 Act 3, Part 2 of The Big Drum by Arthur Wing Pinero. Philip has joined Otterleen in the festival. He now follows her into the room, shutting the festival door. She is elegantly dressed in white, and, though she has recovered her usual stateness and composure, is a picture of radiant happiness. Otterleen, giving a hand to Roup, who raises it to his lips. I'm glad you were home, Robbie, and that you were here tonight. To Lady Philson and Sir Randall. Mother, Dad? Oh, and there's Bertram. Don't be scandalised any of you. To Roup, resting her hands on his shoulders. Une fois de plus, mon ami. Pour vous témoigner ma gratitude. She kisses him. Lady Philson laughs indulgently, and Sir Randall, wagging his head, moves to the fireplace. Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha! Going to the fireplace. Oh, what a lovely fire! To Sir Randall, as Roup seats himself in the chair by the smoking-table, and prepares to make himself agreeable to Lady Philson. Share it with me, Dad, and let me warm my toes before dinner. I'm frozen. Philip, coming to the middle of the room. My dear Otterleen, Lady Philson, Sir Randall, I fear we shall all have time to warm our toes before dinner. Roup, who is about to address a remark to Lady Philson, puts his hand to his mouth, and Sir Randall and Lady Philson look at Philip inquiringly. You mustn't blame me wholly for the hitch of my poor entertainment. The kitchen. I guess your difficulty is Philip. No, nor my kitchen either. Otterleen, turning the chair on the nearer side of the fireplace so that it faces the fire. The cook wasn't punctual. Installing herself in the chair. Ah la la! C'est cuisinière course, la moitié des ennuis de cet étire. Oh yes, the cook was punctual. His manner hardening a little. The truth is, we are waiting for Mr. Dunning. Mr. Mr. Otterleen, from her chair, where she is almost completely hidden from the others. Gracious! Who's Mr. Dunning, Philip? John and the waiter open the big doors. The dining table, round which the chairs are now arranged, is prettily lighted by shaded candles. Philip to John. John. Yes, sir? Tell the cook to keep the dinner back for a little while. Do you hear? John, astonished. Keep dinner back, sir? Yes. When Mr. Dunning calls. Distinctly. Dunning. Yes, sir. I'll see him, show him in. Yes, sir. You may serve dinner as soon as he's gone, I'll ring. John and the waiter withdraw into the kitchen, whereupon Philip, after watching their departure, deliberately closes the big doors. Roup, who has been picking at his nails nervously, rises and steals away to the left, and Sir Randall, advancing a step or two, exchanges questioning glances with Lady Philson. What a terrible shock! I was frightened that Philip had sprung a strange guest upon us. As Philip is shutting the doors. Vous êtes bien, Mr. Yorfield. Why are we to starve until this Mr. Dunning is coming on? Cos if I try to eat without having first disposed of the reptile auto, I should choke. Reptile? Philip. Philip, at the chair beside the smoking table, to Lady Philson. I apologize very humbly for making you and Sir Randall and Dear Adeline parties to such unpleasant proceedings, Lady Philson. But the necessity is forced upon me. Coming forward. Mr. Dunning is one of those crawling creatures who conduct what are known as confidential inquiries. In other words, he's a private detective. An odd sort of person to present to you. Great heavens! And he has lightened your son's purse, presumably, and crammed his willing ears with some ridiculous, fantastic tale concerning my book, The Big Drum. Mr. Dunning professes to have discovered that I have conspired with a wicked publisher to deceive you all. That the book's another of my mis-hits, and that I'm a designing rogue and liar. To Bertram. Come on, Bertram. Don't sit there as if you were a stuffed figure. Speak out, and tell your father and mother what you've been up to. Lady Philson. Open mouthed. Pellety. Sir Randall. Moving towards Bertram. Bertram, my boy. Bertram. Curling his lip to Philip. Oh, you seem to be getting on exceedingly well without my assistance, Mackwith. I'm content to hold my tongue till Dunning arrives, I mean to say. Philip. Approaching Lady Philson. You see, Lady Philson, Master Bertram is endowed with an exceptionally active brain. And when I gave those assurances to you and Sir Randall last June, it occurred to him that, in the event of my book failing to attract the market, there was a danger of my palming it off, with a kind aid of my publisher as the out-and-out triumph I'd bragged of in advance. And the loud blast of Titterton's trumpet strengthened Master Bertie's apprehensions. Otterling, unobserved, rises unsteadily, and with her eyes fixed fiercely upon Bertram, crosses the room at the back. So what does he do, bless him for his devotion to his belongings? To safeguard his parents from being jockeyed, and as a brotherly precaution, he enlists the services on the sly of the obliging Mr. Dunning. We shall shortly have an opportunity of judging what that individual's game is. With a shrug. He may have stumbled legitimately into a mare's nest, but I doubt it. These ruffians will stick at nothing to keep an ingenuous client on the hook. He is interrupted by feeling Otterling's hand on his arm. He'd laze his hand on hers gently. Otto, dear. Otterling, clutching him tightly and articulating with an effort. It's, it's infamous, shameful. My brother, it's infamous. No, it'll be all over in ten minutes. And then Bertie and I will shake hands, won't we, Bertie? And forget the wretched incident. Otterling, confronting Bertram, trembling with passion. How dare you? How dare you meddle with my affairs? Mine and Mr. McWhorst. How dare you? Bertram, straightening himself. Look here, Otterling. Stand up when I speak to you. Bertram gets to his feet in a hurry. Otto. Otterling, to Bertram. All your life, you've been paltry, odious, detestable. Look here. This, my God, for you, for any of us, to impugn the honesty of a man whose shadow we're not fit to walk in. Surrandle to Lady Phyllsen, pained. Win of run. Otterling to Bertram. You, you, you're no better than your common-hired spy. Lady Phyllsen, rising and going to Otterling. My child, remember. Otterling, clenching her hands and hissing her words at Bertram. C'est la vérité, tu n'es qu'on cannaie, onville cannaie. Control yourself, I beg. Leave me alone. She passes Lady Phyllsen, and sits on the settee on the right with glittering eyes and heaving bosom. Philip has withdrawn to the fireplace, and is standing, looking into the fire. Bertie, dear, I'm surprised at you. To do a thing like this behind our backs. My dear mother, I knew that you and Father wouldn't do it. I should think not, indeed. Your mother and I? Oh. Upon my word, this is rather rough. Walking away. I mean to say. Philip turning. We mustn't be too hard on poor Bertram, Lady Phyllsen. Bertram pacing the room near the big doors. Poor Bertram. Sir Randall, to Philip. I trust we are never unduly hard on our children, my dear Philip. To do him justice, he was most anxious to postpone these dreadful revelations till tomorrow. Exactly. Throwing himself into the chair between the big doors and the vestibule door. I predicted a scene. I predicted a scene. Philip, to Sir Randall and Lady Phyllsen, penitently. Perhaps it would have been wiser of me, more considerate, to have complied with his wishes. But I was in a fury, naturally. Lady Phyllsen sitting on the city on the left. Naturally. And excusably. I myself, in similar circumstances. Philip rubbing his head. Why the deuce couldn't he have kept his two penny thunderbolt in his pocket for a few hours? Instead of launching it tonight and spoiling our soul à la mornée. And our redevaux. Otterling, gradually composing herself and retaining her dignity. Philip. Philip, coming to the smoking table. Otterling, passing a handchief over her lips. Need you. Need you see this man tonight? Can't you stop him coming, or send him away? Not see him. Why, why should you stoop to see him at