 Act II, Part I 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 scene represents a room in Mr. Allenhem's cottage at Epson. On the left-hand side is a fireplace with a fire burning. Above this is a door giving on to the hall. While below it is a similar door over which hangs a potier drawn aside, admitting to the dining room. Facing us is a large open French window, and beyond is a view of a pretty garden with trees, laurels, etc. On the right also facing us, but nearer, are a few ballasted steps leading to an arched opening, which is about three feet from the ground. The opening across which runs a rod supporting a potier, admits to a small room, which although containing no books that are visible, is called the library. All the furniture and accessories are characteristic of a well-to-do bachelor's residence. It is twilight. Denzel Shaftow and Peter Elphick, two well-groomed, smart-looking men of about five and thirty, dressed for dinner, are shown in by Quafe, a man's servant. Quafe is carrying a banjo in a case. What time did Mr. Allingham get down? Quafe placed the banjo on the table. Half an hour ago, sir, I'm now dressing him. Do, Elphick. Glad you brought the banjo, Mr. Elphick. Elphick, a heavy-looking man with staring eyes, taking the banjo from his case with great care. Nearly made me lose the train, Quafe, puzzling whether to bring it or not. Quafe laying the case aside. Do, Mr. Allingham, a load of good, sir, a little melody after dinner. Mr. Allingham, rather fatigued. Never saw him so played out, sir. Closing the windows. Oh, Mr. Allingham's compliments, Mr. Shaftow, and he says he forgot to inquire whether you and Mr. Elphick would sleep at the Lichens tonight. Not tonight, thanks. I've arranged to take Mr. Elphick on to my father's place at Leatherhead. We shouldn't keep you up here till the last train, Quafe, or anything like. To say, Mr. Allingham, we'll be glad to turn in early. Not much good him turning in, Mr. Elphick. Queer night's lately of sorts. Shockin', Mr. Shaftow. Quafe goes out, Shaftow looking round. Here we are again, Peter. Beers so. Shaftow wondering about. This is my first visit to this box since Jack came back here after his split with his wife. I had mine, thought he'd sold it. He merely let it. When he married, let it to a stockbroker. Peter, Jack must have had some sort of a premonition. Some sort of what? Premonition? Stupid ass of a word. Some sort of a premonition of his speedy return to single life. Looking out of the window. Same spotless white gate I rejoice to see. Same elbs? Same laurels? Ascending the steps. The library! Entering the room. My heart sinks within me. From within? No, by Job. Peter! Peter! Elphick goes and looks into the room through the balustrade. What's wrong? Shaftow from within. Nothing. I breathe again. All the essential features of Jack's library are undisturbed. Coming down the steps. Luxurious sofa, rough turf guide, and the stud book. Blessed if there's anything to make fun of in that. Shaftow at a table examining bottles. Delightful! Same soda water? Same— Elphick, sitting, nursing his banjo. No, hang it. Shaftow poured out a glass of vermouth. Vermouth. Peter, I was totting things up this morning, gently and quietly in my bath. Elphick, blowing a speck of dust from his banjo. Not really. Yes. You were at Jack's wedding. No, I was up at Mahabaleshwar that spring was Sandington. You stood best man, didn't you? I did. And look here, Jack Allingham is the seventh I've been best man to in nine years. Good figures. Shaftow frowning. And they've all managed to get into the divorce courts since, one way or another. After a pause. How's that? Good figures. John Allingham enters, a simple boyish man of about thirty, looking pale and worn. He is dressed for dinner. John shaking hands with Shaftow. Hello, Denzel. Two Elphick shaking hands with him. Well, Peter, it's awfully good of you fellows proposing to see me through this evening. Not in the least. Speak for yourself, Peter. I couldn't have endured my own company tonight. I can tell you. Sorry, you can't sleep here, though. My governor hasn't seen Peter since he's been home this leave. It's an old promise. I understand. Taking the banjo for Melphick. And you've actually brought the banjo. Well, when a man's a bit, though, sometimes a little music. Thanks. To both of them. Warm. Yesterday, today in that law court, wasn't it? Agra in June. Warm in every sense of the word, huh? Hell. John with his hands to his brow. Guh. Now, then? It's done with now. John recovering himself. True. That cursed nightmare of an approaching trial isn't waiting for me upstairs in that bedroom of mine any longer. And tomorrow morning I shall wake with a start to find—what does that feeling be like that I've no lawyers to interview besides I haven't much to complain of. You two fellows have kept close at my elbow throughout the whole business. Hardly ever left me. Well, that's friendship. Shaking hands abruptly, first with Elphick, then with Shaftow. God-blesser. He walks away and sits on the settee looking into the fire. Elphick and Shaftow stand together, eyeing him uneasily. Shaftow in a whisper to Elphick. Peter, our bags are here. How do you say to not leaving him tonight, after all? Yes. I don't suppose your governor wants to see me so desperate bad as all that comes to. No, I don't suppose he does. I mean, we can go over in the morning. John looking up. Huh? Nothing. John passing his fingers over the strings of the banjo. You don't remember Denzel, nor you, Peter. I suppose she used to throw him on this thing. No. Hardly this thing. The guitar. Much the same. Oh, yes. She used to play it very nicely. Shaftow puzzled. Who? Mrs. Fraser? Mrs. Fraser? No. Handling the banjo, roughly. My wife. Elphick hurrying across to John, taking the banjo from him. Ah, excuse me, old fella. John starting up. I was close to her today. We stared each other right in the eyes. We didn't mean to. We simply did it. We met in the corridor during lunchtime. I was getting out of the way of old Portwood. I turned sharply, and there we were, my wife and I, face to face. It might have been for ten seconds. It was like an hour. Did she look angry? No. Downright ill and distressed. To both of them. You've seen her in court? Yes. Yes. Yesterday. We said, how'd you do to her yesterday? We told you. Oh, yes, today? Not to speak to. She nodded to us this morning from the, uh, uh, what do they call it, uh, not the sink? Well. Well of the court. Denzel. Hello. She was very pretty when I married her, wasn't she? Undoubtedly. John sits leaning his head upon his hands. Jo walks away quietly to the window. Elfic sits on the setee, and turning his face to the fire strikes up a tune on his banjo. That's right. Tune up, Peter. If I had a savage breast this evening, you might soothe it with your tink-a-tink-a-tink-a-tink, as Kipling says. But I haven't. Doesn't that odd? Boys, do you know? All the bitterness I've been feeling towards her seems to have died out of me. She's been dragging me pretty thoroughly through the mud lately. Isn't that odd? Shaftow leaving the window and coming to the back of the setee. Well, she's lost the day, you see. Elfic sees him play. She's beaten, got nothing from her pains. I suppose that's it. Ugh. But her face. I haven't seen it for months, and the silence between us was so strange. Yes, there wasn't much of that, old Shaft, between you two when you were together. No. Didn't we quarrel. And yet, this morning, during our little deadly silent encounter, she seemed to say more to me than she'd ever said in her life before. By Jove, she has suffered. Starting up. Oh, damn it! He paces to and fro. Elfic hurriedly resumes his plane. Shaftow seating himself on the back of the setee, speaking with a drawl. Ah, I shouldn't worry myself too much if I were you about that. Other people have suffered. John pausing in his walk. Mrs. Fraser? Oh, she amongst them. Your little Theo Fraser. I'm forgetting her. Forget all round, my dear Jack, that's the ticket. For the future, cultivate a single-minded devotion to yourself. And the horses. You're right, Denzel. By the by, I had a line from O'Halligan yesterday. Where is it? Go into a writing table and rummage in among the litter there. He fancies Kildowen very strongly. The mare is feeding well. That's always been their difficulty, you know. Shaftow quietly looking towards the window. Jack? Eh? Who's that woman out there? Elfic ceases playing. Where? In your garden. John looks towards the window. Elfic rises and makes one of the group. John after a pause. I don't see anybody. She's behind the laurels now. John about to go to the window. One of the maids. Shaftow lay in