 Act one of the Benefit of the Doubt by Arthur Wing Panera. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Persons of the Play. Mrs. Emptage. A widow. Read by Lian Yao. Claude Emptage, her son. Read by Thomas Peter. Lieutenant Emptage, her daughter. Read by Monica M.C. Theophila Fraser, her daughter. Read by Phome. Sir Fletcher Portwood, MP. Her brother. Read by Todd. Mrs. Cloyce, her sister. Read by Sonya. The right reverend, Anthony Cloyce, Doctor of Divinity, Bishop of St. Alphiths. Read by Son of the Exiles. Alexander Frazier, Frazier of Lockeen. Read by Robin Carno. John Allingham, read by Nima. Oliver Allingham, read by Eva Davis. Denzil Shaftow, Allingham's friend. Read by Lex Hankins. Peter Alphic, Allingham's friend. Read by Josh Kibbe. Jesus Quinton Twelves, read by T.J. Burns. Horton, a servant at Mrs. Emptage's. Read by Charly Ditta. Quayeef, a servant at Mr. Allingham's. Read by Campbell Schelp. Stage Directions, read by Larry Wilson. The scenes are placed at Mrs. Emptage's house in the neighborhood of Regent's Park and at the Likens, Mr. Allingham's cottage at Epsom. The events of the first and second acts occur on the same day, those of the third act about 15 hours afterward. Act One. The scene represents a drawing room in Mrs. Emptage's house near Regent's Park. At the back are double doors opening onto a further drawing room and these face a window over which the blinds are drawn to moderate the glare of the sun, which nevertheless streams through them for it is a fine afternoon in early summer. The rooms are furnished and decorated in a costly and tasteful fashion. Mrs. Emptage is reclining upon the setee her eyes closed, a bottle of smelling salts in her hand. Justina is pacing the room between the door and the window. Mrs. Emptage is a pretty carefully preserved woman with dyed hair and touched up face. She is old enough to be the mother of a daughter of nine and twenty. Justina is of that age, good-looking, smart and already somewhat posse. Both are fashionably but somberly dressed. Tell me the time once more, Tina. Justina referring to her watch. A few minutes to four, mother. Does the judge of the divorce court invariably rise at four o'clock? He may sit a little later in the special circumstances. To have done with the case of his very nearer at the end. So I'm told. They must all be here soon. Whether that happens or not? Yes, yes. Oh, but if the confounded thing should last into another day. A third day's suspense will kill me. Ma, I suppose really we ought to be reading our church services or something. I can't concentrate my attention in the least. I have been glancing at the yellow book. Huck, what's that? I don't hear anything. It is somebody. Horton, a man-servant, appears. Mrs. Quinton-12s. Mrs. Emptage struggles to her feet as Mrs. Quinton-12s enters. Horton retires. Kate-12s is a lively, handsome young woman, brightly dressed. Justina and Mrs. Emptage throwing themselves upon her. Kitty! Kitty! Mrs. Quinton-12s kissing them. Well, well, well, well. Is it all well? Not quite. That is, it wasn't when I came away. It's all over by now, I expect. Oh, Kitty! Shush, shush. Everything has gone swimmingly, I tell you. For Theophila? Of course for Theophila. Mrs. Emptage sinking back onto the satine. I felt sure it would. But what was happening when you left? The dear old judge was just beginning to deliver his decision, his judgment. Oh, how could you come away then? Certainly it was a wrench. Certainly Theo wrote little notes to Sir Fletcher Portwood and to Claude and me. Taking a screw of paper from her glove. Here's mine. Readings. I won't have anybody I am fond of except my husband in court at the finish. They tell me they are sure I am cleared, but it frightens me to think you are all waiting. Go to mothers. Mrs. Emptage taking the note. My poor child. Reading it. They are sure I am cleared. Tina, she's cleared. Cleared. I wish you could have heard Sir John Clarkson's opening speech for Theophila this morning. There was quite a murmur of approval when he sat down. He let the dredged Mrs. Chick Ellingham have it, eh? He did. He said that a morbidly jealous wife is one of the sadest spectacles the world presents. But that, when her jealousy leads her to attempt to blacken the reputation, the hitherto spotless reputation of another woman, in this instance a young lady more happily married than herself, then that jealous wife becomes a positive danger to society. I ought to have been there, Tina. I said it was my duty, if you remember. I might have gone. Certainly. And yet you have both sat at home, quaking, behaving for all the world, as if you have a lurking suspicion that Theophila really may, really has, really did. Kate, I will not permit you to say such a thing. Why these miserable-looking gowns, then? You are dressed more funerally today than you were yesterday. Mrs. Emptage tearfully. If you live to see a daughter of yours, however innocent she may be, dragged through the divorce court. We haven't been quite certain what we ought to put on. I considered half-morning rather a happy thought. To my mind it looks as if you had deliberately prepared for all emergencies. Mrs. Emptage rising in a flutter. Tina, pin some flowers in your dress at once. I'll get Bristo to stick a bit of relief about me somewhere, and I'll wear some more rings. She goes out. Justina selects some cut flowers from a vase on the piano forte. Oh, Kate, we were dreadfully in the dance. Pleasure for parlaying us. Mrs. Quinten-twelves taking a pin from her hat. Come here. Justina going to Mrs. Twelves. It shall fall. It would have been too rough on us if, if, wouldn't it? Mrs. Quinten-twelves attaching the flowers to the bodice of Justina's dress. Pray, complete your sentence. What if Mrs. Ellingham had made out her case against Jack Ellingham and Theo? For shame, Tina. Ah, you're awfully prudish, all of a sudden, Kate. You've very soon forgotten. Mind that pin. What are you saying? I mean, it isn't as if we hadn't all been just a little rapid in our time. We three girls, Theo, you and I, you didn't be quite so newly married womanish with me. Shut up. Justina glancing round. No one's there. We always knew where to draw the line, I hope. Of course we did. Only when you're married, as Theo is, to a cold, dry mommy of a man like Alexander Fraser, the lines have to get drawn rather zigzag. Mrs. Quinten-twelves finishing with the flowers. Go away. Thanks, there, Charlie. Picking up a little mirror from the table and making a rye face