all? Why shouldn't the matter be allowed to drop? To drop. Drop? It's, it's too monstrous, too absurd. To Bertram, with a laugh. Bertie, Bertie dear. Yes. I almost scared you out of your wits, didn't I? You've behaved excessively rudely. Bertram, Bertram. I mean to say, mother, what becomes of family loyalty? Forgive me, Bertram. I'm ashamed of my violent outpost. Forgive me. Roup, who has been effacing himself behind the table on the left, appearing at the nearer end of the table. Ah, dear excellent friends. Sarandal and Lady Filsen look at Roup as if he had fallen from the skies, and Bertram stares at him resentfully. Dear excellent friends, if I may be permitted to make an observation. Go ahead, old man. In my opinion, he'll be a thousand pitters not to see Mr Dunning tonight, and have done with him. The fish is ruined. We must resign ourselves to that. Sitting in the chair on the extreme left. But the other dishes, if the cook is fairly competent. Sarandal, advancing. Mr Roup's opinion is my opinion also. As to whether Lady Filsen and my daughter should withdraw into an adjoining room. I feel with Philip we couldn't sit down to dinner with this cloud hanging over us. Sarandal, sitting in the chair by the smoking table. Impossible. I must be frank. Impossible. Dear Madame Deschamier will pardon me for differing with her, but you can't very well ignore even a fellow of this stump. Glancing at Bertram. Especially if I understand her right, my excellent friend over there still persists. Yes, you do understand her right, Roup. I have every confidence in Dunning, I mean to say. Philip turning away angrily. Oh, Bertram. Bertram, my boy. The bell rings. There is a short silence, and then Bertram rises and pulls down his waistcoat potentially. Here he is. Mother, do you wish us to withdraw, Philip? Philip, sitting at the writing table. Not at all, Lady Filsen. Switching on the light of the library lump. On the contrary, I should like you both to remain. Otto, dear. Otterine, adjusting a comb in her hair. Oh, certainly, Mother. I'll stay. Lady Filsen, arranging her skirt and settling herself majestically. Of this we may be perfectly sure. When my son finds that he has been misled purposely or unintentionally, he will be only too ready. Too ready. Sarandal, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. That goes without saying, Winifred. A gentleman, an English gentleman. Bertram, who is watching the vestibule door over his shoulder. Of course, Father. If it turns out that I've been sold, I'll eat humble pie abjectly. Roup shaking a finger at Bertram. Huh, huh. I hope you've bought a voracious appetite with you, dear excellent friend. Bertram, to Roup, exasperated. Look here, Mr. Roup. The vestibule door opens and John announces Dunning. Mr. Dunning. Dunning enters and John retires. Mr. Alfred Dunning is a spruce, middle-aged, shrewd-faced man with an affable but rather curt manner. He is in his hat and overcoat. Dunning, to Bertram. Haven't kept you long, have I? I just had a cup of cocoa. He checks himself on seeing so large an assembly, removes his hat, and includes everybody in a summary bow. Evening. Larger gathering than you expected. Indicating the various personages by a glance. Sir Randall and Lady Filson, my father and mother. Evening. My sister, Madame de Chumier. Evening. Mr. Roup. Mr. Mackworth. Evening. Sir Randall, Lady Filson, and Roup. Looking at Dunning out of the corners of their eyes, acknowledge the introduction by a slight movement. Philip nods unpleasantly. Otterling, with a stony countenance, also eyes Dunning as scunts, and gives the barest possible inclination of her head on being named. Bertram, bringing forward the chair on which he has been sitting and planting it nearer to Sir Randall and Lady Filson, to Dunning. I suppose you may. Dunning, taking off his gloves and overcoat, to Philip. Do you mind if I slip my coat off, Mr. Mackworth? No. Don't want to get overheated and catch the flu. I've got Mrs. Dean bed with a bad cold as it is. Now then, Mr. Dunning, I'll trouble you to give us an account of your operations in this business from the outset. Dunning, hanging his coat over the back of the chair. Pleasure. The business of Mr. Mackworth's new book, I mean to say. Dunning, sitting and placing his hat on the floor. Pleasure. Middle of October, wasn't it, who and I? Later. Producing a dog-seared little memorandum book, and turning its leaves with a moistened thumb. Here we are, the 24th. To everybody referring to his notes as he proceeds, glibly. Mr. Filson called on me and Mr. Silatow, ladies and gentlemen, on the 24th of last month, with reference to a book by Mr. P. Mackworth, The Big Drum, published September the 2nd and drew our attention to the advertisements of Mr. Mackworth's publisher, Mr. Clifford Titterton of Charles Street Adolfi, relating to the same. Mr. F. having made us acquainted with the special circumstances of the case, and furnished us with his reasons for doubting Titterton's flowery statements. Wetting his thumb again and turning to the next leaf of his notebook. On the following day, the 25th, I purchased a copy of the third book at Mezier's Blake and Hodgson's in the Strand. Mr. Hodgson himself informing me in the course of conversation that, as far as his firm was concerned, the book wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. Repeating the thumb process. I then proceeded to pump one of the girls, to interrogate one of the assistants, out of circulating library Mrs. D subscribes to with a similar result. My next step. I wonder whether these elaborate preliminaries. Don't interrupt, Father. I mean to say. My next step was to place the book in the hands of a lady whose literary judgment is a great deal sounder than mine or Mr. Siliteau's. I lewed to Mrs. D, and her report was that, though amusing in parts, she didn't see anything in it to set the terms on fire. Philip, laughing in spite of himself. Ha-ha-ha, dear excellent friend. Yes, all right, Mr. Roup. Donning, turning to the next leaf. Nye and Mr. Siliteau then had another confab. Consultation with Mr. Filson, and we pointed out to him that it was up to his father and mother to challenge Tituson's assertions and invite proof of their accuracy. Obviously. Mr. F, however, giving us to understand that he was acting solely on his own, and that he wished the investigation kept from his family, we proposed a different plan. To which I reluctantly ascended. To get hold of someone in Tituton's office. One of his employees, male or female. Oh, oh, Bertie. Otterling rising with a gesture of disgust. Really, really Bertram. Seeing Otterling rise, Philip also rises and comes to her. That the son of mine should countenance. Oh, but this is, this is outrageous. Dad, mother, why should we degrade ourselves by listening any further? Philip. Philip, patting his shoulder, soothingly. Tish, tish, tish. My dear mother, my dear father, you're so impatient. Philip to Otterling. Tish, tish. Go back to the fire and toast your toes again. I consider I was fully justified, I mean to say. Fulteringly Otterling returns to the fireplace. She stands there for a few seconds, clutching the mantle-shelf, and then subsides into the chair before the fire. Philip advances to the city on the right. Sorry we've checked your flow of eloquence, Mr. Dunning, even for a moment. Sitting. I wouldn't miss a syllable of it. Do. Please, continue. Sir Randall, looking at his watch. My dear Philip. Oh, come to the man. What's his name, Dunning? Maryweather. Dunning, turning several pages of his notebook with his wet thumb. Merrifield. Merrifield. Passing behind Dunning, and half-seating himself on the further end of the table on the left. Skip everything in between. Sarcastically. My father and mother are dying for their dinner. Belgium. Dunning, finding the memorandum he is searching for, and quoting from it. Henry Merrifield. Entry-clark to Tititon. Left Tititon after a row on the fifteenth of the present month. A stroke of luck, Mr. Merrifield, if ever there was