his hand on John's arm. Wait a bit. Goes cautiously to the window. Peeps out and comes away. I sailed, chap. What's the matter? I thought so. It's your wife. There's a moment's pause, then an excited movement from John. Stop! A pause. What are you going to do? Do. Do. Not anything stupid, Jack. Clear out for a minute, you two fellows. Shaftow goes up the steps and into the library, drawing the potier across the door as he disappears. Get out, Peter. Elfic going up the steps and pausing at the door. Jack, what is it? Elfic with an empty expression of face and voice. Don't do anything weak. Get out. Elfic disappears. John hurriedly glances round the room and arranges a displaced chair. Then he discovers that Elfic has left the banjo upon the satine and ceases it impatiently. Going to the door of the library and drawing aside the potier. Here, Peter, catch. He throws the banjo into the room and it readjusts the potier. The instrument is heard to fall with a crash to the floor. He looks into the library hastily. I beg your pardon, old fellow. He descends the steps and goes to the window and opens it, speaking in a low voice. Is anyone there? A pause. Someone's there. Olive from a little distance. Yes. Who is it? Olive. Well. Are you by yourself? Yes. Come in. He draws back to allow her to pass him. After a short delay she enters and without looking at him comes right into the room. He closes the window but remains at the end of the room. Olive Ollingham is a fashionably and richly dressed woman of a little over thirty years of age. Pale, warm, red-eyed, but still handsome. In manner she is alternately beseeching and gentle, angry and imperious. The twilight now gradually deepens into dusk. You have some men here. Shaftow and Peter Ulfig. I asked them to clear out for a moment. What will they think? John with a shrug of the shoulder. They can scarcely know what to think. Olive walking to the mantelpiece. What do you think yourself of my humbling myself in this fashion? Turning to him. What do you? As she has crossed to the left of the room he still at a distance has moved over to the right. Speaking with a catch in her breath. Oh, don't do that. I'm not poisonous, John. He approaches stiffly and silently. She advances towards him plaintively. John, I am quite worn out. Putting her hand to her bosom. But out here. This desperate lawsuit has been my last bolt, unfinished, spent. I know my regrets won't avail us much at this time of day. The future has a most melancholy look out for both of us. But I want to tell you I am truly conscious at last of the evil my jealousy has wrought. City weakly. Yes, John, I am quite reasonable at last. Quaith enters. Dinner is... He breaks off staring at Olive. Good evening, Quaith. Good evening, ma'am. John to Quaith. Tell Mrs. Quaith to delay dinner for... For... Olive rising and turning away in an altered tone. Oh, five minutes? Tenth outside. For quarter of an hour. The lamps. Quaith withdraws as if in a dream. Olive bitterly. I much regret keeping you and your friends from your dinner. It's an exceptionally elaborate entertainment tonight, I suppose. No, no. It's of no consequence. Dinner, dinner. If every woman in the world were weeping her heart out, men would be found dining, feeding, feasting. What was I saying when Quaith blundered in? Where was I? John, looking at her steadily. Reasonable at last. Olive after a brief pause, speaking gently again. Oh, John. Advancing a few steps. It was inconsiderate of me to break out in that way. But I don't mean half the brutal things I say. I never did. You couldn't have done so. Any jealous woman will tell you what a slave she is to her paroxysms. Oh, they are dreadful while they last. The flame behind one's eyes, the buzzing in the ears, the dry tongue, the thumping of the heart. Thank God I'm cured. You said something like this to me on other occasions. Never under such extraordinary circumstances. Going to him. The fact that I can drag myself to you in the spirit after my defeat, for the sake of a few words with you, must show you what an altered woman I am. Sitting. John, I felt I couldn't go back to that lonely flat of mine tonight without first proving to you how thorough my remorse is. Looking round. That dismal flat. That you appear to be extremely comfortable here. Oh, it's a little place. Very cramped. This is where you gave me and Papa T once when we were engaged to be married. I remember. And now. Ha! I suppose I'm a fool not to indulge myself just as luxuriously, just as... She meets his eye and breaks off shame-facedly, faltering with her hand to her brow. Where was I again? You were engaged in demonstrating how thorough your remorse is. Oh, yes. After the case ended, this afternoon, I walked about the streets quite light-headed until I summoned up Resolution to try to find you. With an effort. John, that... that lady. What lady? Mrs. Fraser of Locking. Yes? Olive repressing her agitation. Of course, the judge fully justified my action by the very severe way he spoke of her. His remarks were infamous. I could have taken him by the throat and thrown him into the body of the court. No right-thinking person would have blamed me for doing so. However, he gave her the benefit of the doubt. Ha! The benefit of the doubt. And paid me the compliment of believing that I would, as one woman to another, prefer such a course being adopted. John pacing to and fro. Poor wretched little Mrs. Fraser. Wait! Even I see the injustice of it. You do? Haven't I told you I am reasonable at last? For whether she be innocent or guilty is no longer the question. I'm glad that is no longer the question. The point is, this woman is entitled to the benefit of the doubt. Rising and walking to and fro. But how can she ever receive the benefit of the doubt if those words which imply the doubt are always to hang over her? That's it! And they will hang over her forever. Forever. Forever! Turning to him. Unless I cancel them, remove them. You? I could, John, by my attitude towards her in public, in society. John, staring at her. Why, certainly you could. All they've leaning over a chair and speaking almost into his ear. Would you like me to? Like you to? I want to atone to you, if I can, in some measure. For the suffering I caused you. Would you like me to write, Mrs. Fraser? Ah, Olive. John? If you were always so generous, so good. Olive drawing back suddenly. Ah. John, after a brief pause. I've offended you by saying that. You are evidently very keen concerning her. She's a vulgar, common little thing, I'm afraid. That's not true. Her people are common, excessively bad tone. Her people are now her husband's people. She's married to a gentleman. Mr. Fraser has been away from her as much as possible. Her eyes fleshy. You know that better than anybody. Why do you come here, after all our struggles and failures? After the injury you've endeavored to do me, why do you torture me and insult me by trying to repeat the old heart-breaking scenes? He throws himself into a chair, distractedly. There is a pause. Then she slowly goes to a chair, drags it towards him, and sits beside him. Olive, panty. Torture you. Ah, I suffer too. In her soff, too, and fro. Well, there can be no punishment for jealous women in another world. We are damned in this. John in a muffled voice with his head in his hands. And the fire has burnt out near, you tell me. As opposed to the cinders still retain a little heat, dear. Dear. Dear. Yes, I know my actions are contradictory, but… Your hand stealing towards his. In my heart, John, always, in my heart. The banjo suddenly strikes up an air. John and Olive raise their heads and stare at each other. Then Olive slowly backs her chair to its original position. What's that? Peter. Peter? He brought his banjo with him. Why? Oh. Huh? If we hear the banjo with such distinctness. They rise. He hurriedly ascends the steps and disappears through the potier. The music of the banjo stops abruptly, and the sound of voices comes from the library. Quaif enters carrying a lamp which he deposits on the table. Then always watching Olive, he lights the standard lamp and draws the wind of curtains. My dear fellow, my dear Jack. Shhh. I might have remembered that shh. Shhh. The voices in the library are hushed. Olive commanding herself and crossing to the fireplace. And how are you, Quaif? Very well indeed, I thank you, ma'am. And your wife? Exceedingly healthy, ma'am, for a stout person. I hope you look after Mr. Alingham thoroughly, all of you. We regard him as a trust, ma'am. If I may make use of the expression. A what? A solemn trust, ma'am. Olive turning away. Stuffed nonsense. I beg pardon, ma'am, if I have gone too far. John returns. John coming down the steps a little flustered. Quaif. Sir? Um, Mr. Shaftow and Mr. Elfig don't dine. Not dine, sir. They'll have to go on to Leatherhead at once. Is the boy ready to carry their bags to the station? The boy can be worried till he's ready, sir. All right. Quaif withdraws. John and Olive now speak in prispers. I don't wish this. They offered to go. They'd rather go. Have they heard much? Uh, next to nothing. A syllable or two when we were sitting there? That's why Peter struck up a tune. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Plancing towards the door. Will I slip into the dining-room while they pass out? Please don't. They're old friends of both of us. They understand perfectly. Olive returning to the fireplace. I'll face it out if you wish it. Denzel. Peter. Shaftow and Elfig sedately emerge from the library and descend the steps. Shaftow bows to Olive. Olive advancing, shaking hands with him across the table graciously. Oh, Mr. Shaftow, I am so sorry to upset everybody in this way. Not at all. I, uh, we, uh, my father, at Leatherhead. Elfig encumbered with his banjo, and the banjo case joined Shaftow. John goes to the door. Olive shaking hands with Elfig across the table. Why should you lose your dinner? I have really finished all my, all my business with my, with Mr. Allingham. Elfig with an effort earnestly. Now you haven't, Mrs. Allingham. Take it up when we've gone, where you broke off. Ringing her hand. Do everything you've offered to do, try and square things? John comes to him and draws him away towards the door. John to Olive. Excuse me, one moment. The three men go out, leaving Olive staring before her. John, Shaftow, and Elfig are her talking together in the hall. My dear Denzel, my dear Peter, my dear fellow, we are not at present in the least hungry. Olive runs up the steps and disappears into the library. No conveyance of any kind to get you to the station. Much before walking, I assure you. Good-bye. I've enjoyed seeing the cottage again enormously. The sound of the voices dies away. A clock in the library strikes night. John returns, John looking round. Olive. Olive. She reappears. You didn't tell me the truth. You can hear the slightest sound in there. I beg your pardon. Those men went clean out of my head. I was an ass. Olive descending the steps. And that idiot offers me his advice. Take it up where you broke off. At least it's good advice. Where did we break off? At Mrs. Fraser. Olive walking up the stage, beating her hands together. Mrs. Fraser. The eternal Mrs. Fraser. Throwing herself into the chair, facing the window. I shall be quite calm in a moment. Those men upset me. John going to her solicitously. Today has been as exhausting for you as for the rest of us. Of course, there's a dinner prepared here. Oh, no, dear. I couldn't sit down to a table with you. I'm not entitled to do that. Fetch me a glass of wine and a biscuit. Don't let a servant bring it, John. He goes to the dining-room door. She rises and calls in. John. Your head drooping. Do you think we shall ever sit at the same table again? You and I? John, after a pause, sitting looking away from her. Olive. Olive. Remember? Olive fidgeting with the cigarette box. Not for many years, of course, three or four years at least. Time makes the oddest things possible. I suppose so. It would appear supremely ridiculous to the world, you're afraid. Pish! The world don't matter a damn. Ah, that's delicious. What is? I haven't heard a man swear since I turned you out of Pond Street. Dreamily, almost inaudibly, as she plays with a cigarette. Damn. He looks round at her. She has lost in thought. Suddenly she crushes the cigarette and flings it from her fiercely. Ah, the o-phrase her smokes. John, starting up in a rage, he goes out of the room, Olive following him a few steps penitently. Oh, John. There is a knock at the upper door. Yes? Quafe enters with some cards on his elbow. Quafe looking round. I beg pardon, ma'am. A lady and two gentlemen would like to see Mr. Allingham if it's not disturbing him. She goes to the table and examines the cards. Are these people friends of Mr. Allingham's? Have they ever called on him before? No, ma'am. I fancy the eldest of the two gentlemen came once, if not twice, to Pond Street in your time, ma'am. I'll give those to Mr. Allingham. He lays the cards out on the table. You'll be wrong before. He goes towards the door. You haven't mentioned that I am here. Oh, no, ma'am. I simply said Mr. Allingham was engaged for the moment. Quite right. Thank you. He withdraws. She eagerly scrutinizes the cards, rearranges them upon the table, then goes to the fireplace and stands waiting impatiently. John re-enters carrying a decanter of champagne and some biscuits in a silver dish, which he places on a side table. This is the moe we had just begun to drink when we—you rather liked it, I fancy? Some people have called. They're waiting to see you. John turning. People? So late? All who have pointed to the table. These are their cards. John picking up the cards. Mrs. Cloyce, Mr. Claude Almer Emptage, Sir Fletcher Portwood, Mrs. Cloyce. That's an aunt. An aunt. An aunt of Mrs. Fraser's. What could they want with me? Isn't it curious? I assure you, I am the slightest idea. I suppose nothing has happened to her. To Mrs. Fraser? Yes. Oh, no, nothing ever happens to these women with fair hair and heavy eyelids. John biting his lip. Really? You will see them, I suppose. I can't refuse to see them. May I—may I wait till they have gone? Oh, Olive. She walks to the Dunning Room, he following her. I won't let them detain me very long. Olly rapidly agitatedly, facing him her hand on the door handle. This is a most extraordinary visitation. These three people, her relatives, to come down on you like this at such an hour. I'm sure you will find that their visit admits of a perfectly reasonable explanation. I have no doubt. You shall have the fullest account of what passes between us. How shall I know it is a full account? John leaving her. Ah. Olive advancing quickly. No, I don't mean that. Her hand to her heart. Oh, do make some allowance for me, for my state of mind. John turning abruptly. Have you the courage to meet these people with me? If so, you can begin tonight to carry out your promise to serve Mrs. Fraser. You can tell her relatives now what your intentions are towards her. Certainly, I have the courage to meet them. Advancing, trembling, ruthlessly. But do you know where you are drifting, John? Where I am drifting? Yes, I mean, what position are you willing to give me before these people? Position? I couldn't submit to be treated as a culprit, and there is only one other possible position for me. What is that? The... The... The wife. The wife. Olive, tearfully. Oh. Oh, I would try. He leaves her and walks about agitatedly. She sits on the settee weeping. John, rather wildly. Wow, I... I only want to cleanse the slate. My cursed stupidity is smeared poor little Mrs. Fraser's character. I want to put that right. Cuts me to the heart to see how rich you are, Olive. I want to put that right. Oh, if we fail again... Weak. We can't fail again. It's impossible. John desperately throwing himself into the chair. Oh, right. Even at mercy upon us, we're reconciled. Ring the bell. She rises and touches the bell-press, and with the aid of the mirror over the mantelpiece attempts to adjust her hair and straighten her bonnet, he watching her. By chauve, you have pluck. To face these people? Ha! I call it true courage. It's nothing. I am so happy. Oh, John, you shall never regret this. Quay finters. John rising. Show Mrs. Cloy's and the two gentlemen here. Yes, sir. Tell them that Mr. and Mrs. Allingham are now disengaged. Yes, sir. He withdraws. Olive, turn each up, please. Mrs. Allingham. It wouldn't be quite fair to spring you upon them suddenly. You've given them warning. They may hurry away to avoid me. No. No. I don't think they did do such a thing. Gah! I can't get my bonnet to sit straight. May I take it off and receive them as if I were at home? If you would rather do so. Olive going to the dunny room door. Is there a mirror in here? Yes. She goes out hurriedly. Let me hold the lamp for you. He follows her. After a brief pause, Quay free enters, showing in Mrs. Cloy's, Sir Fletcher Portwood and Claude, Quayf withdraws. Mrs. Cloy's after looking round the room. The wife. The wife? Who could have anticipated anything so extraordinary? Sir Fletcher Portwood walking about uneasily. Harriet, your theories and suspicions have involved us in an entanglement of, uh, an unexpected kind. A reglemness, I call it. I wish your choice of expressions was a little happier, Claude. The boy is right, and