to herself. I haven't had a night's sound sleep for weeks. I should think not with such thoughts in your head. Poor Theo. I've been fretting about her, too, in a different way. Justina adjusting the flowers with the aid of the mirror. Yes, but it isn't only Theo. I've been doing a bit of lying awake on my own account, I can tell you. Why? Justina moising in her eyelashes as she again surveys her face. Why, if this business had gone against my sister, it wouldn't have bettered my chances, eh? No, perhaps it wouldn't. I am 20. Oh, you know. Nine. Ah, could dash it, yes. And this beastly scrape of Theo-fil-us has been no end of a shocker for me. From today I turn over to the proverbial new leaf. So glad, dear. Just fancy. I'm the only single one out of V3 musketeers. Great Scott Kate. Suppose I got left. Ha ha, Tina. But I won't, you mark me. From today I'll alter. I take my off, I will. No more slang for me, no more swears, no more smokes with men after dinner, no more cycling at the club in Nicos. I've been giving too much away. Mrs. Quinton-Twells listening. Take care. Justina glancing round. Claude, back. Claude Imptage, a plain, stumpy, altogether insignificant young man, enters. A young man with a pale face, red eyelids and nostrils, a dense look and heavy, depressed matter. What news, any? It's finished. Finished? Don't tell me how. It's alright with you. Mrs. Arlingham's petition dismissed. Ha ha ha, alright for Theo. Clap in her hands, almost dancing. Mrs. Twels embraces her. Alright for Theo. Ha ha ha, isn't it splendid? Ha ha ha, alright for Mother. She runs out. Mrs. Quinton-Twells to club. You did wait then, in spite of Theo's orders. No, not in court. I hung about outside with Uncle Fletcher to hear the result. Sitting with a little groan. I must say, Claude, the victory hasn't left you very cheerful. Sheerful. Think of the day I've spent. You've spent. Theo Filia's brother. Pointing into space. The brother of Mrs. Fraser of Lockeen. The brother of the witness in the box. Every eye upon me. Ha ha, I see. Oh Kate, I felt this business in more ways than one. It has been a terrible lesson to me. Mrs. Quinton-Twells smiling. My poor Claudio. Claude, not looking at her. No. Don't pity me. Despise me. Kitty, how easy it is for a fellow to imperil a woman's reputation. Yes, isn't it? We attach ourselves to a pretty married woman. We lounge in her drawing room, her boudoir. We make her our toy, our pastime. Do we allow her single thought of the scandal we may involve her and check us in a pursuit of pleasure? No, I suppose you don't. Never. Perhaps you had better not come to tea with me quite so frequently in the future, Claude. You are right. You and others must see less of me. Turn into her. And yet, Kate, I am not all bad. Sir Fletcher Portwood enters. He is fifty-one, amiable, pompous, egotistical, foolish. Why didn't you wait for me, Claude, my boy? Sorry, my brain was reeling. Sir Fletcher Portwood meeting Mrs. Quels. All very proper, a very satisfactory termination of this affair, Mrs. Quels. It has been awfully reassuring to see you beaming in court, Sir Fletcher. Ah! I daresay my attitude has been remarked. Beaming? Why not? I've had no doubt as to the result. No doubt of Thio's innocence, of course not. Innocent? That goes without saying, my niece. But the result, in any case, would have been much the same, I venture to think. Really? See, my own public position, if I may speak of it. Oh, yes. Sir Fletcher Portwood smiling. And I happen to know the judge. Slightly, perhaps, but there it is. But judges are not influenced by considerations of that kind. Heaven forbid I should say a word against our method of administering law in this country. The house knows my opinion of the English judicial bench. At the same time, judges are mortal. I have never concealed that from myself, and so William and I have met. To Claude. You saw the judge look at me this morning, Claude? No. No? Oh, yes, and I have smiled in return. Yesterday I couldn't catch his eye, but today I've been half-smiling at him all through the proceedings. Justina runs in, seats herself at the piano forte, and thumps out the wedding march. Well, Uncle Fletcher. Uh-huh. What price, Mrs. Elingham? Mrs. Emptage returns. She has relieved the heaviness of her dress by a fissue au crepe de soire. Mrs. Emptage embracing Claude. My darling. Embracing Sir Fletcher. Oh, my dear Fletcher. Be quiet, Tina. Justina plays the air of a popular music hall of melody softly. Mrs. Twel comes to her. I told you so, eh? We all said so. But I've been the most emphatic. Well, fear, and alec. They went over to Sir John Clarkson's chambers directly the case concluded. I fancy to consult him on some little point that had arisen. I managed to get one word. Mrs. Emptage impulsively kissing Mrs. Twel. I'm so happy. I contrived to get just one word with alec as he was putting Theophila into the carriage. I wanted to tell him... Mrs. Emptage pacing the room humming the air played by Justina. Tra-la-la-la. La-la-tra-la-la. I wanted to tell him an amusing story I'd heard during the luncheon interval. But he hadn't time to. Ha-ha! It's a legal antidote. It appears that a fellow of the name of Bavit once brought an action. Did the judge apologize, Fletcher? Justina stops playing. Apologize? To Theophila. A judge never apologizes. He might do worse, where such undeserved distress as occasioned a young wife and her husband. Hear, hear! To sing nothing of her mother. I surmise that the judgment of my friend Sir William was very strongly worded. And I daresay an expression of regret followed from Mrs. Allingham's console. But I had quitted the court, you know. Oh, yes. A theory to you enodes. But you are losing my anecdote. It appears that a man of the name of Bavit. One thing, Muriel, I will stake my reputation upon. Mrs. Emptage peeping out at the side of the window blind. What's that? That the public applauded the decision roundly. Mrs. Emptage pacing the room again. I can hear them doing it. Bravo, Mrs. Fraser! Hey, girls. Plucky, Mrs. Fraser. How charlie to have been there just then. As a matter of fact, I talked with several strangers of a humble rank of life and hinted that a few cheers—so regrettable and unseemly in a court of law as a rule— I hinted that a few cheers would undoubtedly be justifiable in the present instance, as well as particularly agreeable to me. It seems that Bavit— Horton enters with a card. Mrs. Emptage after glancing at the card. Oh! Eh? What's up? Mrs. Emptage to Horton. What