one, I mean to say. Having gleaned certain significant facts from the Sird Merrifield, ladies and gentlemen. Referring to his notes. I paid two visits last week to the offices of Messier's Hopwood & Co., of six-car Michael Lane Walbrook, described in fresh paint on their door as shipping and general agents. Then the conclusion I arrived at was that Messier's Hopwood & Co. were a myth, and their offices are blind. The latter consisting of a small room on the ground floor, eight foot by 12, and they are staff of the caretakers of the premises. Mr. & Mrs. Sweezy, an old woman, and her husband. If I may venture to interpose again, what on earth have Messier's Hopwood? Yes. What have Messier's Hopwood? Bertram, over his shoulder. Ham, what had Messier's Hopwood? Roup to Bertram, pointing to Dunning. I am addressing this gentleman, dear excellent friend. Now I'll tell you, it's to the bogus firm of Hopwood & Co., that the bulk of the volumes of Mr. Mackworth's new book have been consigned. Bertram, getting off the table, eagerly. Dunning has seen that, I mean to say. Be silent, Bertie. Do be quiet. The bulk of the volumes? Philip, staring at Dunning. The bulk of there? Yes, gentlemen. The books are in a Moldeer's cellar, also rented by Messier's Hopwood at Six Car Michael Linn. There's thousands of them there, in cases. Some of the cases with shipping marks on them, some marked for inland delivery. I've inspected them this afternoon. Overhauled them. Mr. Sweezy has gone over to the borough to see his married niece, and I managed to get the right side of Mrs. S. Sir Randall, softly looking from one to the other. Curious. Curious. Lady Philson, forcing a smile. How... how strange. Roup to Lady Philson, a little disturbed. Why strange, dear Lady Philson. Shipping and other marks on the cases. These people are forwarding agents. Dunning showing his teeth. Nobody makes the least effort to dispatch the cases, though. That's singular, isn't it? But... My good sir, in the whole of our experience, mine and Mr. Silatau's, we've never come across a neater bit of hanky-panky. To Philip. No offence, and if Merrifield hadn't smelt a rot. But... but... but the cost of it all, my dear Mr. Dunning. I don't know much about these things. The expense of manufacturing many thousands of copies of Mr. McWeth's new book. Sir Randall, alertly. Quite so. Surely if we were to be deceived, a simpler method could have been found. Roup with energy. Besides, what has Mr. Tititant gained by the deception? True, true. What has he to gain? Philip, who is sitting with his hands hanging loosely, rising himself. Good God, yes. What has Tititant to gain by joining me in a plaguedly scheme to... to... to... Well, gentlemen, in the first place its plain that Tititant was too fly to risk being easily blown upon. He was prepared to prove that the books have been manufactured and delivered, I mean to say. And in the second place, on the question of expense, the speculation was a tolerably safe one. Madame de Chomier, being, according to my instructions, to Lady Filson, after a glance in Otterline's direction, no offence, ladies, to Sir Randall and Roup, Madame de Chomier, being what is usually termed a catch, Mr. Mackworth would have been in a position after his marriage to reimburse Tititant. Philip starts to his feet with a cry of rage. Roup jumping up and hurrying to Philip, pacifying him. My dear Phil, my dear old chap. Philip grasping Roup's arm. Robby! Sir Randall rises and goes to Lady Filson. She also rises as he approaches her. They gaze at each other with expressionless faces. Where does Tititant live? Gordon Square. Roup pointing to the telephone. Telephone, have him around. He's not in London. Not? He's gone to the Riviera, left this morning. Crossing to Sir Randall and Lady Filson, appealingly, Lady Filson, Sir Randall, you don't believe that Tit or Tit and I could be guilty of such an errant piece of neighbouring, do you? It's preposterous. Sir Randall, constrainedly. Frankly, I must be frank. I hardly know what to believe. Lady Filson, pursing her mouse. We hardly know what to believe. Philip, leaving them. Roup, who has dropped into the chair by the smoking table, to Sir Randall. Sir Randall, dear excellent friend, let us meet Mr Dunning tomorrow at Masses Hopwoods in Carmichael Lane. We three, you, and I, and MacWeth. Philip, pacing up and down between the table on the left and the bookcase. Yes, yes. Before I wired Tit or Tit or see Curtis, his manager. Roup over his shoulder to Dunning. Hey, Mr Dunning? Pleasure. While this has been going on, Dunning has put his notebook away and risen, gathering up his hat and overcoat as he does so. Bertram is now assisting him into his coat. Sir Randall, advancing a step or two. At what hour? Dunning briskly. Ten birdie suit, you gentlemen. Oh, first half ten. Roup, scribbling with a pocket pencil on his shirt cuff. Six Carmichael Lane, Warbrook. Dunning, pulling down his undercoat. I'll be there. Roup, luring his hand suddenly and leaning back in his chair, as if about to administer a poser. By the way, Mr Dunning, you tell us you have a strong conviction that Masses Hopwood and Cow are a myth, and their offices are sham. May I ask whether you've tried to ascertain who is the actual tenant of the room and seller in Carmichael Lane? Why, tit it in, of course, I mean to say. Roup, waving Bertram down. Dear excellent friend. Dunning, taking up his hat, which he has laid upon the smoking table, to Roup with a satisfied hair. Mr Sillito's got that in hand, sir. What I have ascertained is that a young fellow strolls in occasionally and smokes a cigarette. And pokes about in the cellar. Calls himself Hopwood. But the name written on the lining of his hat? To Bertram, carelessly. Er, I forgot to mention this to you, Mr Filson. Producing his memorandum book again. Old Mother Sweezy was examining the young man's outdoor apparel the other day? Turning the pages with his wet thumb. The name on the lining of his hat is Finding the entry. Is Westrip. Leonard Westrip. Westrip. Leonard Westrip. Mr Westrip? Surrandle. To Dunning, blinking. Mr Westrip is my secretary. Bertram. To Dunning, a gape. He's my father's secretary. Dunning. To Surrandle. Your secretary? Philip, coming to the nearer end of the city on the left. The, the, the fair boy I've seen in Ennismore Gardens. Roop, rising and joining Surrandle and Lady Filson. Expressing his amazement by flourishing his arms. Oh, my dear excellent friends. Surrandle, what, what next? Surrandle closing his eyes. Astounding. Astounding. Dunning, looking about him rather aggressively. Well, I seem to have accidentally dropped a bombshell among you. Will any lady or gentleman kindly oblige with some particulars? To Otterlene, who checks him with an imperious gesture. I beg your pardon, madam? Otterlene has left a chair and come to the writing table, where, with a drawn face and downcast eyes, she is now standing erect. Otterlene, to Dunning, repeating her gesture. Stop. To Lady Filson and Surrandle in a strained voice. Mother, Dad. Everybody looks at her, surprised at her manner. Otto, dear? I, I can't allow you all to be mystified any longer. I, I can clear this matter up. You, my darling? Otterlene, steadying herself by resting her fingertips on the table. The, the explanation is that Mr Westrip. With a one smile. Poor boy. He would jump into the sea for me if I bade him. The explanation is that Mr Westrip has been helping me. Helping you? Helping you. Otterlene, inclining her head. Helping me. He, he... Raising her eyes defiantly and confronting them all. Ecoutez. Robbie Rupp has asked who is the actual tenant of the cellar and room in Carmichael Lane. Breathing deeply. I am. Lady Filson, advancing a few steps. You are nonsense. Mr Westrip took the place for me. My arrangement with Titterton made it necessary. With Titterton? Then he, he has. Yes, the thousands of copies packed in the cases with the lying labels. I have bought them. They're mine. He, yours? I, I was afraid the book had failed, and