we must get out of this as quickly as possible. Yes, yes, yes, yes. But I don't believe the woman will have the daring effrontery to show her face to us. To me, the brother. If she does appear, Fletcher, how on earth are we to explain our visit? Never explain, Harriet. I once explained in the house. Ah, devils take the house. Harriet! Heaven forgive me. You are unhinged, not yourself. No, no. We must simply avail ourselves of any topic that presents itself. Mercy on us. There is only one topic that can present itself. I am not often nonplussed. You had better watch me closely. Follow my lead. John enters with Olive, who is now without her outdoor apparel. John after bowing to Mrs. Cloyce. How do you do, Sir Fletcher? Not into Claude. How are you, emptage? Sir Fletcher portwood with a wave of the hand towards Mrs. Cloyce. My sister, Mrs. Cloyce. Mrs. Cloyce, Sir Fletcher, there have been some most unhappy differences between my wife and myself in the past, as you know too well, unfortunately. She and I have not been the only sufferers from these differences. We have dragged others along with us. However, we met this evening half an hour ago and are reconciled. Very proper. Very sensible. And I have my wife's authority for saying that her feeling towards Mrs. Fraser are now considerably, in fact, entirely. But she will speak for herself. Presenting Olive awkwardly. Er, my wife. Olive to Sir Fletcher and Mrs. Cloyce graciously. Pray sit down. Mrs. Cloyce sits again. Sir Fletcher, we knew each other years ago. I am delighted to renew. Pulling himself up uneasily. That is, of course. Olive sits on the left and Sir Fletcher on the right of the table. Olive addressing Mrs. Cloyce. Mrs. Cloyce, it is only fair to you that I should say at once that I don't expect Mrs. Fraser's relatives to treat me at all tenderly over the painful proceedings which terminated today. Mrs. Cloyce bowed stiffly. Sir Fletcher eyes her anxiously. So I beg that you will speak before me entirely without reserve. It is my husband's wish that you should do so. Certainly. Mrs. Cloyce and Sir Fletcher Portwood sit staring before them in a glassy way. Olive again glances at John puzzled. Olive a little impatiently. Naturally, Mrs. Cloyce, I can't think that you have taken this inconvenient journey tonight without some very special, some very definite object. Uh, so far as I am concerned, the object of my visit is in a great part attained when I have given Mr. Allingham my assurance that only absolute proof of his unworthiness will ever induce me to withdraw my friendship from him. I am nothing if not a just man. Genuinely obliged to you, Sir Fletcher. Oh, I am not ashamed of my simple faith in young English manhood, and in the efficacy of a training at one of our most honoured public schools. True, I was never a public school boy myself. Claude leaning on a chair near the window with his back to those in the room. All turned their heads towards Claude, surprised. Sir Fletcher Portwood rising and going to Claude. No, but I am still capable of rejoicing when I see the traditions of popular British institutions worthily upheld. The world was my public school. Olive changing her position. Mrs. Claude. Sir Fletcher Portwood, I am Olive and returning quickly. Uh, is there a question more vital, more absorbing, than this great vexed question of education? Is there a question which calls more imperatively upon the attention of thinking men? Olive turning to him with a forced smile. But, Sir Fletcher, you surely haven't brought Mrs. Claude's all the way to Epsom that she may hear you discuss education with my husband. No, no, good. Good, excellent. Uh... Suddenly. Now, this cottage. I wonder whether I may ask how many rooms. How many rooms? Twelve. Olive, between her teeth. The reason I put the question is this. My dear brother-in-law, the bishop. Mrs. Claude's under her breath. Eh? Sir Fletcher Portwood looking at Mrs. Claude significantly. The bishop often suffers from the effects of severe intellectual strain, and it has more than once struck me that for a few weeks in a year, this peculiarly invigorating air. Going to the dining room door. The arrangements appear to be most convenient. May I? The dining room. Sir Fletcher Portwood opening the door and peeping into the room. Delightful! I can picture the bishop sitting there. My sister there, myself perhaps over there. Delightful! Closing the door and moving away, pointing to the upper door. The hall and the little card room I have seen. Wrapping the table. But the grand question is, Mrs. Allingham, would you let? That's the point, Allingham. Would you feel inclined to let? Oh, if his lordship did us the honor of expressing a wish. That's extremely good-natured. Trying to catch Mrs. Claude's eye. You hear, Harriet? Yes. Sir Fletcher Portwood pointing to the steps. And here? Alling, struggling to suppress her anger. The library. The library. Have I permission? Oh, by all means. Sir Fletcher bustles up the steps and enters the library. Sir Fletcher Portwood, out of sight. Cheerful! Very cheerful! A boxity of volumes. But the bishop would bring his own books. Sir Fletcher, while you were there, do examine the little clock on the mental piece. The case is modern oriental. Oh, yes! Yes! I gave it to Mr. Allingham some years ago. Count those curious stones round the dial. To Mrs. Claude's rapidly, but forcibly, dropping her voice. Mrs. Claude's, I confess I find it difficult to accept Sir Fletcher's suggestion that you are engaged at this time of night and hunting for fresh air for the bishop. I... Upon Sir Fletcher's disappearance, Claude advances and stands waiting for an opportunity to speak. Claude breaking in in a hollow voice. As Mrs. Fletcher's brother. All turned their heads towards Claude again. All of it with clenched hands. Oh, I am endeavouring the speak to Mrs. Claude's. Pardon me. As Mrs. Fletcher's brother, and as perhaps the chief sufferer from the result of today's proceedings. Sir Fletcher Portwood appearing suddenly on top of the steps, no longer carrying his hat. What's this? What's this? I refuse to be silenced. As Mrs. Fletcher's brother, I desire to say that I did not expect to be received tonight by the lady who has done her best, her utmost. Shhh! Shhh! Be quiet, Claude, please. Olive rising and going to John. John really? Look here, Amptage, you're a boy at any rate, a very young man. I am a truly unfortunate young man. The blight has been cast upon my name at the very outset of my career. What career? Well, I am turning various careers over in my mind. Enough, Claude. Sir Fletcher Portwood coming down the steps. Why, when I was five years younger than he, I had already applied my lever to the mountain. I first saw a light in forty-four. Olive to John. Oh! Forty-four, I'd easily remember date, two-fours. And what was I doing at his age? Mrs. Cloyce, go away, Claude. Claude retiring. Ha! At least I have had the courage to speak out. He throws himself into a chair at the back, and in course of time falls asleep. His head is seen to drop back upon his shoulder. An arm hangs over the side of the chair. Olive advancing to the table, imperatively. Mrs. Cloyce. I... Excuse me, Fletcher. I believe Mrs. Allingham is looking to me for some further explanation. City. Mrs. Allingham, happening to become acquainted today for the first time with several features of this disagreeable business, I thought, it was a fancy of mine, that I should like to, to meet Mr. Allingham, to talk over, to... Olive, the city. To talk over. To thrash it all out with John, with, with Allingham. It has not been sufficiently threshed out then in the divorce court. Quite sufficiently. I insert Fletcher reprovingly. My brother doesn't interpret me correctly. Er... As I have told you, it is a fancy of mine, to meet Mr. Allingham. Just to make his acquaintance. Just to make his acquaintance. John, uncomfortably. Very pleased, very gratified. Olive, with a hard smile. This is rather an odd hour for such a call. It would have been earlier, but for a little difficulty in discovering Mr. Allingham's whereabouts. When ladies have fancies, they don't study the hour before indulging them. I am afraid it is so in your family, Sir Fletcher. Mrs. Poise makes a movement, but restrains herself. Olive. Er, the fact is, my sister shares with me the lavateur-like faculty for judging character at sight. Judging character by face, manner. Yes. I possess it in a remarkable degree. I remember. Olive to Mrs. Poise. Oh, I see. You are here to form an impression of Mr. Allingham. Sir Fletcher a little exaggerates my powers, but I confess I am, like many people, very sensitive to receiving impressions through such mediums. I