is Mrs. Cloe's? Sir Fletcher, Justina and Claude rise precipitately. In the morning room, ma'am, she preferred. Mrs. Emptage taking the card. I—I—someone will come to her. Horton retires. Harriet, here? By chance. Claude making for the door. No, she's too impossible. Mrs. Emptage intercepting him. Claude, I dare you to leave the house. Sir Fletcher also moves towards the door. Mrs. Emptage stopping him. Fletcher, you mustn't. Muriel, I distinctly prefer not to meet. But I must have every support. I am unequal to it otherwise. Who will Fletcher upstairs? Fletcher, dare. In your establishment. Singularly inappropriate. Mrs. Emptage turning to Justina. Justina? No, thanks, ma'am. Brits, all of you. She hurries out. Confound her. I shall submit to none of her heirs. What is a bishop? Why does she select this occasion? It's nearly ten years since she washed her hands of us. Exactly eleven years, heavy laps, since my sister Harriet places out of my power to continue on a footing of brotherly intercourse with her. Claude to Mrs. Twelves. I know the story. Justina to him. Shhh. Her behavior on that one memorable afternoon proved that her marriage to a dignitary of the church was something worse than a fluke. A sacrilege. Mrs. Quinton Twelves quietly to Claude. What is it? Claude quietly to her. She called him a bore. Mrs. Quinton Twelves going to Justina. Do you think I could steal downstairs and get away? She used to tell me I was an empty-headed little fool. Outrageous. And predicted I should end badly. Well, you haven't. No, but there's still time, she'd say. Going towards the doors. I'm off. Sneak. Mrs. Quinton Twelves returning hastily. They're coming up. Let them. Mrs. Cloise enters and stands surveying the room. Mrs. Emptage follows her. Mrs. Cloise is about fifty-three, handsome, dignified and bearing, richly but soberly dressed in manner a mixture of sweetness and as sobriety. Justina is it? Justina going to her. How do you do, Aunt Harriet? Mrs. Cloise kissing her then eyeing her kingly. Hmm. You're not married yet, I believe. No, I haven't the slightest inclination that way. Oh, my dear. You still tell fibs, then. Indeed, Aunt. Justina retires, Sir Fletcher advances. Mrs. Cloise kisses him, then looks him up and down. Well, Fletcher, so they've knighted you, have they? Lord Cranberry was gracious enough to recommend. How much did it cost you? Cost me. Well, you've made money. I suppose you could afford it. Pray let us. Ah, don't puff yourself out at me, Fletcher. I am doing nothing of the kind, Harriet. Then don't. Ah, how is the bishop? Old. Old? Let me see. My marvellous head for figure should serve me. Very old. Born in? We're all getting old. That's why you have the pleasure of seeing me amongst you once more. Turning to Claude, who bows stiffly? My nephew. Shaking hands with him and looking him in the face, certainly. You're rather old, too. Sharply. Who's that there? Mrs. Quinton Twels, who has been hidden by the flowers on Piano Forte, advancing with a nervous outburst. Oh, I hope you remember me, dear Mrs. Cloise. Kitty Twels, I was Kitty Powis, if you recollect. I recollect. Weren't you at school in Paris with Justine and Theophila, and afterwards? Yes. Isn't this interesting? Quinton, my husband, was confirmed by the Bishop of St. Olfert's. I never discovered it till we'd been married for ages. I mean, weeks and weeks. Gradually coiling under Mrs. Cloise's gaze. And then, one day, he happened to see me kissing the sweetest photograph of you, and... and... and... Mrs. Twels. I understood from my sister there was a purely family gathering here this afternoon. Mrs. Quinton Twels offering her hand. I... I have to go on elsewhere. Mrs. Cloise detaining her hand. My dear, you were extremely old when I last saw you during your first season in 80-something. I pray now you're married that you are younger. They look at each other for a moment longer, then Mrs. Twels withdraws her hand, and after nodding to the others in a scared way goes out silently. Claude follows her. Mrs. Cloise sitting on the satine. Muriel. Mrs. Imptage comes to her. We have been on bad terms for many years. Let us have done with it. I suggest mutual concessions to disposition and temper. Mrs. Imptage sitting. I am sure I have been more than desirous. You have brought up your children abominably. That was always our most serious point of dissension. I may remind you, Harriet, that Muriel's cheerful method of training her children has received my sympathy and sanction. On the death of the late Mr. Imptage. My poor dear Herbert. It naturally devolved upon me. I am not one of those. Your twenty years of married life may have taught you how to manage a husband, Harriet, but... a husband has blessed you with no offspring. And the world is at all deans and cannons and bishops and things. A department of society you were thrown headlong into. By the merest charts, as you well know. Without, I fear, possessing every qualification for the, uh, the exalted station which... which... And, and, and... Mrs. Cloise to Mrs. Imptage. There, don't, I say. Have done with it? At any rate, we're grey-haired women now. I am, and you ought to be. Now, Harriet. And judgment has overtaken you. Judgment? This terrible calamity that has befallen your girl Theophila. Oh, how is it going to end? My dear Harriet, it has ended. Hester Case. Mrs. Allingham's petition is dismissed. Dismissed. My daughter has emerged triumphantly. Thank God. Rising. Muriel. Mrs. Imptage rises. Mrs. Cloise kisses her on both cheeks, then turns away. You will see Theo and her husband in a few minutes. They are staying with me, just now. Weak, giddy mother. Am I, Harriet? My child flies to me in her trouble, nevertheless. Mrs. Cloise, wiping her eyes. The dear bishop will be so rejoiced. Not a newspaper has been taken at the palace this week. Resuming her seat. It has hit us hard. How did it all come about? In this way. I— Mrs. Imptage sitting again. Why, we've all known Jack Allingham for years. Sir Fletcher Portwood sitting. A good fellow. Little dull, perhaps. Little prosy. Mrs. Imptage glancing at Justina. At one time, we thought he was rather inclined to pay Tina. What right, mother? Oh! However, he married this creature. Olive Harker. Daughter of a major Harker. Crummy Harker. Stout man. Four years ago this month. Yes, in the summer of the year in which Theo was married to Fraser of the Sheen. My extraordinary chronological faculty ought to serve me here. Theophila and Lockeen were married in the