I went to Titterton and bargained with him. So, so everything, everything that your brother, Mr, Mr Dunning, have surmised. Everything, mother, except that I am the culprit, and Mr. Backworth is the victim. Otterlene. Otterlene, passing her hand over her brow. It's, it's horrible of me to give Titterton away, but what can I do? She turns her back on them sharply, and leaning against the table searches for her handkerchief. Oh, need Mr. Dunning's stay. Bertram aghast nudges Dunning and hurries to the vestibule door. Dunning follows him into the vestibule on tiptoe. Slowly and deliberately, Philip moves to the middle of the room, and stands there with his hands clenched, glaring into space. Sir Randall, his jaw falling, sits in the chair on the extreme left. Lady Philson, touching Philip's arm sympathetically. Oh, Philip! Dunning to Bertram. You, rummy development, this, Mr. Philson. Awful. Opening the outer door. I'll see you in the morning. Pleasure. Evening, ladies and gentlemen. Lady Philson, again sitting on the settee on the left, searching for her handkerchief. Good night. Good night. Roup, who has wandered to the bookcase like a man in a trance. Good night. Dunning disappears, and Bertram closes the outer door and comes back into the room. Shutting the vestibule door, he sinks into the chair, lately vacated by Dunning. There is a silence, broken at length by a low, grating laugh from Philip. Oh, Otoline, Otoline. Otoline creeping to the nearer end of the writing table. Philip, Philip. Don't, don't. Making a movement of entreaty towards him. Phil, Phil. His laughter ceases abruptly, and he looks her, full in the face. After a moment's pause. Thank you. Thank you. Turning from her and seating himself in the chair by the smoking table, and resting his chin on his fist. Thank you. Again there is a pause, and Otoline draws herself up proudly, and moves in a stately fashion towards the vestibule door. Otoline, at Bertram's side. Bertram, my cloak. Bertram rises meekly and fetches her cloak. Sir Randall, getting to his feet and approaching Philip. Your mother's wrap also, Bertram? Lady Philson, rising. Yes, let us all go home. Sir Randall, to Philip, laying a hand on his shoulder. My daughter has brought great humiliation upon us. Upon her family, my dear Philip. By this I must be harsh. By this unladylike transaction. I have never felt so ashamed in my life. By and by I shall be better able to command language in which to express my profound regret. Offering his hand. For the present, good night, and God bless you. Philip, shaking Sir Randall's hand mechanically. Good night. As Sir Randall turns away Lady Philson comes to Philip. Bertram, having helped Otoline with her cloak, now brings Lady Philson's wrap from the vestibule. Sir Randall takes it from him, and Bertram then returns to the vestibule and puts on his overcoat. Lady Philson, to Philip, who rises. You must have us to dinner another time, Philip. If I eat a crust tonight it will be as much as I shall manage. Oh, my dear boy, don't be too cast down. Over your clever book, I mean. Taking him by the shoulders. It's a cruel disappointment for you, and you don't deserve it. May I? She pulls him to her and kisses him. Good night. Good night. Lady Philson leaves Philip and looks about for her wrap. Sir Randall puts her into it, then goes into the vestibule and wrestles with his overcoat. Bertram, coming to Philip, humbly. Meh. Mackwith. I... I... No, no. Don't you bother, old man. I... I could kick myself, Mackwith. I could indeed. I've been a sneak and a cat, I mean to say, and... and I'm properly paid out. Philip, shaking him gently. Why, what are you remorseful for? You've only brought out the truth, Bertie. Yes, but I mean to say... And I mean to say that I'm in your debt for showing me that I've been a vain, credulous ass. That'll be off and get some food. Holding out his hand. Good night. Bertram ringing Philip's hand. Good night, Mackwith. Turning from Philip and seeing Roup, who, anxiously following events, is standing by the chair on the extreme left. Good night, Roup. Uh... g... g... good night. Lady Philson, half in the room and half in the vestibule, to Roup remembering his existence. Oh, good night, Mr. Roup. Good night, dear Lady Philson. Sir Randall in the vestibule. Good night, Mr. Roup. Good night. Good night, dear excellent friends. Lady Philson, to Otterleen, who is lingering by the big doors. Otterleen. Lady Philson and Bertram join Sir Randall in the vestibule, and Sir Randall, open see out at all. Philip, his hands behind him and his chin on his breast, has walked to the fireplace and is standing there, looking fixedly into the fire. Otterleen slowly comes forward and fingers the back of the chair by the smoking table. Good night, Philip. He turns to her, makes her a stiff, formal bow, and faces the fire again, Roup advancing to her under his breath. Oh. Otterleen, giving him a hand. With a plaintive shrug. Ruvoye, safe in thee, upright too. No, no. Otterleen, withdrawing her hand. Pissed. Throwing her head up. Good night, Robbie. With a queenly air she sweeps into the vestibule and follows Sir Randall and Lady Philson out onto the landing. Bertram closes the vestibule door and immediately afterwards, the outer door slums. Roup to Philip in an agony. No, no, Phil. It mustn't end like this. Good lord, man. Reflect. Consider what you're chucking away. You're mad. Absolutely mad. Philip calmly presses a bell push at the side of the fireplace. I'll go after him and talk to her. I'll talk to her. Running to the vestibule door and opening it. Don't wait for me. Going into the vestibule and grabbing his hat and overcoat. It's a tiff. A lover's tiff. It's nothing but a lover's tiff. Shutting the vestibule door piteously. Oh, my dear excellent friend. John appears, opening one of the big doors a little way. Again the outer door slums. Philip to John sternly. Dinner. John looking for the guests. Dumbfounded. Dinner, sir? Serve dinner. John, his eyes bolting. The ladies and gentlemen have gone, sir. Yes, I'm dining alone. John vanishes precipitantly, whereupon Philip strides to the big doors, thrusts them wide open with a blow of his fists, and sits at the dining table. End of the third act. Act four of The Big Drum by Arthur Wing Pinero. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The fourth act. The scene is the same. The light that of a fine winter morning. The big doors are open, and from the dining-room windows, where the curtains are now drawn back, there is a view of some buildings opposite, and, through a space between the buildings, of the tops of the bare trees in Grazing Garden. Safe for a chair with a crumpled napkin upon it, which stands at the dining-room table before the remains of Philip's breakfast, the disposition of the furniture is as when first shown. A fire is burning in the nearer room. Philip, dressed as at the opening of the preceding act, is seated on the settee on the right, moodily puffing at his pipe. Roup faces him, in the chair by the smoking-table, with a mournful air. Roup is in his overcoat, and is nursing his hat. Philip, to Roup, shortly, as if continuing a conversation. Well? Well, what happened was this, I— He breaks off to glance over his shoulder into the further room. Go on, nobody'll hear you, John's out. What happened was this, I overtook him at the bottom of the stairs, and begged him to let me go back with them to any small gardens. Lady Philson and I got into one cab, Sir Randall and Madame Deschermier into another. Bertram Philson slunk off to his club. At any more gardens we had the most depressing meal I've ever sat down to, and then Madame Otterline proposed that I should smoke a cigarette in her boudoir. Distressed. Oh, my dear Phil. What? I can't bear to see a woman in tears, I can't positively. Can't found you, Robbie, who can? Don't brag about it. At first she swept up and down the room like an outraged empress. Her skirts created quite a wind. I won't attempt to tell you all the bitter things she said. Of