hope your impressions of my husband will be to his advantage. Mrs. Poise looking at John. I think I may say at once that they are not unfavorable. Because the necessity you find for estimating my husband's character shows. You know what it shows? Mrs. Allingham. It shows, obviously, that if you are uncertain to my husband's innocence, you must be equally doubtful of the innocence of your niece, Mrs. Fraser. Mrs. Poise, rising. I beg that you will not put such a construction on what I have said. Olive, rising. What other construction? Olive, you are not keeping your promise. I will keep my promise when I am treated openly and fairly. Walk in a way. I feel something is going on here that I don't understand, that I am not allowed to understand. John to Mrs. Poise and Sir Fletcher. I am extremely sorry, but my wife is very fatigued and unstrung tonight. Quite so, quite so. We are most inconsiderate, Harriet. Come, come, another time. Olive, turning. No, no, Mrs. Poise. Mrs. Poise facing Olive firmly. Mrs. Allingham. I think when we look back upon this evening that you and I will be able to congratulate ourselves upon a considerable exercise of politeness. But there are signs that neither of us is equal to a prolonged strain. I beg your pardon. I will be patient. You need have no misgivings on my account. Perhaps not, but I am beginning to be acutely conscious of my own weakness. Looking round. Fletcher. Olive, angrily. Oh, oh. She paces the room. John joins her and is seen expotulating. Mrs. Poise joins Sir Fletcher. Olive, Olive, be reasonable. I will be when you and your friends are honest with me. She leaves him as Quaif enters with a note upon us all. End of Act Two, Part One. Act Two, Part Two 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. Sir Fletcher Portwood looking at his watch. Oh, Allingham. The hotel people were to send a carriage up for us. Perhaps you'll get your servant? Certainly. To Quaif. Quaif, what's that? Upon entering, Quaif has encountered Mrs. Allingham. Her eyes fall upon the letter on the salver. Olive, under her breath, staring at the letter. Ah. Ma'am? Olive, drawing back and speaking to Quaif. Well, give it to Mr. Allingham. A boy has brought this, sir, waiting for an answer. John is about to take the letter. When he sees the writing upon the envelope, he hesitates for a moment and draws his hand back. Then he picks up the letter deliberately. John to Quaif, call me. Wait. I'll ring. Quaif retires. Olive pointing to the letter. Isn't that letter from Mrs. Fraser? John, after opening the letter. Yes. He reads the letter to himself. Poor little lady. This is bad news. Really, Mr. Allingham? Really? Don't you know? She has left her husband. Ah, yes, sir. We do know it. Certainly, we know it. I was almost the last person she spoke to before she quitted her mother's house. She is deeply attached to me. Butanine has cooked. Where is she? Where is she? I gather she's waiting not very far from this house. Waiting. She wishes to see me. Oh, yes. Sitting, her hands tightly gripped together. Oh, yes. John going to her and handing her the letter. Read it, please, Olive. Olive, after a pause, holding the letter between her finger and thumb, reading. Station Hotel Epsom, my dear old Jack. Hastily returning the letter to John with a shatter. Take it from me. John reading the log. My dear old Jack. Looking round, simply. We have known each other many years. Reading. Oh, I have had such a job to find you. I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage and get a messenger to bring this to you. The messenger will show you where I am. If you will only consent to see me for a few moments on. Looking round. On a matter of business. Mrs. Coy's, concealed from the others by Sir Fletcher, sinks on to the setee. Oh, a matter of business. Of course, a matter of business. John resuming. I have left my husband. He turned against me at the end and crushed my one hope of being able to whitewash myself. The cur. Resuming. I am off to Paris the first thing in the morning. Very likely this is the last chance you will ever have of a word with your poor little friend, Theo. To Sir Fletcher. Sir Fletcher, I congratulate you on finding your niece. Please tell her that it is impossible for me to grant her request. Oh, but wait. Rising. Surely it would be rather uncivil to refuse what Mrs. Fraser asks. Mrs. Coy's rising. I can be trusted to explain. But she is apparently in need of some business service which my husband can render her. Now that she is again in the hands of her relatives, there can be no necessity for troubling Mr. Allingham. Not the slightest. Not the slightest. Perhaps not. But before such a very curt message is sent to Mrs. Fraser, will you do me the favour of letting me have two or three minutes' conversation with my husband alone? I—I am anxious to go to my niece. Two minutes. Please, John. John goes to the dining-room door and opens it. After a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Coy's goes to the door. Mrs. Coy's turning. I beg that I may not be detained longer. She passes out. John follows her, leaving the door open. Sir Fletcher Portwood standing over plod, shaking him. Wake up, sir. Wake up! W—w—w—what is it? Eh? Rising. Ah, hello, Uncle. You've been sleeping, sir. Your manners are appalling. Where's Aunt? Sir Fletcher Portwood leading him towards the door. In the next room. Come, sir. You are deficient in tact, delicacy. John re-enters. Sir Fletcher passes him and goes out. What as he passes John? The dining-room. John to Claude. I shan't keep you more than a minute or two. Claude in the doorway, turning to John. Heading him. Of course you and I can never again be the same to each other as we have been in the past. But may I take the liberty of foraging for a piece of cake? John laying a hand on his shoulder. Certainly. Claude goes out. John closes the door and turns to Olive. Olive facing him. Well? John advancing to her. Well? Oh, could anything be clearer? It's easy enough now to see through the twaddle these people have been talking. Mrs. Fraser runs away from her husband, who believes her guilty. Her relatives go in pursuit. They look for her and find her where. Her relations chance to be here, when Mrs. Fraser sends for me. Olive muckingly. Yes. John referring to the letter. Desiring to see me for a few moments upon a matter of business. That is all that can be made of it. A matter of business. This letter is not quite ingenuous, you infer. You've caught the tone of the lawyers exactly. A matter of business. Is a lie, you mean? Her arrival tonight is a remarkable coincidence. Perfectly natural one. Why are you so eager then to avoid granting her the interview she asks for? Eager. You send word to her that it's impossible. Don't you make it impossible? No, I do not. I do not. I want you to meet her tonight. You've heard me say I wish it. You mean that? If ever I meant anything in my life. John referring to the letter. I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage. Ah, no, never mind the quiet spot near the cottage. Why can't you have your business interview here? Here? Olive in a low voice, her head drooping. Where we are now? While I? Glancing towards the library. While I take my place in there. There is a pause. He stands looking at her for a moment silently. This is how you propose to carry out your undertaking to make amends to Mrs. Fraser. He turns away from her. Everything is altered since—since— Since we were reconciled, reconciled. Since I promised to aid Mrs. Fraser, the arrival of these people, that letter, has undone everything. Throwing herself upon this Eti desperately. Oh, they knew well enough where their bird would fly to. Bearing her face in the pillows. Oh, John, you'll kill me. And so you would like to try Mrs. Fraser twice in one day. There would be no mistake this time. No doubt whatever. Innocent or guilty. Guilty for choice. No, no, innocent. But I want to be satisfied. Only satisfy me. Satisfy you? My heavens! Satisfy me. Satisfy me. And what a model judge of this lady you would make. Of any woman you were jealous of. How scrupulously fair! How impartial! How— I would be just, John. I would be. John savagely taken a cigarette from the box on the table, and sticking it in between his teeth. Women of your temperament detect a leer in the smile of a wax doll. I give you my word that I will make every allowance for you both, if you will let me hear you together. You are, old friends. Jums was her expression for it in the witness-box today. And you are Jack and Theo to each other, naturally. I am prepared for all that kind of thing. She can kiss you good-bye when she parts from you. Beating her brow. I can comprehend