March. Jack Allingham and Miss Harker in the following June. I took the chair that year at no less than three public dinners. Of course. When the two couples had settled down in London, the usual exchange of visits began. But from the first, it was quite evident that Mrs. Allingham resented a husband's friendship for Theo. Why should Mrs. Allingham have resented it? Olive was always a jealous, cat person. John is some months younger than his wife, I may tell you. No marriage can turn out happily when the balance of age drops ever so slightly on the woman's side. My observation. Rubbish. I know my world, Harriet. What was it that Olive said about that, ma? When the wife is older than the husband, every fresh little line in her face becomes an acute pain to her. Just as if it were cut into her flesh, and renewed daily, with a knife. Those are Mrs. Allingham's own words. Poor Rich. In her storms with Jack, she used to rave out these things, and Jack would repeat them to Theo. What business had he to do that pray? Well, his home had become such a hell that he fell into the way of rushing round Elena's gardens, to Theophila and Alec. To obtain relief from his worries. He gradually became a sort of third in Elena's gardens, you know, Aunt. A sort of third? The house-friend, who is continually running in and out. The man who has dined with you almost before you know it, is it were? Oh. And is this all? All? All the justification a jealous woman has for seeking to divorce her husband. Not a divorce, Harriet. She wasn't entitled to ask for that. Mrs. Allingham has been suing for judicial separation. Well, well. Accuracy with me is a perfect mania. Oh, yes, that's all, with the exception of the—the— With a wave of the hand. However— Exception? I was thinking of the beseech part of the case. Yes, yes, but that's of no consequence now. Beseech. Allingham and Theophila happened, both of them, to be fond of cards. And when Frazier was away in Scotland— Away in Scotland? Not with Theophila? No, no. She loathes Lockheed. I see. When Mr. Frazier was in Scotland and his wife was by herself in London— Then a little harmless beseech helped to kill the time. Theophila and Mr. Allingham killed time together. Yes, yes, yes. Where was the time killed? In Lenox Gardens. At Theophila's house, in her husband's absence. Is that all? Absolutely all. All the beseech part of the case. You see, the lawyers separate the case against Theophila into three divisions. Three. Number one. The house friend, as aforesaid. Two. The beseech, as aforesaid. Three. I repeat. Surely all this doesn't matter now. Number three. Tanhauser. In Heaven's name, what? That was nothing. Frazier was in Scotland, as usual. As usual? No, no. As he is often obliged to be. Alec was in Scotland, and Theo had been to the opera with pearls. With? Friends. To hear Tanhauser. She had sent her servants to bed and let herself in with her lechkey. As she was closing the front door, she caught sight of Chek Erlingham on the other side of the way. He had had one of his terrible scenes with his wife. They lived round the corner, in Pont Street. And the most charming house there's was, I always say, with regard to Pont Street. Fletcher. Jack was in a dreadful state of distress, pacing the streets like a maniac, in fact. He's a very old friend of all of us. More like a brother than a... And Theo begged him to come in. To calm himself. Simply and impulsive, warm-hearted act on her part. And it wouldn't have met up in the least if the devil of her wife hadn't suspected. And planted her maid outside Theo's house, sent of spies. Till three in the morning. When Theo turned Jack out. Not four in the morning, as Mrs. Alecham's blundering council tried to establish. Sir John Clarkson bowled him out of there. Three, sir. Not four. Be quiet. Be silent. Upon my word, Harriet. Mrs. Coy's to Justina, who rises. Go away. You can sit by and assist at the telling of a story of this nature, single woman that you are. Justina walks away. What did I prophecy? Years ago, what did I prophecy? To Mrs. Emptage. Now pray. How do you like seeing your children dabbling their hands in this, this pig pale? Claude enters. Fraser and Theo. Mrs. Emptage rising. Ah. Just come in. Mrs. Coy's walks away. Claude joins Justina. Mrs. Emptage repressing her excitement. Shh, shh, shh. Let's nobody make a fuss. Alec hates a fuss. No fuss, but somewhat odd to play, see the conquering hero. Theo is so fond of a little fun, genuine fun. He seats himself at the piano and fingers out the air laboriously. Theophila and her husband enter. She is an elegantly dressed, still girlish woman of seven and twenty. He, a good-looking, undemonstrative man of about five and thirty. Both are pale, weary-looking, and subdued. Fraser is gloved and frock-coated. Theophila is in her bonnet and cape. Mrs. Emptage, her hands twitching. Wow, pat. Theophila kissing her mother in a spiritless way. Well, mother dear. Theophila goes to Justina and Claude and kisses them silently. Mrs. Emptage shaking hands with Fraser. A hundred thousand congratulations, Alec. Fraser, biting his lip. Thanks. Standing at the further end of the piano to Sir Fletcher. Do you mind, no plane? Sir Fletcher portward, rising and singing. See the conquering hero comes. Not hero, heroes. No, no, hero and heroine. Theophila comes to him and kisses him in the same impassive fashion. Much obliged to you for sticking to me the last two days, Uncle. My dear, as a matter of fact, I have enjoyed myself in court. I am not exaggerating. Enjoyed myself. Theo, you aren't Harriet. Theophila turning. Aunt. Advancing slowly to meet Mrs. Cloise. A little dazed. I saw a figure. I thought it was kitty. My aunt. They shake hands. Mrs. Cloise looking into her face earnestly. You're tired. Quite done. Theophila with a nod sitting on the satine. Alec. Fraser advances. My aunt Harriet, Mrs. Cloise. My husband. Fraser and Mrs. Cloise inclined their heads to each other. Fraser then turns away and joins Claude and Justina. Sir Fletcher Portwood following him. Theophila strips off her gloves. Let mother take your bonnet, pet. Theophila, her head falling backward faintly. Oh, do. Mrs. Imptich removing Theophila's bonnet. In your bonnet all day again. Your head must be splitting. I know. Do you remember my head at the flower-share at Eastbourne? Mrs. Cloise bends over Theophila and helps her get rid of her cape. Thanks awfully. She takes her bonnet from Mrs. Imptich and fiercely begins to roll it in her cape as if about to crush