 Act I of the New York Idea by Langdon Mitchell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Narrated by Margaret Espayot. Philip Fillamore. Read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Grace Fillamore. Read by Diana Moidingett. Mrs. Fillamore. Read by Margaret Espayot. Miss Hennage. Read by Rashada. Matthew Fillamore. Read by Roger Maline. William Sutley. Read by Obe123. Vida Fillamore. Read by Elizabeth Clatt. Sir Wilfred Cates Derby. Read by Chris Clark. John Carslake. Read by MB. Mrs. Cynthia Carslake. Read by Ariel Lipshaw. Brooks. Read by Chris Clark. Tim Fiddler. Read by Chris Clark. Nogum. By Miles Espayot. Thomas. Read by David Moncaster. Benson. Read by Lucy Perry. Scene. Living room in the house of Philip Fillamore. Five p.m. of an afternoon of May. The general air and appearance of the room is that of an old-fashioned, decorous, comfortable interior. There are no electric lights and no electric bells. Two bell ropes as in old-fashioned houses. The room is in dark tones inclining to somber and of old-fashioned elegance. Seated in the room are Mrs. Hennage, Mrs. Fillamore, and Thomas. Mrs. Hennage is a solidly built, narrow-minded woman in her sixties. She makes no effort to look younger than she is, and is expensively but quietly dressed with heavy elegance. She commands her household and her family connection, and on the strength of a large and steady income feels that her opinion has its value. Mrs. Fillamore is a semi-professional, invalid, refined, and unintelligent. Her movements are weak and fatigued. Her voice is habitually plaintive, and she is entirely a lady without a trace of being a woman of fashion. Thomas is an easy-mannered but respectful family servant, un-English both in style and appearance. He has no deportment worthy of being so-called and takes an evident interest in the affairs of the family he serves. Mrs. Hennage is seated at the tea-table facing the foot-lights. Mrs. Fillamore is seated at the table on the right. Thomas stands nearby. Tea-things on table, decanter of sherry and coaster, bread and butter on plate, vase with flowers, silver match-box, large, old-fashioned tea urn, guard for flame, the evening post on tea-table. Mrs. Hennage and Mrs. Fillamore both have cups of tea. Mrs. Hennage sits up very straight and pours tea for Grace, who enters from door. She is a pretty and fashionably dressed girl of twenty. She speaks superciliously, coolly, and not too fast. She sits on the sofa gracefully and without lounging. She wears a gown suitable for spring visiting, hat, parasol, and gloves. Grace adds she moves to the sofa. I never in my life walked so far and found so few people at home. Pauses, takes off gloves, somewhat quarrellessly. The fact is, the nineteenth of May is ridiculously late to be in town. Thomas? Mr. Fillamore's sherry. Thomas indicating the particular table. The sherry, ma'am. Mr. Fillamore's post. Pointing to the evening post on the tea-table. The post, ma'am. Mrs. Hennage indicating cup. Mrs. Fillamore. Thomas takes cup of tea to Grace. Silence. They all sip tea. Thomas goes back, fills sherry glass, remaining round and about the tea-table. They all drink tea during their entire conversation. The Dudleys were at home. They wished to know when my brother Philip was to be married and where and how. If the Dudleys were persons of breeding, they had not intrude their curiosity upon you. I like Lena Dudley. Mrs. Fillamore speaking slowly and gently. Do I know Miss Dudley? She knows Philip. She expects an announcement of the wedding. I trust you told her that my son, my sister and myself are all of the opinion that those who have been divorced should remarry with modesty and without parade. I told the Dudleys Philip's wedding was here, to-morrow. Mrs. Hennage to Mrs. Fillamore picking up a sheet of paper from the table. I have spent the afternoon, Mary, in arranging and listing the wedding gifts and in writing out the announcements of the wedding. I think I have attained a proper form of announcement. Taking the sheet of note-paper and giving it to Thomas. Of course the announcement Philip himself made was quite out of the question. Grace smiles. However, there is mine. She points to the paper. Thomas gives the list to Mrs. Fillamore and moves away. I hope you'll send an announcement to the Dudleys. Mrs. Fillamore prepared to make the best of things, plaintively reads. Mr. Philip Fillamore and Mrs. Cynthia Dean Carslake announced their marriage May 20th at 3 o'clock, 19A Washington Square, New York. Replacing the paper on Thomas' salver. It sounds very