even that. Only—only let me be satisfied by her general tone and bearing, by that unmistakable ring in the voice that she has never been the errant little profligate I once thought her. John now sitting, staring at the carpet, and chewing the end of his cigarette. Supposing I consented, and you were satisfied. Olive Rising is speaking earnestly and rapidly. We are in June. I would have her stay with me. My friends, her own friends, should see that we were close companions. She should go everywhere with me. My arms should always be through hers. I would get a crowd together. She should receive my guests with me. Oh, by good would weak her reputation should be as sound as any woman's in England. Come, think of the dreadful days and nights she's given me, whether she's good or bad. Come, wouldn't that be generous? Look here, you would swear to me you'd never use against her anything that might arise during our meeting. I mean anything that your cursive jealousy could twist into harm. So solemnly, if she proclaimed herself openly in this room to be our— With a stamp of the foot he rises. She should go scot-free for me. If she behaved as an innocent woman she might walk over me in the future, trample on me, I'd be a slave to her, only satisfy me. He goes to the writing table and rapidly scribbles a note. She watches him with eager eyes. When he has finished writing he takes an envelope, rises, comes to Olive, and holds the note up before her. Come to the cottage, J.A. She unclines her head. He touches the bell-press, then he encloses the note in the envelope which he fastens and hands to Olive. Why? Take it. She takes it, wonderingly. I've met your demand so far. Now if you wish to do a womanly thing you'll throw that on the fire. Olive enters. Olive stands, staring before her, speaking in measured tones, keeping his eyes on Olive. Quaif, the note which Mrs. Alingham will give you is for the messenger. Yes, sir. If a lady arrives, ask her to sit down in the card room. Let me know when she comes. I am alone. Should the lady make any inquiries? Very good, sir. Olive, Quaif is waiting for the note. There is a pause. Then Olive turns suddenly and hands Quaif the note. He goes out. There is another pause. And after this, after this, you and I, upon what terms do you imagine you and I will be after this? Oh, if she comes out of it well, I will be so good to her. Olive clutching his arm. I will make you forgive me for it. I will make you. He releases himself from her almost roughly and moves away, turning his back upon her. Of course, you will not mention the Mrs. Fraser that you and I are in any way. In any way. Reconciled. Sitting on the setee, turning to her. Why not? Naturally, she wouldn't open her lips to you at all if you did. John waving her away. Far. Olive, hand to her brow. You are very polite. She walks slowly and painfully towards the steps, pausing in her walk and referring to her watch. John, when the talk between you and Mrs. Fraser has gone far enough, I will strike a ton on the bell of the little clock in here. You understand? When you are satisfied. Olive beginning to ascend the steps with the aid of the ballastrade. When I am satisfied. Olive. She stops. It's not too late now for us to think better of playing this infernally mean trick upon her. Why? Nothing can arise during this interview injurious in the mind of any fair person to Mrs. Fraser's reputation. John starting to his feet. Nothing. Nothing. Then I am clearly serving Mrs. Fraser's interest by what I am doing. She disappears into the library. After a brief pause, John hastily goes to the dining room door and opens it slightly. Mrs. Cloy's. Mrs. Cloy's. Mrs. Cloy's from the dining room. Yes. Let me speak to you. Mrs. Cloy's enters. He closes the door sharply speaking hurriedly and excitedly. I—I have altered my mind about meeting Mrs. Fraser. Altered your mind? I've sent a note to her by her messenger, asking her to see me here. Mr. Elingham, I protest against this as quite unnecessary. Pardon me. Producing theophilus letter and speaking disjointedly, uneasily. On—on consideration, it seems to me that—that for everybody's sake, I have to satisfy my wife that Mrs. Fraser's presence is due solely to the most innocent causes. Mrs. Elingham has, I take it, arrived at certain conclusions as to the motive of my visit. She has. And now theophila following upon our heels. It is a most unfortunate accident. Mrs. Cloy's, eyeing him, penetrating me. Mr. Elingham, you have no doubt whatever of the absolute genuineness of my niece's excuse for calling upon you. Oh! Mrs. Cloy's. Mrs. Cloy's sitting. Yes. I admit that I came here tonight to ask you to pledge your word to us that Theo should run no further risk from her—her acquaintance ship with you—to entreat you if she should be so base—so abandoned. You mean you thought it possible—probable—that this lady had run away from her husband and friends with the deliberate intention of joining me—me? Mrs. Cloy's covers her eyes with her handkerchief. Great happen! I suppose there is no living soul who will believe in an honest friendship between a young man and a young woman. There are certain rules for the conduct of friendship, Mr. Elingham. Rules! The world's getting choked with rules for the conduct of everything and everybody. What's the matter with the world that a woman has to lose her character and paint her face before she's entitled to tele-manner troubles, and hear his in return, cross a dying fire by lamp-light, when the streets are still and a few words of sympathy and encouragement, hear one like a sudden peel of bells? He stands by the fire, bowing his head upon the mantelpiece. Mrs. Cloy's looking at him and speaking in a low voice. Ah! A dying fire, the lamp-light, the still streets. The world is what it is, Mr. Elingham. Yes, and it's a damnable world. Quaith enters. The lady has arrived, sir. Mrs. Cloy's rises. John to Quaith. When I ring, show her in here. Quaith withdraws. Mr. Elingham, you will not let Thiel slip through my fingers. You won't let her escape me. Looking at him. I will trust you so far. You may. I only ask you to allow me to have my interview of Mrs. Fraser undisturbed. Ha! If you knew how I hate the idea of this meeting between you two. Darnage, happily. I have a feeling that something evil is going to result from it. I can only repeat you're wrong in what you think of me. Darn it away. Wrong. Every one of you. Mrs. Cloy's coming to him, her manner gradually changing to harshness, almost to violence. Well, understand me, Mr. Elingham. I'm inclined to, to have, believe in you. You've an honest face and air. Not that those things count for much, but understand me. If you bring, in any shape or form, further harm to her. What further harm can I bring to her? You find me here with my wife. Brother, you had a wife round the corner when you were engaged in destroying my niece's reputation in Lenox Gardens. Recovering her composure. But enough of that. We do understand one another, do we not? Oh, perfectly. That's right. Arranging her bonnet-strings which have become slightly disordered. Excuse me for breaking out in this fashion. She goes to the door, he following her. At the door she turns to him with grave dignity. I'm afraid I've impressed you as being rather a, Tigress. She goes out. He closes the door after her and stands staring at the ground for a moment. Then he gently turns the key in the lock and carefully draws the portier across the door. He is about to put his finger upon the bell-press when he pauses. Olive, Olive, I've not yet rung the bell. Do you stop me? Won't you stop me? He waits. There is no answer. With an angry gesture, he rings the bell. After a brief pause, Quaif enters. Theophila follows. She is dressed as in the previous act, but is now thickly veiled. Quaif gives a puzzled look round the room and withdraws. Theophila advancing is speaking in a weak, plaintive voice. Oh, Jack! They shake hands, but in a constrained, rather formal way. Of course we could have had our talk very well in the lane, but it's kind and considerate of you to ask me in. Oh, not in the least. I—uh—I do sit down. She looks at him, expecting him to find her a chair. In the end, after little uncertainty, she seats herself on the right of the table. In the meantime, he ascertains that the door by which theophila has entered is closed. Theophila lifting her veil. I'm afraid you're a little angry with me for hunting you up. Angry? Why should I be angry? Well, I suppose it is another, what you call it, injudicious act on my part, but it seemed to me, if I thought about it at all, that we came so badly out of it today that nothing matters much now. At any rate, my character is gone. John advancing a step or two, but avoiding her eye. No. No. Oh, isn't it? Yours is gone too, Jack. Only a man gets on comfortably without one. Facing him, her elbows on the table. Well, what do you think of my news? John looking at her startled. By chauve! How dreadfully white you are! Theophila with a nod and smiled. The looks have gone with the character. Putting her hands over her face. Both departed finally. John coming a little nearer to her. When you've had a little rest you'll see everything in a brighter light. I should have kept my appearance a good many years, being fair and small. Removing her hands, looking up at him. He used to tell me I should last pretty till I'm forty-five. Do you remember? His jaw drops a little, and he stares at her without replying. Do you remember? John moving away. Oh, er, er, yes. Is there anything wrong with you, Jack? Wrong? With me? No. She shifts to the other side of the table to be nearer to him. He eyes her, as scants. Why don't you tell me what you think of my news? Your news? Theophila impatiently. You've read my letter, Jack. I'm a—what am I?