them together. Mrs. Imptich uttering a little scream running round the satine to her. Oh, what are you doing? There's general movement. Theophila looking round. It's all right. Those things are to be destroyed. Mrs. Imptich taking the bonnet in cape from Theophila. Destroyed. They were new for the case. Snifton, mother. Mrs. Imptich doing so. Perfume. Phew. I intend to burn every thread I'm wearing and to have a bath before dinner. We were rather unfortunate in the case that is to follow ours. Yes. Looking straight before her. There was a patchouli business waiting to come on after us. Mrs. Imptich holding the things at arm's length. Oh, dear. It had been flitting about since the morning. It sat down beside me at last. It? It, it, it. And it was wearing a bonnet almost precisely like mine. And it looked to be about my own age and could have had my sort of complexion if it had chosen— Hush, Theophila. These last two days. Horton enters with tea. Here's tea. Claude helped Justina with the tea table. Tea is what Theo needs. She hurries out with Theophila's bow and cape. Claude and Justina carry the tea table and place it before the cosy corner. Mrs. Cloy sits with her head bent. Horton places the tray upon the tea table and withdraws. Justina sits in the cosy corner and pours out the tea. Sir Fletcher Portwood bustling up to the tea table. Tea is what we all need. A most exciting day. I've often observed how welcome one's tea is on a derby day. Theophila in a whisper to Fraser across the table. Alec, will you tell them what the judge said of me, or shall I? I suppose it's necessary. People heard it. Then the papers. Of course. I'll tell them if you like. Thank you. No, no, I'll tell them. You couldn't do it. How could you? Mrs. Emptage returns. Tea, tea! City. Alec, come and sit by me. Fraser sits at a distance. His lips compressed. His hands gripped together. Oh, my! All that way off! You will persist in treating me as an ordinary mother-in-law. Fraser moves his chair a little nearer. That's better. Prionfinitely. Well, Harriet, you see all my children round me. A happy family. Clod brings tea to Mrs. Cloys. Sir Fletcher Portwood bringing a cup of tea to Theophila. I make no excuse for devoting myself to Theo on this occasion. Theophila takes the tea and gulps it. You looked charming in the witness box. Pecan. Returning to the tea table. Pecan. Just a word. Pecan. Now, Alec, dear, tell us. Did Mrs. Allingham's counsel... Mr... what's his name? Express regret when it was all over? Regret? Sir Fletcher brings tea to Mrs. Emptage. Clod brings tea to Fraser. Then returns to the tea table. Regret at finding himself made the... The... think of me. The vehicle for such a malicious attack on Theo's character. Poor child. No. No regret was expressed. Not by the judge either. The judge? The judge never said he was sorry to see a nicely bred girl so recently married too. Subjected to such a... Such a... such an unwarrantable deal. Fraser is silent. Eh? No, Mother. You were wrong then, Fletcher, you see. Sir Fletcher Portwood holding up his hand. Wait, wait, please. I don't think I am very often out of my calculations. Do theophila. What sort of demonstration occurred at the close? May I venture to ask? Demonstration? Did they cheer you much, darling? That's what your uncle means. Cheer me, Mother? Fraser rises abruptly, placing his cup with a clatter on the piano. I... I feel as theophila does. I must dip my face in cold water. The atmosphere in that place stifles one even now. Dear, excuse me. He goes out. All except theophila look after him. Surprised. Mother, dear. Uncle Fletcher, you seem to have a wrong impression. Wrong impression? Oh, Mrs. Allingham's petition has been dismissed. Yes. But Sir John Clarkson at Mr. Martin, my other counsel, all my friends in fact, were a little too sanguine. Too sanguine? Oh, much too sanguine. The judge was rather rough on me. What on earth, dear? Rather down on me, severe. My behaviour, my conduct, has been careless. Indiscreet, he says. Indiscreet. Hardly characteristic of a woman who is properly watchful of her own and her husband's reputation. Honour. Justina coming forward a few steps. Theo! But at the same time, he said, Mrs. Allingham had scarcely succeeded in establishing conclusively to his mind. Oh, and he thought that even a petitioner herself on further reflection would be desirous that I should receive the benefit of the doubt and something about costs. She breaks off. They all remain silent for a time. This will appear in the papers, won't it? Won't it? No one replies. Sir Fletcher sinks into a chair with a blank look. Can't anybody answer me? Fletcher, will this be in the papers? The papers? No strong-minded public man ever looks in the papers. When I have spoken in the house, I never— Why, of course, a dozen papers will have it. What a silly question to ask Ma. Mrs. Emptage advancing to Mrs. Cloys. I hope you're quite satisfied, Harriet. You came here after these many years on purpose to witness this. Mrs. Cloys rises. To see disgrace and ruin brought on me and my family. Muriel, how dare you say it? I'm only a widow. Everybody is entitled to stab at me. Mrs. Cloys turning away. I'll not listen to you. How glad our friends will be. Going towards the door. Here's a triumph for our friends. Justina following her. Mother. Mrs. Emptage pushing her aside. Go away. I don't want you near me. Bristo shall attend on me. I shall lie down on my bed. I shall have my corsets taken off. She disappears. Mrs. Cloys going towards the door. Muriel. She goes out following Mrs. Emptage. Justina with a gritty laugh. That's ma, all over. She always goes through this process when there's a family crisis. To Theophila. Do you remember, Phil? What? Directly the news of poor Pa's death came. Ma took off her corsets. Sir Fletcher Portwood rising. I shall go out. People shall see me walking boldly through the streets. Portland Place. Regent Street. Fletcher Portwood with his head up. His head up, they'll say. He paces the room and comes upon Claude, who is sitting at the writing table, writing a telegram. His eyes bulging and a generally vacuous expression on his face. And you? When are you going to do something in the world besides idling and loafing and living upon your mother? Claude, rising, disconcerted. What's that to do with it? Do with it? Why, at eighteen, I was earning twenty shillings a week and maintaining myself. Now look at the position I have achieved from sheer brain force. To the author. I shall not