me? And of me, dear excellent friend. For your share in the business. Roup with a nod. The fatal luncheon in South Ordley Street. However, she soon softened and came and knelt by the fire, and suddenly you've seen a charred fall on the pavement and cut its knees, haven't you, Phil? Of course I have. That's how she cried. I was really alarmed. The end of it being? The end of it being that she went off to bed, declaring that she recognises that the breach between you is beyond healing, and that she's resolved nowhere to cross your path again if she can avoid it. Philip, laying his pipe aside. Scowling at Roup. And so this is the result of your self-appointed mission, is it? Roup, hurt. That's rather ungrateful, Phil. Philip, starting up and walking away to the left. Pssh. If you'd heard, how I reasoned with her. Philip, striding up and down. What had I better do? It's good of you to be here so early. Roup rises. I'm not ungrateful, Robbie advised me. I assume, from your tone, that what you wish to do is to, um... To abase myself before her, to grovel at her feet, and crave her pardon for my behaviour of last night. What else should I want to do in God's name? I see you've slept on it. Layed awake on it. Do I look as if I'd slept asleep of a healthy infant? I don't know anything about infants, I'm happy to say. Healthy or ailing, but certainly your treatment of madam to show me was atrocious. Brutal, savage, inhuman. Hulting and extending his arms. And what's been her fault? She dared to love me eagerly, impetuously, uncontrollably, me, a conceded egotistical fellow who's no more worth her devotion than the pompous beast who opens her father's front door. And because, out of her love, she commits a heedless, impulsive act which deals a blow at my rotten pride. I slap her face and turn my back upon her, and suffer her to leave my rooms as though she's a charwoman detected in pricking silver from my cash box. Clasping his brow and groaning. In sudden fury at seeing Rup thoughtfully examining his hat. Damn it, Robbie, stop fiddling with your hat or you'll drive me crazy. He sits on the setty on the left and rests his head on his fists. Rup hastily deposits his hat on the smoking-table, approaching Philip. I was considering, dear excellent friend, but perhaps in your present state of irritability. Philip, holding out his hand penitently. Shut up. Rup, presenting Philip with two fingers. I was considering, when you almost sprang up my throat, as considering that it isn't at all unlikely that Madame de Chomier's frame of mind is a trifle less inflexible this morning. She has slept or laid awake on the events of last night too, recollect. Philip, raising his head. Having been kicked out of this place a few hours ago, her affection for me revives with a rattle of the milk cans. Rup evasively. At any rate, she must be conscious that you were smarting under provocation. She confessed as much during our talk. Magnanimously. Even I admit you had provocation. That never influenced a woman, Robbie. Besides, I've insulted this one before, grossly insulted her. In the old days in Paris. Ancient history. My advice is, since you invite it, my advice is that you write her a letter. I've composed a half a dozen already. Pointing to a waste paper-basket by the writing-table. Pieces are in that basket. No, no, not a highly wrought performance. Simply a line asking her to receive you. Philip rises listlessly. Send it along by messenger. With growing enthusiasm. Look here, I'll take it. Philip, gloomily, his hand on Rup's shoulder. You? You indefatigable old cupid. Rup, looking at his watch. Quarter past ten. Excitedly. Phil, I bet you a hundred guineas. Correcting himself. Um, well, five pounds. I bet you five pounds. I'm with you again. With a favourable reply. Before twelve. Philip, clapping Rup on the back. Done. Crossing to the writing-table. At the worst, I've earned a fiver. Rup, as Philip sits at the table and takes a sheet of paper and an envelope from a drawer. May I suggest? Philip, dipping his pen in the ink. Fire away, old chap. Rup, seeking for inspiration by gazing at the ceiling. Um. Dictating. Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you? To Philip. Not another word. Philip, as he writes. By George, you've got the romantic touch, Robbie. If you'd been a literary bloke, what sellers you'd have written? Rup, behind the smoking-table, smoothing his hair complacently. Funny, you'll remark. As a matter of fact, I used to dabble a little in pen and ink as a young man. Philip, reading, a tender ring in his voice. Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you? Adding his signature. Philip. Admirable. Philip, folding and enclosing the note. Catching some of Rup's hopefulness. In the meantime, I'll array myself in my Sunday best. Moistening the envelope. On the chance. Do, at once. Putting on his hat. She may summon you by telephone. Philip, addressing the envelope. She gave me a scarf pin yesterday. Such a beauty. I'll wear it. Rising and giving the note to Rup. Bless you, old boy. Rup pockets the note, grasps Philip's hand hurriedly and bustles to the vestibule door. My quickest way is the tube to bayswater and then a taxi across the park. He has entered the vestibule, omitting to close the door in his haste, and has opened the outer door when Philip calls to him. Philip, standing behind the smoking-table, with a change of manner. Robby. Hey. Robby. Rup returns to Philip reluctantly, leaving the outer door open. Oh, Robby. Gripping Rup's arm. How I boasted to you of my triumph, my grand victory. How I swaggered and bellowed and crowed over you. Rup, fidgeting to get away. Yes, but we won't discuss that now, Phil. Philip, detaining him. Wait. Brokenly. Robby. Should Adeline show any inclination to patch matters up, you may tell her, as for me, that I— I've done with it. Rup, wanderingly. Done with it? My career is a writing man. It's finished. Hanging his head. I'm sorry to break faith with her people, but she may take me, if she will, on her own terms. Poor devil who has proved it duffer at his job, and who is content, henceforth, to be nothing but her humble slave and dependent. Rup, energetically. My dear Phil, for heaven's sake, don't entertain such a notion. Abandon your career just when you're making a noise in the world. Philip, throwing up his hands. The noise in the world. When you're getting the finest advertisement, an author could possibly desire. Advertisement. I can sympathize with your feeling mortified at not scoring entirely off your own bat, but just take it. Your book is in its thirteenth edition. Moving to the fireplace. Oh, I'm glad I amuse you. Philip, coming to the settee on the right. Your marvellous Robbie, incomparable. Rup, again preparing to depart. Indeed. A moment earlier, Sir Timothy Baradel has appeared in the vestibule trying, in the dim light there, to decipher the name on the outer door. Hearing the sound of voices, he turns and reveals himself. Sir Timothy, looking into the room and encountering Rup. Rup. Rup, as they shake hands, astonished. Dear excellent friend, what a surprise. Ah, don't flatter yourself. You're the only early riser in London. Seeing Philip. Mr. Macworth. Advancing. I found your door open, and I took the liberty. Philip, meeting him in the middle of the room. Sir Timothy Baradel, isn't it? It is. They shake hands, cordially on Sir Timothy's part, with more formality on Philip's. It's an unceremonious hour for a call, but if you'd spare me five minutes. Philip, civilly. Pray, sit down. Joining Rup at the entrance to the vestibule. Robbie has to run away. Rup, diplomatically. Can't stay another moment. Waving a hand to Sir Timothy. Au revoir, dear Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy, laying his hat upon the setting on the right, and taking off his gloves. So long. Philip and Rup stare at Sir Timothy, whose back is towards them. Rup gives Philip an inquiring look, which Philip answers by a shrug and a shake of his head. And then Philip lets Rup out, and comes back