—a single woman again, a sort of widow. You're acting too hastily. You're simply carried away by a rush of indignation. Perhaps matters can be arranged, patched up. You mustn't be allowed to. Arranged? Patched up? You don't realize what you're proposing. You wouldn't make such a suggestion if you had been a fly on the wall this afternoon, while Mr. Fraser and I were—having a little talk. Struggling to keep back her tears. Alec, my husband, he was very much in love with me at one time. I never doubted that he would stand by me through thick and thin. He's done so pretty well, up till today, up till the trial, and then suddenly he—he— She produces her handkerchief, rises, then moves away abruptly and stands with her back to John, crying. John, turning to the fire. Mr. Fraser was taken aback—flabbergasted, I expect, by the tone adopted by the judge today. There's that poor excuse for him. But a little reflection will soon— Piaffola, drying her eyes. Oh, don't prose, Jack. Turning. On the whole, I think it's better that he and I have at last managed to find out where we are. John, turning to her. Where you are? You'd know. There's always a moment in the lives of a man and woman who are tied to each other, when the man has a chance of making a woman really, really his own property. It's only a moment. If he lets the chance slip, it's gone. It never comes back. I fancy my husband had his chance today, if he had just put his hand on my shoulder this afternoon and said, You fool, you don't deserve it for your stupidity, but I'll try to save you. If he had said something, anything of that kind to me, I think I could have gone down on my knees to him and— Coming to John excitedly. But he stared at the carpet, and held on to his head, and moaned out that he must have time, time, time. Oh, he was my one bit of rock. Throwing herself into a chair on the right. If he'd only mercifully stuck to me for a few months, three months, two, for a month. John going to her slowly and deliberately and standing by her. Mrs. Fraser. She looks up at him, surprised. Of course. Whatever futures in store for you, nothing, no luck, no happy times, can ever pay you back for the distress of mind you've gone through. Nothing, Jack, Mr. Ellingham. Her hand to her brow. Oh, nobody knows. Oh, Jack, some nights, some nights, I said my prayers. I found myself doing that, too, in hansoms, or walking along the street. Praying for me? Yes. Oh, don't make me cry again. Oh, my head. Oh, don't let me cry any more. Hush, hush, hush. What I want to say is this. You knew young Goodhue. Charlie Goodhue, the boy that cheated at Baccarat. He didn't. He was innocent. I'm sure he was, poor fellow. Well, he told me one day in Brussels that he managed to take all the sting out of his punishment by continually reminding himself that it was undeserved that there wasn't a shadow of justification for it. I suppose it would be the same with a woman who gets into a scrape, an innocent woman. It's good under such circumstances if you can feel a bit of a martyr, you mean. That's it. So in the future you must never tire of reminding yourself of the utter harmlessness of those hours we used to spend together in Lenox Gardens. They were harmless enough, God knows. God knows. And they were awfully jolly, too. Jolly. You know, cozy, comforting. Yes. Yes, comforting. It was the one thing that kept me together during those shocking Pond Street days of mine. Our friendship? Our friendship. When I was in the deepest misery, the thought would come to me, well, I shall see my little friend today or tomorrow, and then I'd go through our meeting as I suppose it would be, as it always was. Hello, Jack. Good morning, or good evening. Oh, my dear boy, you're in trouble again, I'm afraid. Dreadfully. I shall go mad, I believe, or drink. Mad. Drink. Not you. Sit down and tell me all about it. And so on. And so on. I had my miseries, too. Yes. You had your miseries, too. And then you invariably came out with that one piece of irracular advice of yours. Ha-ha. Yes. Don't fret. It'll be all the same a hundred years hence. Which you couldn't act upon yourself. How vexed it used to make me, and the ponderous way you said it. Well, it was a good, helpful friendship to me. And to me. John standing a little behind her, speaking calmly, but watching her eagerly. Because all the while there was never one single thought of anything but friendship on either side. Why, of course not, Jack. You'd have detected it in me if there had been. Not a woman for that. And if you had, for a moment, fancied that I was losing sight of mere friendship. You? What would you have done? Oh, one day, the usual headache. Not at home, the next, the proper thing. But, Jack dear, I never felt the slightest fear of you. And that's what makes an end like this so cruel, so intolerably cruel. Never felt the slightest fear of me? No, never. Oh, of course, a woman can tell. Somehow I knew, I knew you couldn't be a black guard. John about to seize her hand, but restraining himself. God bless you, God bless you. He walks away and pokes the fire vicariously, hitting the coal triumphantly. Ah, ha! Turn into Theophila. I beg your pardon, you're in the most uncomfortable chair in the room. He rises and crosses the room. John arranging the pillows on the setee. You must be so weary, too. I'm confoundedly stupid and forgetful tonight. Theophila sitting on the setee. Fancy, the fire in June. John walking about elatedly, dividing his glances between Theophila and the library. I'd love to see a fire. Theophila suddenly. Of course. I remember. He stopped staring at her. Theoretically. Steadily gazing into the fire. That night when we were sitting over the fire in that little room in Lenox Gardens. Oh, yes, yes. I shall always burn a fire, Theo, he said. To bring back these nights, these soothing, precious talks in the quiet hours, wherever I may be, I shall only have to light my fire to hear you and to see you. To see you sitting facing me. Ah, that evening. Yes, I was terribly, terribly down that evening. Wiping his brow. By the by, we, we mustn't neglect the, the matter of business, the little matter of business. Theophila rousing herself. Much of. The matter of business. You mentioned in your letter. Theophila rising. Oh, yes. Satine on the left of the center table. Jack, I, I do hope you won't hate me for asking you. You see, if I went to anyone else, I should run a chance of having all my arrangements upset. I, I want to borrow a little money. Ha, yes, certainly anything. I shall be most happy. This is exactly how I am placed. Mr. Fraser wanted to hurry me off abroad. Ah, that's done with. Yes. Instead of that, you see, I've taken my travels and my future into my own hands. I've telegraphed to Emily Graveney, who was at Madame McDonald's with us girls in the road Daudi Frey-Pasquille. Emily is teaching in Paris now. I hardly know how she scrapes along. She'll be mad with delight to have my companionship. But till the lawyer settle my position precisely as regards Mr. Fraser, I'm practically broke, penniless. It's a little ready money, I want. John, who has seated himself at the right of the table, while the alfala has been talking. You've only to tell me how much. Well, I think I could tide over it with fifty pounds. I'm afraid you haven't got it in the house, though. I don't want to check. John, taking out his keys and going to a table. I believe I can just make it up. He opens a door in the writing-table, finds some bank-notes, counts them, then empties his sovereign purse and screws the gold up in the notes. Within a