turn my back on you, my poor little girl. Don't be frightened of that. You were always my favourite niece. I beg your pardon, Tina. I've no favourites. Can I buy you anything, either of you, while I'm out? I may look in here again before I go down to the house. The finest assembly of gentlemen in the world. No patterns or new music wanted, eh? Oh, no. I shall dine at the house and then stop at the club. All London shall see me. Look at Port Wood, everybody will say. Then there can't be the slightest foundation for the scandal about his niece. He goes up. Claude, looking after him. Transparent old egoist. How do I know whether I'm in his will or not? And yet I stand here and allow him to lecture me. Me? Ha! Compare his education with mine. And what real knowledge has he of life, of men and women? Join Justina, his telegram. Is that the way you spell Bernhardt? Justina reading the telegram. No. H. A. R. D. T. What's this? The Waltons wanted to take me to see Bernhardt tonight. Of course I can't go now. A marked man. Every eye upon me. Brother. Going to the door he meets Fraser. Hello, Fraser. Claude goes out. Fraser, who is carrying his hat and gloves, walks across the room eyeing Justina. Justina to Fraser. Do you want to speak to Theo? Oh, just for one moment. Theophila rises. Justina goes to her. Never mind, old girl. Ha! I suppose this has cleared my pitch for a season or two, but... Kissing her. Never mind. Going to the door. These things will happen the best regulated. She disappears. There is a brief silence during which theophila closes the doors. Have you told your people? Yes. How did they take it? All right. Pretty well. Mother is lying down for a bit. She'll be quite herself again in a few days. A few days? Well, she... Partly to himself. In a few days? She'll have a week at Worthing. She's always had a week at Worthing when we've been in any trouble. You've got your hat, Alec. Do you mean to dine out? Tonight? Oh, don't be so sharp with me. All the way home from the Strand, you'd hardly speak a word. Fraser sitting on the settee. I was thinking over what we'd been listening to. Yes, the things sounded much worse in court than they did out of it, didn't they? Fraser, his head bowed. How cruel it was of them to boy us up by telling us the case was going right for me. Many believed it. Martin was sure the judge was on our side. When one comes to think of it, her counsel managed to put such a very queer complexion. I don't know what I felt like at some moments. I felt like a woman caught with bare shoulders in daylight. Theophila looking at him curiously. Alec, you seem to be different to me now that trial's over. Day, I— We're worn out. Theophila, after some hesitation, going to the back of the settee. I say I want to tell you I am truly sorry. Fraser raising his head. Sorry! And I humbly beg your pardon. Fraser rising and facing her. For what? Why, for all the bother I've caused. Fraser resuming his seat. Oh! She stares at him for a moment, surprised and disappointed, then turns away. Theophila to herself. Oh! To him. Alec, I've had the idea that the trouble we've lately gone through, both of us, over this horrid business, might help to bring us together. We haven't got along over well, have we? Not too well, I'm afraid. A good deal my fault, I dare say. Oh! I hated Lockeen. Yes. As heartily as you hate London. I'm a town girl, a thorough little cockney. You knew it when you married me. And, Lockeen. Lockeen is a beautiful place. What? London's a beautiful place. No. No to you, then? City. I beg pardon again. I didn't mean to be rude. I understand how you feel. You were born in Lockeen. I was. Theophila pointing towards the window. I was born in Chester Terrace. I admit, Lockeen's all very well at a certain time of year, but to be stuck there when London's full, when nobody but the poor relation, whose railway ticket you send with the invitation, will come and look you up. Oh, the summer you made me spend there just after we were married. I was very happy that summer. You were in love. And then the pipers, those pipers. Duncan and Amish were supremely ridiculous to you. I remember. Not ridiculous, as you say it. Great fun for a time. But four or five months of Duncan and Amish and their pipes, to and fro on the terrace for a whole hour in the morning, those pipes, to and fro up and down, all round the house in the afternoon, those pipes, a dinner from the trout to the banana, those pipes, and then the notion of your persistently dining in a kilt, a hymen costume on the moors. Yes, but in the lamplight, at dinner? It is my dress. I don't vary it. Think of it. A man and woman dining tit at tit for months and months. The woman hipped, wary, the novelty of her new clothes gradually wearing off. She feeling she was getting lean and plain with it all. Salt-cellary about the shoulders, drawn and hideous. Staring before her, her eyes dilate. And every blessed night the man in a magnificent evening kilt. Surely that too was great fun for a time. It might have been if you had the smallest sense of humour, Alec, but one soon tires of laughing alone. No, there was never any fun in that kilt. It got on my nerves from the beginning, the solemn, stupid statelyness of it. Girls are subject to creeps and crawls. I grew at last to positively dread joining you in the hall of an evening, to be frightened at giving you my arm to go into dinner. The simple sound of the rustling of my skirt against that petticoat of yours made the chairs, everything, dance. At those moments old Duncan and his boy Hamish seemed to be blowing into the blood vessels of my head. And during dinner even the table wouldn't help me. I was weak, hysterical. I declared to goodness I could always see through the thickness of the board, see it at two knees. With a backward shake of the head. Well, Duncan and Hamish, poor fellas, and their pipes, and the objectionable kilt. Those things need never trouble you again. At any rate, we can decide that. Oh no Alec, we will go up to Lockheen in August. Lockheen? Wait, you haven't heard. She changes her position, sitting beside him. He, not responsive, almost shrinking from her. Alec, Alec dear. Leaning her head against his shoulder. I intend to be good in the future, so very good. What do you mean good? I intend to get on well with you, wherever we may be. I will get on well with you. I've been babyish and silly all my life. I'm seven and twenty, I'm an old woman. I've sown my wild oats now. Wild oats? Forty-four pounds to the bushel. And