Wd run rupstairs and have a good cry. There, I've talked to you as I've never talked to a woman in my life. Ellean, you seem toefear me. Don't! Kiss me! (With a cry, almost of despair, EL- LEAN turns from PAULA and on to the settee, covering her face with her hands.) PAULA (irdtgnantly). Ohl Why is itl How dare you treat me like thisP What do you mean by it? What do you mean? (A SERVANT enters.) ARTHUR Ww, PINERO seRVANT. Mr. Drummle, ma’am. (CAYLEY DRUMMLE, in riding-dress, enters briskly, The* servant te- tires.) PAULA (tecovering herself). Well, Cayley! DRUMMLE (shaking hands with her cordially). How are you? (Sha hands with eu.eaN, who rises) saw you in the distance an hour ago, in the gorse near Stapleton’s. ELLEAN. I didn’t see you, Mr. Drummle. DRUMMLE. My dear Ellean, it is my experience that no charming young lady of nineteen ever does see a man of forty-five. (Laughing) Ha, Ha! ELLEAN (going to the door). Paula, apa wishes me to drive down to the village with you this morning. Do you care to take me? pauLA (coldly). Oh, by all means. Pray tell Watts to balance the cart for three. (ELLEAN goes out.) DRUMMLE. How's Aubrey? pauta, Very well—when Ellean’s about the house. DRUMMLE. And you? I needn't ask. . PAULA (walkit dow). Oh, a Cayley, mine. away to the win- log’s life, my dear DRUMMLE. Eh? pauLa. Doesn't that define a happy marriage? I’m sleek, well-kept, well-fed, never without a bone toTHE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY 27 gnaw and fresh straw to lie upon. to do, to do! (She goes out in a (Gazing out of the window) Oh, mood of almost childish delight.) dear mel * . DRUMMLE (eyeing AUBREY). Well? DRUMMLE. H’m! Well, I heartily * cgngratulate you on your kennel. ausrey, (with a wearied anxious The view from the terrace here is look). Well, Cayley? superl, pRUMMLE. How are you getting PauLa. Yes; I can see London. on? DRUMMLE. London! Not quite so Ausrey. My position doesn’t grow far, surely? . Tess dificult, I told you, when I met you last week, of this feverish, pauta. I can, Also the Mediter- jealous attachment of Paula’s for ranean, on a fine day. I wonder Ellean? what Algiers looks like this morn- ing from the seal (Impulsively) paummue. Yes. I hardly know why, Oh, Cayley, do you remember but I came to the conclusion that those jolly times on board Peter you don’t consider it an altogether Jarman’s yacht when we lay fortunate attachment. off—? (Stopping suddenly, seeit . , DRUMMLE staring at her) AvupreY. Ellean doesn’t respond to gracious! What are we talking it. about! (Ausrey enters.) DRUMMLE. These are early days. Ellean will warm towards your AUBREY (to DRUMMLE). Dear old wife by-and-bye. chap! Has Paula asked you? ausrey. Ah, but there’s the ques- PAuLa. Not yet. tion, Cayley! auBrey. We want you to come to pRuMML¥. What question? us, now that you're leaving Mrs. Cortelyon—at once, today. Stay a aubrey. The question which posi- month, as long as you please—eh, _ tively distracts me. Ellean is so dif- Paula? ferent from—most women; I don’t believe a purer creature exists out Pauta. As long as you can possibly of heaven. And I—I ask myself, am endure it—do, Cayley. I doing right in exposing her to the + influence of poor Paula’s light, pRuMMLE (looking at auBREY). careless nature? Delighted. (To pauta) Charming , . of you to have me. : DRUMMLE. My dear Aubrey! pauLa. My dear man, you're a aupney. That shocks youl So it blessing. I’ must telegraph to Lon- does me. I assure you I long to don for more fish! A strange appe- urge my girl to break down the tite to cater forl Something to do, reserve which keeps her apart from