pound. That's of no consequence. Rising. I'm awfully obliged to you. I knew you would. I—bye. He returns to her and finds her clutching the table unsteadily. John placing the money on the table. What's the matter? Nothing. Sinking back into the chair with clothes to hide. I shall be all right in a minute. He brings her a glass of water and places it to her lips. She sips the water for a little while, then gives a sigh. Better? I think so. When did you last eat? She shakes her head feebly. He puts the glass of water aside and fetches the biscuits. Get two or three of these down. Come, try. The Ophala taking a biscuit. Thank you. He places the biscuits on the table by her side and goes back to the other table. A glass of this champagne would pull you together? The Ophala nibbling the biscuit, her eyes still closed. Would it? He brings the decanter a champagne and a small tumble. She speaking frankly and opening her eyes. Oh, do let me off this, Jack. John pouring out some champagne. No, no, stick to it, do. The Ophala watching him. That looks nice. She puts the remains of her biscuit on the table and stretches out her hand for the wine. He gives it to her where she drinks. Oh, oh, oh. There is a pause. There she shakes herself, looks up at him and breaks into a low, childlike little laugh. I'd nearly gone hadn't I? Empty in her glass. Oh, oh. Fetch yourself a glass and we'll drink luck to each other. Then I really must be off. The porter said that trains run every, every, what was it? He brings a glass which she fills speaking animatedly. A tumbler, oh, thigh. Filling her own glass. Oh, mine's a tumbler, too. Notting to him. Ourselves. Touching his glass with hers. Our two poor, unfortunate selves. They drink. I don't care, do you? Carr. A hang for anything, for what he just said, for what people think. Here's to our friend, the judge. Drinking, nearly empty in her glass. I hope his wife's a cat who leads him up. Jumping up suddenly, her eyes dilating, holding her glass high in the air. Happiness and prosperity to Mr. Fraser. Mr. Fraser. Oh, hush. Fraser of Luckine. She goes to the fireplace and flings the contents of her glass into the grate. Ha! Well, that's throwing good stuff after poor, isn't it? She places her glass on the table. The cigarette box is open. She takes the cigarette. The old sort? No, no. The awful is striking a match. Only you with? Lying in her cigarette. Sure, I'm not in the way, Jack, if I rest here a minute or two longer. John, with a glance at the library. Certainly not. The awful is throwing herself upon the setee in a careless attitude, smoking. Oh, thank God for this rest. Looking round. So this is the little place you used to tell me about. John, standing, watching her apprehensively. Um... Phew! Your fire's all right to look at. Chewie moves her cape from her shoulders and flings it away from her. He picks it up and places it over the back of a chair. Never mind that rag. Are you likely to be in Paris? I... I'm not fond of Paris. The awful is jumping up and speaking volubly, excitedly, boisterously. Suppose that wire don't find Emily and she doesn't meet me at the north tomorrow night. Oh, cheerful. She may be dead. No, no, not Emily. Poor old Emily. Be sure you look me up if you should pass through. The Poisonier, 18. You're bound to be rambling soon. How lucky a man is. That's just as he chooses. Good chap, so-and-so. Awfully ruckety. But the world would be a deuce deal livelier if there were more like him. That's what they all say of a man. Phew! As she rattles on she takes off her bonnet and clears her hair from her brow. But a woman? Well, look at me. Not that anybody will look at me in Paris or elsewhere. I used to know several smart people in Paris. Now all my stars want to talk distant objects when they see me coming along. Angrily. Ah, a gay time shall have a bit. Shut up with Emily Gravney with her red nose and her poor narrow chest and her perpetual sniffle. She flings away her cigarette. Her hair is disordered. Her breath comes quickly. There is a wild look in her eyes. Her bonnet falls to the floor. He paces the room distractedly. By Jove, I won't have a dull time though. I shall only hang out with Emily long enough just to turn round. Then I'll take a little appartement of my own. Uncle Fletcher will make me an allowance. I won't touch a penny of his money. I'll let the world see how happy I am without the character I've been robbed of. Yes, robbed of. Snapping her fingers. I shall burst out laughing in the face of the whole world, Jack. Put my tongue out at a world, your wife, my husband. After the solemn farce we've all gone through. Between her teeth. Yes, they shall have a pretty picture in their minds of me, the other side of the channel, with my finger to my nose like a cheeky urchin. Oh my heavens, how I hate him. Hate him. Hate him. Mrs. Fraser, Mrs. Fraser. Oh, the devilish injustice of it. To think that we're still married, Jack, you would die. Mockery. To think that we wander about the world still with our owner's marks branded upon us. I believe I have an F branded upon my shoulder, burnt in. Running to him. Oh, I won't bear it. I can't bear it. Hush, hush. I shall go mad if I can't pay out that wife of yours. She's ruined me. I will be even with her. Hush. And with him that fish, that cold, flapping fish. Glinging to him suddenly. Jack, I wouldn't bore you. I wouldn't bore you, Jack. Bore me. Oh, take me away. Let's see when I go together. John putting his hand over her mouth. For God's sake. The clock in the library is heard to strike. It's too late. Too late. The offala drawing back, looking into his face. Too late. There's a sharp knocking at the dining room door. What's that? The knocking is repeated. Who is it? Mrs. Cloy's is here. The offala, her hand to her brow. Mrs. Cloy's, aunt. Mrs. Cloy, Sir Fletcher and your brother were with me when your note arrived. They want to see you. See me? See me? John gripping her wrist. Pull yourself together, Mrs. Fraser. The knocking is again heard. John goes to the door. The offala in a whisper. Jack. He pauses. She seems dazed. They haven't heard a word of what I said to you. Heard? No. Are you ready? He pulls aside the potier, unlocks the door and opens it. Mrs. Cloy's enters. Sir Fletcher and Claude appear in the doorway. You've tried my patience long enough, Mr. Ellingham. She goes to the offala. John walks away and stands with his back to those in the room. Come. You have had ample time for your business interview. Staring at the offala. What's wrong with you? The offala is sinking into a chair. Nothing. Where's your cape and your bonnet? The offala looks round, vacantly. Cape? Cape? Here is a cape. He hands the cape to Mrs. Cloy's. She snatches it from him and puts it round the offala's shoulders. Claude picks up the bonnet and brings it to Mrs. Cloy's. Then he goes to the upper door and stands there waiting. Mrs. Cloy's raising the offala. You are not well. You are ill. Fletcher. Sir Fletcher goes up to the steps leading to the library. Where are you going? My hat. He pushes the potier aside and draws back. Mrs. Ellingham? Hesitatingly. I believe I have left my hat here, Mrs. Ellingham. May I? He enters the library. Mrs. Ellingham. Mrs. Ellingham. Yes, yes. Sir Fletcher comes out of the library carrying his hat. The offala to Mrs. Cloy's. Mrs. Ellingham. His wife. Mr. and Mrs. Ellingham have arranged their differences. Looking from the offala to John. Why, don't you know? Sir Fletcher Portwood coming down the steps. Haven't you seen Mrs. Ellingham? Seen her. This evening? Here? Here. Your interview with Mr. Ellingham has taken place in this room? In this room, yes. Come. Wait Harriet, please. Mr. Ellingham? Mr. Ellingham? Pardon me for putting such a question. Surely you have not allowed. Allowed? Then a party, too. Allowed? Allowed what? Sir Fletcher Portwood looking towards the library. Harriet, you can hear most distinctly in the library. Here? Over here, certainly over here. No. No. Going to John. Preposterous. After a pause. Mr. Ellingham? Why should Mrs. Ellingham be there? John is silent. What has passed between you and... Your wife has not been listening. Mrs. Fraser has said nothing to me that a... A just woman can bring up against her. Listening. Yes. But you don't know. Olive. Olive. Olive comes out of the library and stands at the top of the steps. Theophila regards her for a moment blankly. Then goes to the balustrade and stares up at her. After a brief pause, Theophila joins Mrs. Cloy's. But seeing John, she comes unsteadily towards him and looks him in the face. Then, as she turns away to Mrs. Cloy's, she utters a groan and tumbles to the floor at John's feet. End of Act Two.