nice. Thomas returns the paper to Mrs. Hennage. In my opinion, it barely escapes sounding nasty. However, it is correct. The only remaining question is to whom the announcement should not be sent. Thomas goes out. I consider an announcement of the wedding of two divorced persons to be in the nature of an intimate communication. It not only announces the wedding, it also announces the divorce. Returning to her teacup. The person I shall ask counsel of is cousin William Sudley. He promised to drop in this afternoon. Oh, we shall hear all about Cairo. William is judicious. Thomas returns. Cousin William will disapprove of the match, unless a winter in Cairo has altered his moral tone. Mr. Sudley. He ushers in William Sudley, a little oldish gentleman. He is and appears thoroughly insignificant. But his opinion of the place he occupies in the world is enormous. His manner's voice, presence, are all of those of a man of breeding and self-importance. Mrs. Fillimore and Mrs. Hennage rising and greeting Sudley a little tremulously. My dear William. Thomas withdraws. Sudley shakes hands with Mrs. Fillimore, soberly glad to see them. How do you do, Mary? Greeting Mrs. Hennage. Very warm may you are having, Sarah. Grace coming forward to welcome him. Dear cousin William. Wasn't it warm in Cairo when you left? She will have the strict truth or nothing. Still, on account of Sudley's impeccable respectability, she treats him with more than usual leniency. Sudley sitting down. We left Cairo six weeks ago, Grace. So I have had no news since he wrote in February that Philip was engaged. I need not to say I consider Philip's engagement excessively regrettable. He is a judge upon the Supreme Court bench with a divorced wife and such a divorced wife. Oh, but Philip has succeeded in keeping everything as quiet as possible. No, my dear. He hasn't succeeded in keeping his former wife as quiet as possible. We had not been in Cairo a week, when who should turn but Vida Fillimore. She went everywhere and did everything the woman should. Oh, what did she do? She did Cleopatra at the tableau at Lord Ellington's. She did Cleopatra. And she did it robbed only in Shamedi Forest material of nature, so transparent that, in fact, she appeared to be trapped in moonshine. Mrs. Hennage indicates the presence of Grace and Rises. That was only the beginning. As soon as a heart of Philip's engagement, she gave a dinner in honor of it. Only divorces were axed. And she had a dummy. Yes, my dear, a dummy. At the head of the table. He stood for Philip. That is, he said, for Philip. Rising and moving to the table. Ah. Dear me! I disapprove of Mrs. Fillimore. Suddenly taking a cigarette. Of course you do. But has Philip taken to Egyptian cigarettes in order to celebrate my winter at Cairo? Those are Cynthia's. Who is Cynthia? Mrs. Carslake. She is staying here, cousin William. She'll be down in a minute. You want me to tell me? Yes, William. Cynthia is Mrs. Carslake. Mrs. Carslake has no New York house. I disliked the publicity of a hotel in the circumstances and, accordingly, when she became engaged to Philip, I invited her here. And may I ask who Mrs. Carslake is? She was a dean. Suddenly, walking about the room, sorry to be obliged to concede good birth to any but his own blood. Oh, well. The deans are extremely nice people. Approaching the table. Was her father J. William Dean? Yes. The family is an old one. J. William Dean's daughter. Surely he lived to be very considerable. Oh, fifteen or twenty millions. Suddenly, determined not to be dazzled. If I remember rightly, she was brought up abroad. In France and England. And I fancy brought up with a very gay set in very gay places. In fact, she is what is called a sporty woman. I might put up with that. But it don't mean to tell me Philip has the assurance to marry a woman who has been divorced by. Not at all. Cynthia Carslake divorced her husband. See, divorced him. Ah, he seeks the consolation of his tea. The suit went by default. And, my dear William, there are many palliating circumstances. Cynthia was married to Carslake only seven months. There are no... Glancing at grace. No hostages to fortune. Ahem. Ah, what sort of a young woman is she? Man admire her. She's not conventional. I am bound to say she has behaved discreetly ever since she arrived in this house. Yes, Mary. But I sometimes suspect that she exercises a degree of self-control. She claps on the lead, eh? A new thing that part of some days she will boil over. Well, of course, fifteen or twenty millions. But who is Carslake? He owns Cynthia Cay. She's the famous