into the room. Sir Timothy turns to him. I am afraid you think I am presuming on a very slight acquaintance, Mr Mackworth. Philip, shutting the vestibule door. Not in the least. Anyhow, I'll not waste more of your valuable time than I can help. Philip points to the setting, and the two men sit. Sir Timothy on the setting. Philip in the chair by the smoking table. Sir Timothy inspects the toes of his boots. Mr Mackworth, I won't beat about the bush. It's a delicate subject I'm approaching you on. Philip, leaning back in his chair. Really? An extremely delicate subject. Raising his eyes. Madame de Chomier. Madame de Chomier. In the first place, I suppose you're aware that I had the temerity to propose marriage to the lady in the summer of this year. Yes, I'm aware of it. Madame de Chomier informed me of the circumstance. Sir Timothy nodding. She would. She would. Straightening himself. Well, Mr Mackworth, while I was abroad, I heard from various sources that you had become a pretty regular visitor at the house of her parents, and that you and she were to be seen together occasionally in the secluded spots of Kensington Gardens. And I naturally inferred that it was yourself she'd had the good taste to single out from among her numerous suitors. Philip with a smile. I'd rather you didn't put it that way, Sir Timothy. But I guessed yesterday that the facts of the case had reached you through some channel or other. Yesterday. When Robbie Roup brought me your kind greetings. Ah, that's nice of you. Constrainedly. That's nice of you. Philip changing his position and unbending. But tell me, I don't know yet what you have to say to me about Madame de Chomier. But why should you find it embarrassing to speak of her to me? Gently. Or men of the world, you and I. And it isn't the rule of life that the prize always goes to the most deserving. With animation. And in the world, as in the school, I'd say how fate may change and shift. The prize be sometimes with a fool. The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield. The good may fall. The great man be a vulgar clown. The nave be lifted over all. The kind cast piteously down. So saying one of the noblest gentlemen who ever followed my calling. There is a brief silence and then Sir Timothy rises abruptly and walks to the fireplace. Philip looks after him, perplexed. Sir Timothy, facing the fire. Mr. Mackworth. Uh-huh. I saw Bertram Philson last night. Her brother. Philip, pricking up his ears. You did? Where? At the club. The junior's summer set. He came in late, looking a bit out of gear, and ate a mouthful of dinner, and drank a whole bottle of pomery. And afterwards he joined me in the smoking-room, and was exceedingly communicative. Philip, attentively. Oh. I didn't encourage him to babble. Turning. To as he that insisted on confiding to me what had occurred. Occurred? That you and Madame Chomier had had a serious difference, and that there was small prospect of it being bridged over. Philip, glaring. Oh, he confided that to you, did he, Sir Timothy? He did. Philip, rising and pacing up and down on the left. And what the devil does Philson mean by gossiping about me at a club? Me and my relations with Madame de Chomier. Sir Timothy, advancing a little. Ah, don't be angry. The champagne he drunk had loosened his tongue. And then I'm a friend of the family. Infernal puppy. Referring to Philson? Of course. Well, whether young Philson's a puppy or not, now perhaps you begin to appreciate my motive for intruding on you. Philip, halting. Hardly. You don't? Rumbling his hair. I'll try to make it plainer to you. Behind the smoking table. Ah, will I smoke one of your cigarettes? Philip, frigidly polite. Please. Sir Timothy, taking a cigarette. From the box on the table. Mr. Mackworth, if Philson's prognostications as to the result of the quarrel between you and his sister are fulfilled, it's my intention, after a decent interval, to renew my appeal to her to marry me. Striking a much. Is that clear? Perfectly. But all the same. I'm still at a loss. Sir Timothy, lighting his cigarette. At a loss, are you? You're at a loss to understand that I'm not the sort of man who'll steal a march upon another where a woman's concerned, and take advantage of his misfortunes in a dirty manner. Coming to Philip. Mackworth, I'll drop the mister if you've no objection. Mackworth, I promise you I won't move a step till I have your assurance that your split with Madame de Chomier is a mortal one, and that the coast is open to all comers. That's my part of the bargain, and I expect you on your side to treat me with equal fairness and frankness. Offering his hand. You will? My dear Sir Timothy, my dear Baradale. Shaking Sir Timothy's hand heartily. You're the most chivalrous fellow I've ever met. Sir Timothy, walking away. Ah, go on now. Philip, following him. I apologize sincerely for being so curt. Don't mention it. That's true. Adeline and I have had a bad fallout. Did Filcing give you any particulars? I gathered to something arising out of a book of yours. Yes, a silly affair in which I was utterly in the wrong. I lost my accursed temper, made a disgraceful exhibition of myself. Touching Sir Timothy's arm. I will be quite straight with you, Baradale. Robbie Roup has just gone to her with a note for me. I don't want to pain you, but Robbie and I hope that after a night's rest. The bell rings in the vestibule. Excuse me, my servant isn't in. He goes into the vestibule, leaving the door open. Sir Timothy picks up his hat. On opening the outer door, Philip confronts Adeline. Otto! Adeline in the doorway, giving him both her hands. Are you alone, Philip? Philip, drawing her into the vestibule, his eyes sparkling. No. With a motion of his head. Sir Timothy Baradale. Otterling passes Philip and enters the room, holding out her hand to Sir Timothy. Her eyes are black-rimmed from sleeplessness, but whatever asperity she has displayed overnight has disappeared, and she is again full of softness and charm. Sir Tim. Philip, shutting the outer door, breezing freely. Kind of, Sir Timothy, to look me up, isn't it? Otterling, to Sir Timothy. When did you return? Sir Timothy, who has flung the cigarette into the grate, crestfallen. The day before yesterday. Then I mustn't scold you for not having been to see us yet. Wonderingly. You find time to call on Mr. Mackworth, though. Sir Timothy, with a gulp. I was on my way to my solicitors who are in Raymond buildings, and I remembered that I knew Mackworth years ago. Philip, loitering near the vestibule door, impatient for Sir Timothy's departure. When I was a rollicking man about town, I'll buy her a dow. Sir Timothy, retaining Otterling's hand. To her, earnestly. My dear Madame de Chumier. Yes? Sir Timothy, bracing himself. A little bird brought the news to me shortly after I left England. She lowers her eyes. Aye, I congratulate you and Mackworth. I congratulate you from the core of my heart. Thank you, dear Sir Timothy. May you both be as happy as you deserve to be, and even happier. Sir Timothy, squeezing her hand. Good-bye for the present. Otterling, smilingly. Good-bye. He passes her and joins Philip. Unseen by Otterling, who proceeds to loosen her coat at the setty on the right, Philip again gives Sir Timothy a vigorous handshake. Sir Timothy responds to it disconsolently, and is following Philip into the vestibule when he hears Otterling call to him. Sir Tim. Hello. Is your car here? It is. You may give me a lift to Bond Street if your business with your lawyers won't keep you long. It will not. I told you a lie. I've no business with my lawyers. I came here expressly to improve my acquaintance with the man who's to be your husband. And for no other purpose. They all laugh merrily. I'll wait for me in South Square, then. I shan't be many minutes. Sir Timothy, going into the vestibule. Ah, I'd wait any truancy. Philip and Sir Timothy shake hands once more, and then Philip lets Sir Timothy out. Philip, as he shuts the outer door. By George, he's a splendid chap. He comes back