so, directly we fought our way. Oh my, it will be a fight too. Directly we fought our way through the season in London, we'll be off to Lockheen. The season here? Yes. Theophila, there will be no season for us in London, and no Lockheen even for me. For two or three years at least. Rising. We're going abroad. Abroad? Directly, directly. There will be only tomorrow to settle everything, to make all arrangements. Pacing up and down. The servants and the next gardens will be discharged. The host lit furnished. Perhaps it will be better to let Marlar sell the furniture, and have done with it. Pause him in his walk. I am returning the Lenin's gardens, no. At once. Will you come back with me, or dine with your people, and let me fetch you later on? She sits stern at him without speaking. Theo. Please. Let me know your wishes. No, no. You mustn't do this. Why no? Why don't you see? We've got to sit tight here in town. We've got to do it, to win back my good name. Grazer agitatedly resumes his walk. Of course we shall be asked nowhere, but we must be seen about together, you and I, wherever it's possible for us to squeeze ourselves. There's the opera. We can subscribe for a box on the ground tier. The stalls can't help picking you out there. And there we must sit, laughing and talking, allig and convince people that we are a happy couple and that you believe in me implicitly. And when the season's done with, then Lockeen. We must have Lockeen crowded with the best we can lay hands on. Many that wouldn't touch me with their tongues at the moment will be glad of a cheap week or two at Lockeen in the autumn. And we must let them all see that I'm a rattling good indoor as well as outdoor wife and that you're frightfully devoted to me and that what she charged me with well simply couldn't have been. And afterwards they'll go back to town and chatter and in the end the thing will blow over and, and, oh, but to go abroad now. Going to him is slipping her arm through his. Alec, dear old boy, how could you dream of cutting and running now? He withdraws his arm. Theophila, I, I am sorry to distress you, if it does distress you, but I, I've quite made up my mind. We are going abroad. Oh, not stir. Would you let me go alone? Theophila recoiling. Oh. Praise her following her. You see, you will have to come with me. You'd be a brute to do it, Alec. Stamping her foot. Don't you hear me? Can't you understand me? You're not a fool. I'll tell you, we've got to try to convince people. People? People shall not see me play acting. Play acting? Yes. Before I go among people to try to convince them, I have to try to convince myself. What? Praise your city. People, people. There is silence. She slowly retreats from him. You, you think there's some, some truth in it, then? He makes no answer. It's true, you believe? I want time. I want time. Time? To shake it off. To shake it off? It was awful in court. Theophila partly to herself. Awful? As you say. Her council twisted and turned everything about so. And cross examined you today, and made you say, And then the judge, the benefit of the doubt, awful. Theophila under her breath. I see. Praise her rising. Yes, that we must go away and be quietly together. For the present, there's something even more important than gaining the good opinion of others. There is ourselves. Will you come back to Lennox Gardens now, Or shall I return for you by and by? By and by. Praise her going to the door. Nine o'clock, or ten? Nine or ten. Weech. It doesn't matter. He goes out. For a few moments she remains quite still. Then she rouses herself, And with a blank look wanders about, Her arms moving restlessly. Suddenly she presses her hands to her brow, And sinks into a chair. Oh, oh. After a short burst of crying, She examines her wedding ring, Removes it from her finger, And giving it a little laugh, Flings it on to the setee. Then she rises, And with an error of determination, Goes to the writing table. Very well, very well. She sits before the writing table, And writes rapidly. At intervals she utters an exclamation, Then sings as she writes. The doors are open, And Horton enters. Horton collecting the teacups. Beg pardon, ma'am. The awful of writing. Mr. Fraser has gone out, hasn't he? He has, ma'am. Horton places the teacups on the tea tray, Lifts up the tray, And is about to carry it out. Well, Horton, what became of the bonnet in Cape I came in with? Horton looking off. Miss Umtidge laid them down in the next room. Here they are, ma'am. Just give them to me. Horton goes off, and immediately returns with the bonnet, Cape, and gloves. Thanks. Horton arranges the cape over the back of the chair, Places the bonnet and gloves on the table, And withdraws. Having finished her letter, And addressed an envelope, She rises and searches for her wedding ring. Finding this, She puts it into the letter, And fastens the envelope. Then, keeping the letter in her hand, She puts on her bonnet in Cape, Standing before the mirror. Sir Fletcher enters, Looking disturbed and dejected. Claude falls, downcast, Silent and morose, And walks about aimlessly, Staring at the carpet. Sir Fletcher Portwood, Discovering the awful of it. Ah, going out, my dear. I'll walk, alone. To walk it off, eh? Roughly near his hair. I find I can't walk it off. I've been into the Euston Road. I don't think I can be well. Fortunately, I have a box Of most remarkable pills at my chambers. They are prepared by Gilla Burton of 88 Piccadilly. Don't forget that number. 88. Two eights. That's my system of artificial memory. 