mare. He is Henry Carslake's son. Oh, Henry. Very respectable family. Although I remember his father served the term in the Senate. And so the wedding used to be tomorrow. Tomorrow? Suddenly, rising, his respectability to the front when he thinks of the ceremony. Grace rises. Well, my dear Sarah, respectable family with some means. We must accept her. But on the whole I think it will be best for me not to see the young woman. My disapprobation would make itself apparent. Grace whispering to Suddly. Cynthia's coming. He doesn't hear. Cynthia comes in, absorbed in reading a newspaper. She is a young creature in her twenties, small and high-bred, full of the love of excitement and sport. Her manner is wide-awake and keen, and she is evidently in no fear of the opinion of others. Her dress is exceedingly elegant, but with the elegance of a woman whose chief interests lie in life out of doors. There is nothing hard or masculine in her style, and her expression is youthful and ingenuous. The uncut modern young woman. Eight feet high, with skin like rhinoceros and menace like a cave dweller. And I bet you of the racetrack hand the divorce court. Cousin William. Uh-oh. Cynthia, reading her newspaper, advances into the room, immersed, excited, trembling. She lowers paper to catch the light. Belmont Favourite. Six to one. Rockaway. Rosebud and Flying Cloud. Slow track. Raw wind. Hmm. At the half, Rockaway forged ahead when Rosebud under the lash made a bold bid for victory, neck by neck for a quarter, when Flying Cloud slipped by the pair and won on the post by a nose in 149. Oh, I wish I'd seen the deer thing do it. Oh, it's Mr. Sudley. You must think me very rude. How do you do, Mr. Sudley? Going over to Sudley. Sudley bowing without cordiality. Mrs. Cousley. Cynthia pauses, feeling he should say something. As he says nothing, she speaks again. I hope Cairo was delightful. Did you have a smooth voyage? You must permit me, Mrs. Cousley. Oh, please, don't welcome me to the family. All that formal part is over, if you don't mind. I'm one of the tribe now. You're coming to our wedding tomorrow. My dear Mrs. Cousley. I think it might be wiser. Oh, but you must come. I mean to be a perfect wife to Philip in all his relations. That sounds rather miscellaneous, but you know what I mean. I'm afraid. If you don't come, it'll look as if you were not standing by Philip when he's in trouble. You'll come, won't you? But of course you will. I'll come, Mrs. Cousley. Good afternoon. Goodbye, Mary. Good afternoon, Sarah. Grace, dear. At what hour did you say their alimony commences? Miss Hennage, quickly and commandingly to cover his slip. The ceremony is at 3 p.m., William. Suddenly walks toward the door. Mrs. Fillmore with fatigued voice and manner as she rises. I am going to my room to rest a while. She trails slowly from the room. Oh, William, one moment. I entirely forgot. I have the most important social question to ask you. She accompanies him slowly to the door. In regard to the announcements of the wedding, who they shall be sent to and who not? For instance, the Dudley's. Deep in their talk, Sudley and Miss Hennage pass out together. Cynthia from the sofa. So that's Cousin William. Grace from the tea table. Don't you like him? Like him? I love him. He's so generous. He couldn't have received me with more warmth if I'd been a mulatto. Thomas comes in, preceded by Fillmore. Philip Fillmore is a self-centered, short-tempered, imperious member of the respectable fashionables of New York. He is well and solidly dressed, and in manner and speech evidently a man of family. He is accustomed to being listened to in his home circle and from the bench, and it is practically impossible for him to believe that he can make a mistake. Really, you know? Cynthia moves to the table. Philip? Philip nods to Grace absentmindedly. He is in his working suit and looks tired. He walks into the room silently, goes over to the tea table, bends over and kisses Cynthia on the forehead, goes to his chair, which Thomas has moved to suit him. He sits and sighs with satisfaction. Ah, Grace! Grace immediately sails out of the room. Well, my dear, I thought I should never extricate myself from the courtroom. You look very debonair. The tea's making. You'll have your glass of sherry. Thanks. Taking it from Thomas and sighing. Ah! I can see it's been a tiring day with you. Philip, his great tussle with the world, leaving him unworstened but utterly spent. Hmm. He gratefully sips his tea. Were the lawyers very long-winded? Prolix to the point of somnolence. It might be affirmed without