into the room, closes the vestibule door, and advances to Otterling and stands before her humbly. Oh, Otterling, oh, my dear girl, shall I go down on my knees to you? If you do, I shall have to kneel to you, Phil. Philip, slowly folding her in his arms. In her ear. What a night I've spent. And I. He seats her upon the setty on the right, and sits beside her, linking his hand in hers. How merciful this is of you. I've just sent you a letter by Robbie Roup, begging you to see me. You've missed him. Smiling. It isn't as eloquent as some I started writing at five o'clock this morning. Would you like to hear it? She nods. He recites his note, tenderly. Forgive me. I forgive you. When may I come to you? That's all. Isn't that eloquent, Phil? Philip, smiling again. It's concise. And as long as you forgive me. Eyeing her with a shadow of fear. You're sure you forgive me? Sure. Without reserve? Should I be here? Indicating their proximity. And here, if I hadn't. Philip, pressing her hand to his lips ardently, and then freeing her shoulders from her coat. Take this off. Autaline, gently resisting. Poor Sir Timothy. Oh, a little exercise won't do Sir Timothy any harm. Helping her to slip her arms out of her coat. Dash it. You might have let me escort you to Bond Street. No, no. Your work. Philip, his brow clouding. Work? You mustn't lose your morning's work. There is a short pause, and then he rises and moves a few steps away from her. With an impassive countenance, she fingers the buttons of her gloves. Philip, stroking the pattern of the carpet with his foot. Otto. Yes, Phil? I asked Robbie to tell you, if he had the opportunity, that I've decided to make my farewell salon to authorship. I'm no good at it. I'm a frost. I realize it at last. I've had my final whack on the jaw. I've fought how many rounds, and now I take the count and slink out of the ring beat. Producing his keys, he goes to the cabinet on the right. Unlocks it, and selects from several cardboard portfolios, one which he carries to the writing table. While he is doing this, Otterlene, still with an expressionless face, rises and moves to the left, where she stands watching him. He opens a portfolio, and with a pained look, handles the sheets of manuscript in it. Ha! You and I have often talked over this, haven't we, Otto? Often. Philip, taking the manuscript from the portfolio, thoughtfully. It was to have been such an advance in my previous stuff. Kindlier, less strenuous, more urbane. Success, success! Had sweetened the gall in me. Glancing at a partly covered page. Here's where I broke off yesterday. With a shrug. In every man's life there's a chapter uncompleted, in one form or another. Throwing the manuscript into the portfolio. Psst! Get back to your hole. I'll burn you later on. He rejoins her. She half turns from him, averting her head. So when my pitiful strivings and ambitions. Laying his hand on her shoulder. It's a miserable match you're making, Otterlene. My two hundred a year will rig me out suitably and provide me with tobacco. And the dribblet's coming to me from my old books. Through the honest publishers I deserted for Mr. Titutin. The dribblet's coming from my old books will enable me to present you of a nose-gay on the anniversaries of our wedding day. And, by the time your hair is white, to refund you the money Titutin's had from you. And there, with a little fame on Justly One, which, thank God, will soon die, there you have the sum of my possessions. Seizing her arms and twisting her round. But I'll be your mate, my dear, your loyal companion and protector, comrade and lover. He is about to embrace her again, but she keeps him off by placing her hands against his breast. Otterlene, stealing herself. Phil. Eh? I arrived at a decision during the night, too, Phil. Yes? Don't... don't loathe me. Shaking her head gravely. I am not going to marry you. Philip, staring at her. You're not going to... marry me? No, Philip. Philip, after another pause. You... you're overwrought, Otter. You've had no sleep. Neither of us has had any sleep. Oh, but I'm quite clear-headed. Why, just now you said you'd forgiven me. Repeated it. I do repeat it. If I have anything to forgive, I forgive you a thousand times. And you allowed me to... to take you in my arms. You shall take me in your arms again, Phil, once more, before we part. If you wish to. I'm not a girl, though you call me one. Look here. You don't imagine for an instant that I shall accept this. You... Shhh. Try not to be hasty. Try to be reasonable. Listen to me. You. You mean me to understand that, and consequence of this wretched Tittertine affair? You've changed your mind and intend to chuck me. Yes, I mean you to understand that. Philip, turning from her indignantly. Otterline, sitting in the chair by the smoking-table. Philip. Philip. He hesitates, then seats himself on the settee opposite to her. She speaks with great firmness and deliberation. Philip, while you were lying awake last night, or walking about your room, didn't you think? Think? No, no, soberly, steadily, searchingly. Evidently not, Shami. Bending forward. Phil, after what has happened, can't you see me as I really am? As you are? An incurably vulgar woman. An incurably common vulgar woman. Nobody but a woman whose vulgarity is past praying for could have conceived such a scheme as I planned and carried out with that man Clifford Tittertine. Nobody. This, how shall I term it? This refinement of mine is merely on the surface. We women are like the, what's the name of the little reptile? The chameleon, isn't it? We catch the color of our surroundings. But what we were, we continue to be in the grain. The vulgar-minded Adeline Philson, who captivated and disgusted you in Paris, is before you at this moment. The only difference is that, then she was a natural person, and now she plays Le Grand Role. Sitting upright and pressing her temples. Oh, I have fooled myself as well as you, Phil, deluded myself. You're dog-tired, Addo. Your brain's in a fever. All you've done, you've done from your love for me. My dear, your deep, passionate love. Auteline, wincing. Passionate love, parfait more. Looking at him. But that feeling's over, Phil. Over? I shall always love you. Always, always. But my passion exhausted itself last night. For months it has borne me along on a wave. It was that that swept me to the door of Tittertine's office and the Charles Street out of me. It was strong enough to drive me to any length, but last night, in those dreadful small hours, the wave beat itself out and threw me up on the rocks, and left me shivering, naked, ashamed. Drawing a deep breath. Ah, but in my right senses. She unbuttons the left-hand glove, rolls the hand of the glove over her wrist, and takes her engagement ring from her finger. Otto, Otto, what are you doing? What are you doing? She lays the ring carefully upon the smoking table, and rises and walks away. He rises with her, following her. Tomorrow, when you've had some sleep, tomorrow. Never. Don't deceive yourself, Philip. Going to the fireplace. If anything was needed to strengthen my resolution, the announcement you've just made would supply it. Announcement? With regard to your literary work. Nevoie voupa, I have begun to degrade you already. Degrade me? Degrade you? If I hadn't come into your life again, you would have accepted your reverse, your failure to gain popularity by your latest book. As you've accepted similar disappointments with a shrug and a confident snap of your fingers. Advancing. But I've humbled you, bruised your spirit, shaken your courage, and now you express your willingness, you, to throw your pen aside and tack yourself to my skirts, and to figure meekly for the rest of your existence as Mrs. Mackere's husband. At the nearer end of the writing table. My dear, this is what I have brought you to. Philip, biting his lip. And you, you wouldn't have me profit by the advertisement I've got out of the big drum. Oddly, the finest advertisement I could wish for, according to Robbie. You wouldn't