88. Two eights. The awful of going to him and kissing him, Leaning across the city. Goodbye, uncle. We shall meet again, by and by, dear. I shall dine here, quietly, after all. The awful of going to Claude and kissing him. Goodbye. Oh, you've seen me at your dinner, too. The awful of handing him the letter. Gift out to Tina, will you? Claude, take care of mother. Thank you. Claude, take care of mother. Take care of mother? Yes, be a good boy and look after her. Ta-ta. She goes out. Boy! My boyhood is long past. Pinching the envelope. There's a coin in this. Money. Sir Fletcher Portwood's sitting on the setee, fatigued. Eh, don't forget, Claude. Gilla Burton. Think of Gilly. Corruption of Gilbert. Gilbert, a well-known sculptor. Or writer. I forget which. Burton. Man I jobbed two horses from. Baze. Burton. There you have. Gilly and Burton. Gilly, Burton. My own system of mnemonics. Memoria technica. It's not a coin. You always appear to be masticating some commonplace or other. Horton appears. Beg pardon, Sir Fletcher. Mrs. Claude's wants to wish you a good day, Sir Fletcher. I wasn't aware what he was, Sir Fletcher. Claude giving the letter to Horton. Miss Justina. Horton withdraws. Sir Fletcher Portwood rising. I'd quite forgotten your aunt. Do, please, look unconcerned, Claude. Let her see that men can display courage and decision at such moments. Humming and air he unbuttons his coat and throws it back, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. Some newspapers fall from the breast of his coat. He is hastily picking them up when Mrs. Claude's enters. You are going, Harriet? Fletcher, you've been out to buy evening papers. Sir Fletcher Portwood putting them into his tail pockets. The malicious utterances of the judges are not in these editions. I thought you never— It is somebody's duty to overlook the reports of this case. I see that one vile placard announces lively cross-examination of Mrs. Fraser. Lively! Sir Fletcher Portwood producing a newspaper. Here's a rag which dares to give illustrations, sketches in court. Have you contrived to get among them? Sir Fletcher Portwood opening the paper. I happened to be among them. But the fool of an artist has completely missed my salient points. Justina runs in with Theophilus' letter opened and the wedding ring. Oh! Oh! I see! What do you think? Theo's gone? She's gone out for a walk. To Mrs. Claude's. Here it is. That's from an old photograph. I don't wear that sort of collar now. Justina advancing between Mrs. Claude's and Sir Fletcher. What are you talking about? Look here. Reading. Tina, hand in close to my husband when he comes back for me tonight after dinner. Showing the ring. It's her wedding ring. Reading. He believes that what that creature charged me with is true and wants to take me away and hide me. All is up with me. Oh, those pipers at Lodzina playing into my brain again. Goodbye, all Theo. Per scriptum, Jack Ellingham would not treat a woman so like dirt. I can't hear you. Taking the letter from Justina. Let me see it. What shall we do? We must do something? Uncle! We must certainly do something at once. Uh, it is her wedding ring, I suppose. Oh, aunt! Sir Fletcher Portwood encountering Claude. Don't stand there, Claude. Looking precisely like an owl. Mrs. Claude's returning the letter to Justina. Jump into a cab. You must take that to Mr. Fraser. Justina hurrying to the door. All right. Pawsie. What shall I do if I don't find him at home? If, if, if. Why throw obstacles? I'm not throwing them. I merrily say what if he's out. I hasn't gone back to Lenox Gardens at all. This is a moment for action. Claude's sitting at the writing-table. Ha, ha, ha! What a hideous mockery the whole world is. Life! Let us have none of your sickening optimism, sir. I'm in the presence of your aunt and sister. Mrs. Claude's holding out her hand for the letter. Show it to me again. Justina brings the letter to Mrs. Claude's, who begins reading. Handing close to my husband when he comes back for me to-night after dinner. Ten or eleven o'clock. Where on earth will she be by ten or eleven o'clock? Sir Fletcher Portwood going to the door. I'll tell her mother. Justina intercepting him. For God's sake. Not yet. Mother's no use. Mrs. Claude's reading. P.S. Jack Allingham would not treat a woman so like dirt. Jack Allingham. Justina. Justina again comes to her. There's only one very great danger. Why? You don't think Thiel would take poor, isn't it? No. I mean a worse danger than that. Pointing to a sentence in the letter. That one. Justina reading. Jack Allingham would not treat a woman... Staring at Mrs. Claude's. Ah! This Mr. Allingham, exceedingly kind and gentle to women, is that the class of a man he belongs to? Yes. Suppose this wretched girl lets her mind dwell too much just now on Mr. Allingham's kindness. Aren't! Mrs. Claude's again returning the letter to Justina with decision. Where does she live? Where is she likely to be found? It's in the red book. Pointing to the writing table. Claude. Bring me the red book. Claude finds the red book. He and Sir Fletcher Portwood search for the address. Allingham. Ay, ay, ay. Finding the letter. Ay! You're looking at Ashley Gardens. Mrs. Claude and Justina join Sir Fletcher Portwood and Claude impatiently. I know it's there. He went into Lutchins when he parted from her, and he has a little cottage in Surrey. Claude finding the name. Allingham. Sir Fletcher Portwood taking the book from him. Allingham, John Cronshaw, Esquire, 11 Bentham Street, West, and Turf and Garrick's Clubs. The Lichens, Epson, Surrey. Mrs. Claude takes the book from Sir Fletcher. He tears out the page and throws the book upon the setee. Mrs. Claude's folding the extracted page and slipping it into her club. Fletcher, Claude, you had better come with me. I may want you both. Claude, whistle a four-wheeled cab. You hear me? Claude goes out. But Harriet, do you seriously, soberly entertain the notion? Get your head. Sir Fletcher goes out. Mrs. Claude is turned to Justina. Telegraph to the Bishop of St. Orphus, the Palace St. Orphus. Detained here tonight. Return, D. V., for noon tomorrow. Get to bed early. Affectionate messages, H. The sound of a cab whistle twice, or thrice repeated, is heard. Detained here tonight. Return for noon tomorrow. D. V. Go to bed early. Say, be in bed by eleven. Yes, love. No, no. Affectionate messages. Affectionate messages, H. Thank you. And when I see a lick-phrase, am I to say anything about what you are doing? For mercy's sake, don't put any idea into his head that isn't there already. Not a word to a soul. Claude appears in the doorway, hat in hand. Cab aunt. I'm coming. Claude withdraws. Not a word, except that we've gone out, blindly, to try and find her. Wait, you must tell me, do you suspect that Theophila is guilty? Mrs. Claude is looking at her steadily. Woman, what do you suspect? Then I can't understand you. Why not pray? I've always taken you for one of those who pick up the skirts in Stockway as far as possible from this kind of thing. Ah, you don't. Moved. Oh, my dear. What? You don't know what was really at the bottom of all my quarrels with your mother. I have no children. I would have given the world if Theo had been mine. Justina, a little bitterly. Theo, Theo. Mrs. Claude is taking her by the shoulder, almost shaking her. You, too. Kissing her. Bless you. You'd have been better than nothing. She goes out. Justina stands, her lips parted, staring into space. End of Act One.