inexactitude that the prolixity of counsel is the somnolence of the judiciary. I am fatigued. Ah! A little suddenly, awaking to the fact that his orders have not been carried out to the letter. Thomas! My post is not in its usual place. It's here, Philip. Thomas gets it. Thanks, my dear. Opening the post. Ah! This hour with you is... is really the... the one vivid moment of the day. Hmm. Shocking attack by the president on vested interests. Hmm. Too bad. But it's to be expected. The people insisted on electing a desperado to the presidential office. They must take the hold up that follows. Hmm. His English is lacking in idiom, his spelling and conservatism, his mind in balance, and his character in repose. You seem more fatigued than usual. Another glass of sherry, Philip. Oh, I ought not to. I think you seem a little more tired than usual. Perhaps I am. She pours out sherry. Philip takes glass, but does not sip. Ah! This hour is truly a grateful form of restful excitement. You too find it, eh? He looks at Cynthia. Decidedly. Decidedly what, my dear? Restful. Hmm. Perhaps I need to call more than you do. Over the case today I actually, eh, slumbered. I heard myself do it. That's how I know. A dressmaker sued on seven counts. Reading his newspaper. Really? The insanity of the United States Senate. You seem restless, my dear. Ah! Have you seen the evening paper? I see there has been a lightning change in the style or size of hats which ladies sweeping a descriptive motion with his hand. He gives the paper to Cynthia. Then moves his glass, reads and sips. The lamp, Thomas. Thomas blows out the alcohol lamp on the tea table with difficulty. Blows twice. Movement of Philip each time. Blows again. Confounded, Thomas. What are you puffing and blowing at? It's out, ma'am. Yes, sir. You're excessively noisy, Thomas. Yes, sir. I am. We don't need you, Thomas. Yes, ma'am. Puffing and blowing and shaking and quaking like an automobile in an ecstasy. Thomas meekly withdraws. Too bad, Philip. I hope my presence isn't too agitating. Ah! It's just because I value this hour with you, Cynthia. This hour of tea and toast and tranquility. It's quite as if we were married. Happily married already. Cynthia, admitting that married life is a blank, begins to look through paper. Yes, I feel as if we were married already. Ah! It's the calm, you see. The calm. Yes. Yes. It's the calm. Yes. The calm. The Halcyon calm of... of second choice. Hmm. He reads and turns over the leaves of the paper. Cynthia reads. There is a silence. After all, my dear, the feeling which I have for you is... is... eh. The market is in a shocking condition of plethora. Hmm. Hmm. And what are you reading? Oh, well, I... I'm just running over the sporting news. Oh. Cynthia, beginning to forget Philip and to remember more interesting matters. A fancy to Hermes would come in an easy winner. He came in nowhere. Non-peret was written by Henslow. He's a rotten bad writer. He gets nervous. Philip, still interested in his newspaper. Does he? Hmm. I suppose you do retain an interest in horses and races. Hmm. I trust someday the, uh... law will attract... oh. Here's the report of my opinion in that dressmaker's case. Hagerty versus Fillimore. Was the case brought against you? Oh, no. No. The suit was brought by Hagerty. Miss Hagerty, a dressmaker against the... in fact, my dear, against the former Mrs. Fillimore. After a pause, he returns to his reading. How did you decide it? I was obliged to decide in Mrs. Fillimore's favour. Hagerty's plea was preposterous. Did you... did you meet the... the former? No. I often see her at afternoon teas. How did you recognise? Why? Because Mrs. Vida Fillimore's picture appears in every other issue of most of the evening papers, and I must confess I was curious. But I'm sure you find it very painful to meet her again. No. Would you find it so impossible to meet Mr... Philip, don't speak of him. He's nothing. He's a thing of the past. I never think of him. I forget him. That's extraordinarily original of you to forget him. We each of us have something to forget, Philip, and John Carr's leg is to me. Well, he's dead. As a matter of fact, my dear, he is dead, or the next thing to it, for he's bankrupt. Bankrupt? Let's not speak of him. I may never to see him or think about him or even hear of him. He assents. She reads her paper. He sips his tea and reads his paper. She turns a page, starts and cries out. God bless me! It's a picture of... of... John Carr's leg? Picture of him and one of me, and in the middle between us, Cynthia Kay. Cynthia Kay? My pet