have me sink as low as that. You can ride under an alias, a normed plume, until you've won your proper place. Oh, well. Perhaps, by and by, when we had settled down you and I, the things had adjusted themselves. Yes, when you'd grown sick and weary of your new environment and had time to reflect on the horrid trick I'd employed to get hold of you, and had learned to despise me for it, you'd creep back to your desk and make an effort to pick up the broken threads. Coming to the city on the right. Hepion, do you know what would happen then, Phil? What? I should puff you under the rose, quietly pull the strings, use all the influence I could rake up. No. No. I should. It's in my blood. I couldn't resist it. Whether you wrote as Jones or Smith or Robinson, you'd find Jones, Smith or Robertson artfully puffed and paragraphed and thrust under people's noses in the papers. I'm an incurably vulgar woman, I tell you. Snatching at her coat. Ah, que j'en connais, que j'en connais. She fumbles for the armholes of her coat. He goes to her quickly, and they stand, holding the coat between them, and looking at each other. After a silence. You, you're determined? Determined. You, you can't be. I am. I swear, I am. After a further silence. Then it is, as you said last night. What did I say last night? I forget. Say, finie, après tout. Say, finie, après tout. Another pause. So when, when April comes, we, we shant. Autoline, luring her eyes, all gentleness again. We shant walk under the trees in the Champs-Elysées, Phil. Nor in the Allée des Longchamps, where we. No, nor in the Allée des Longchamps. Philip, releasing her coat and thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. Somebody else gulp the milk at the café d'Armenville. And at the Pre-Cartelon. And there'll be no one to gaze sentimentally in my old windows in the roofs who flow. Caron, toi, bice. No one. Say, finie, après tout. Say, finie, après tout. She holds out her coat to him, and he helps her into it. Suddenly, while her back is turned to him, he utters a guttural cry and grips her shoulders savagely. She turns in surprise, a hand to her shoulder. Oh, Phil. Philip, pointing at her. I see, I see, I see the end of it. You'll marry Barad-O, you'll marry the fellow who's cooling his heels down below in South Square. Autoline, placidly, fastening her coat. I may. I may, if I marry at all. Any bothers any more about me? Philip, stamping up and down. Bacon Barad-O, Bacon Barad-O, the wife of Bacon Barad-O. Autoline, with a sad smile. He has social aims, a vulgar, pushing woman would be a serviceable partner for Sir Tim. Dropping onto the setty on the left and burying his face in his hands. Well, more power to him. He can sell his bacon. Aye, I can't sell my books. Again, there is a silence and then, putting on her left hand-glove, she goes to Philip and stands over him compassionately. Oh, Pulver Philippe, it's you, not I, who will take another view of things tomorrow. He makes a gesture of dissent. Come, come, come. You have never loved me as I have loved you. Unconsciously, without perceiving it, one may be half-opposous, but at least I've been sincere in my love for you and in hungering to be your wife. Giving him her right hand. You're the best I have ever known, dear. By far the best I have ever known. He presses a hand to his bra, convulsively. But when we had our talk in South Ondley Street, how did you serve me? You insisted on my waiting—waiting— I, who had cherished your image of my mind for years. You guessed I shouldn't have patience. You almost prophesied as much, but still, I was to wait. Otaline, withdrawing her hand. What did that show, Phil? It showed, as your compromise with mother and dad showed afterwards, that the success of the book you were engaged upon came first with you. The marrying me was to only be an incident in your career, that you didn't love me sufficiently to bend your pride or vary your programme a jot. He gets to his feet startled, dumbfounded. He attempts to speak, but she checks him. I'm scolding you, but for your sake, I wouldn't have it otherwise. Now that I'm sane and cool, I wouldn't have it otherwise. Philip, struggling for words, sickly. Otaline, Otaline. His voice dying away. Right. Otaline, taking his hands in hers. Goodbye. Don't come downstairs with me. Let me leave you sitting at your table at work, at work, on that incomplete chapter. We shall tumble up against one another, I dare say, at odd times, but this is the last we shall see of each other. Don Lantimite, and I want to print on my memory the sight of you. Pointing to the writing table. There, keeping your flag flying. Putting her arms round him. Keep your flag flying, Philip. Don't, don't sulk with your art and be false to yourself, because a trumpery woman has fretted and disturbed you. Keep your flag flying. Kissing him. My, my dear hero. She un-twines her arms and steps back. Slowly, with his hands hanging loosely in his chin upon his breast, Philip passes her and goes to the writing table. There, dullly and mechanically, he takes the unfinished page of manuscript from the portfolio, arranges it upon the blotting pad, and seating himself at the table picks up his pen. Very softly, Otterlene opens the vestibule door, gives Philip a last look over her shoulders, and enters the vestibule, closing the door behind her. There is a pause, during which Philip sits, staring at his ink-stand, and then the outer door slams. With an exclamation Philip drops his pen, leaps up and rushes to the vestibule door, Otto, Otto, Otterlene! With his hand on the door-handle he wavers, his eyes shifting wildly to and from the writing-table. Then, with a mighty effort, he pulls himself together, strides to the smoking-table, and loads and lights his pipe. Puffing at his pipe fiercely, he reseets himself between the two. He reseets himself before his manuscript, and, grabbing his pen, forces himself to write. He has written a word or two when he falters, stops, and lays his head upon his arm on the table, his shoulders heaving, Otto, Otto! End of Act Four Preface The Big Drum is published exactly as it was written, and as it was originally performed. At its first representation, however, the audience was reported to have been saddened by its unhappy ending. Pressure was forthwith put upon me to reconcile Philip and Otterlene at the finish, and, at the third performance of the play, the curtain fell upon the picture violently and crudely brought about of Otterlene in Philip's arms. I made the alteration against my principles and against my conscience, and yet not altogether unwillingly, for we live in depressing times, and perhaps in such times it is the first duty of a writer for the stage to make concessions to his audiences, and above everything, to try to afford them a complete, if brief, distraction from the gloom which awaits them outside the theatre. My excuse for having at the start provided an unhappy ending, is that I was blind enough not to regard the ultimate break between Philip and Otterlene as really unhappy for either party. On the contrary, I looked upon the separation of these two people as a fortunate occurrence for both, and I conceived it as a piece of ironic comedy which might not prove unentertaining that the falling away of Philip from his high resolves was checked by the woman he had once despised and who had at last grown to know and to despise herself. But comedy of this order has a knack of cutting rather deeply, of ceasing in some minds to be comedy at all, and it may be said that this is what has happened in the present instance. Luckily it is equally true that certain matters are less painful, because less actual, imprint than upon the stage. The wicked publisher, therefore, even when bombs are dropping around him, can afford to be more independent than the theatrical manager, and for this reason I have not hesitated to ask my friend Mr Heinemann to publish The Big Drum in its original form. Arthur Pinero, London, September 1915. End of The Big Drum by Arthur Wing Pinero