riding mare. The best horse he has. She's an angel even in a photograph. Oh! Reading. John Carr's leg drops a fortune at Saratoga. Rises and walks up and down excitedly. Philip takes the paper and reads. Him. Ah, advertises country place for sale. Stables, famous mare, Cynthia Kay, favorite riding mare of former Mrs. Carr's leg, who is once again to enter the arena of matrimony with the well-known and highly respected judge of... Don't. Don't, Philip. Please don't. My dear Cynthia, take another paper. Here's my post. You'll find nothing disagreeable in the post. Cynthia takes paper. Cynthia after reading near the table. It's much worse in the post. John Carr's leg sells the former Mrs. Carr's leg's jewels. The famous necklace now at Tiffany's and the sporty ex-husband sells his wife's portrait by Sargent. Philip, I can't stand this. Puts paper on the table. Really, my dear? Mr. Carr's leg is bound to appear occasionally in print, or even you may have to meet him. Thomas comes in. I won't meet him. I won't meet him. Every time I hear his name or Cynthia Kay's, I'm so depressed. Thomas, announcing with something like reluctance. Sir, Mr. Fiddler, Mr. Carr's leg's trainer. Fiddler walks in. He is an English horse trainer, a wide-awake stocky, well-groomed little cockney. He knows his own mind and sees life altogether through a stable door, well-dressed for his station and not too young. Fiddler? Tim Fiddler? The horse coming is outrageous. No for you, sir. Oh, Fiddler, is that you? Yes, ma'am. How is she? Cynthia Kay. How's Planet Two and the Colts and Golden Rod? How's the whole stable? Are they well? No, ma'am. We're all on the bum. Aside. Ever since you kicked us over. Fiddler. The horse has just simply gone to Egypt since you left. So's the governor. That will do, Fiddler. I'm waiting for an answer, sir. What is it, Philip? It's a mere matter of business. Aside to Fiddler. The answer is Mr. Carsley can come. The coast will be clear. Fiddler goes out. You're not going to see him. But Carsley, my dear, is an old acquaintance of mine. He argues cases before me. I will see that you do not have to meet him. Cynthia walks the length of the room in excited dejection. Matthew comes in. He's a high church clergyman to a highly fashionable congregation. His success is partly due to his social position and partly to his elegance of speech, but chiefly to his inherent amiability which leaves the sinner in happy peace and smiles on the just and unjust alike. Ah, my dear brother. Matthew. Good afternoon, my dear Cynthia. How charming you look. Cynthia sits down at the tea table. To Cynthia. Ah, why weren't you in your pew yesterday? I preached a most original sermon. He lays his hat and cane on the divan. Thomas aside to Philip. Sir, Mrs. Vida Fillimoore's maid called you up on the telephone, and you're to expect Mrs. Fillimoore on a matter of business. Here, impossible! To Cynthia. Excuse me, my dear. Philip, much embarrassed, goes out, followed by Thomas. Matthew, approaching Cynthia's chair, happily and pleasantly self-important. No, really. It was a wonderful sermon, my dear. My text was from Paul. It is better to marry than to burn. It was a strictly logical sermon. I argued that, as the grass withereth and the flower fadeeth, there is nothing final in nature, not even death. And as there is nothing final in nature, not even death, so then, if death is not final, why should marriage be final? And so the necessity of a divorce. You see, it was an exquisite sermon. All New York was there, and all New York went away happy. Even the sinners, if there were any, I don't often meet sinners, do you? Cynthia, indulgently, in spite of his folly, because he is kind. You're such a dear, delightful pagan. Here's your tea. Why, my dear, you have a very sad expression. Why not? I feel as if I were of no use in the world when I see sadness on a young face. Only sinners should feel sad. You have committed no sin? Yes, I have. Eh? I committed the unpardonable sin when I married for love. One must not marry for anything else, my dear. Why am I marrying your brother? I often wonder why. I wonder why you didn't choose to remain a free woman. I meant to. But a divorcee has no place in society. I felt horribly lonely. I wanted a friend. Philip was ideal as a friend for months. Isn't it nice to bind a friend to you? Matthew's sitting down his teacup. Yes, yes. To marry a friend. To marry on prudent, sensible grounds, a man like Philip. That's what I should have done first instead of rushing into marriage, because I had a wild, mad, sensitive, sympathetic, passion and pain and fury of, I don't know what, that almost strangled me with happiness. Ah, ah, in my youth. I, I too. And besides, the day Philip asked me, I was in the dumps. And now, how about marrying only for love? Philip comes back. Ah, my dear, love is not the only thing in the world. Philip half aside. I got there too late, she'd hung up. Who, Philip? A, a lady, ah, ah, ah. Thomas, flurried, comes in with a card on a salver. A card for you, sir. Ahem, ahem. Mrs. Fillimo, that was, ah... Eh? She's on the stairs, sir. He nods backward, only to find Vida at his side. He announces her as being the best way of meeting the difficulty. Mrs. Vida, Fillimo. Vida comes in slowly, with the air of a spoiled beauty. She stops just inside the door and speaks in a very casual manner. Her voice is languorous and caressing. She is dressed in the excess of the French fashion and carries a daring parasol. She smiles and comes in, undulating to the middle of the room. Tableau. Thomas withdraws. How do you do, Philip? Don't tell me I'm a surprise. I had you called up on the phone and I sent up my card. And besides, Philip dear, when you have the... the habit of the house, as unfortunately I have, you can't treat yourself like a stranger in a strange land. At least, I can't. So here I am. My reason for coming was to ask you about that B&O stock we hold in common. To Matthew, condescendingly, the clergy being of a class of unfortunates debarred by profession from the pleasures of the world. And how do you do? Pause. She then goes to the real reason of her visit. Do be polite and present me to your wife to be. Cynthia. Cynthia, cheerfully, with dash, putting the table between Vita and herself. We are delighted to see you, Mrs. Fillmore. I needn't ask you to make yourself at home, but will you have a cup of tea? Matthew sits near the little table. Vita to Philip. My dear, she's not in the least what I expected. I heard she was a dove. She's a very dashing kind of dove. To Cynthia, who moves to the tea-table. My dear, I'm paying you compliments. Five lumps and quantities of cream, I find single life very thinning. To Philip, calm and ready to be agreeable to any man. And how well you're looking. It must be the absence of matrimonial cares. Or is it a new angel in the house? It's most amusing to sit in your place. And how at home you must feel here in this house where you have made so much trouble. I mean tea. Rises. Do you know it would be in much better taste if you would take the place you are accustomed to? My dear, I'm an intruder only for a moment. I shan't give you a chance to score off me again. But I must thank you, dear Philip, for rendering that decision in my favor. I assure you. Of course, you would like to have rendered it against me. It was your wonderful sense of justice. And that's why I'm so grateful, if not to you, to your maker. Philip feels that this is no place for his future wife. Rises quickly to Cynthia. Cynthia, I would prefer that you left us. Matthew moves to the sofa and sits down. Cynthia determined not to leave the field first, remains seated. Certainly, Philip. I expect another visitor who... Oh my dear, don't go. The truth is, I came to see you. I feel most cordially towards you. And really you know people in our position should meet on cordial terms. Naturally. If people in our position couldn't meet, New York society would soon come to an end. Thomas comes in. Precisely. Society's no bigger than a band box. Why, it's only moments ago I saw Mr. Cars Lake walking. Ah! Thomas announcing clearly. Everyone changes place in consternation, amusement or surprise. Cynthia moves to leave the room, but stops for fear of attracting Cars Lake's attention. Mr. John Cars Lake. Enter Cars Lake. A thoughtful, generous personality, a man of affairs, breezy, gay and careless. He gives the impression of being game for any fate in store for him. His clothes indicate sporting propensities and his taste in waistcoats and ties is brilliant. Cars Lake sees first Philip and then Matthew. Thomas goes out. How do you do? Good afternoon, Mr. Fillimore. Hello, here's the church. Crossing to Matthew and shaking hands. I had the least idea. How are you? By Georgia, Reverend, that was a racy sermon of yours on divorce. What was your text? Sees Vita and bows very politely. Galations for two the more the merrier or who next? As the whale said after Jonah. Cynthia makes a sudden movement upsetting her teacup. John faces about quickly and they face each other. John gives a frank start. A pause holds them. Mrs. Cars Lake? Bowing. I was not aware of the pleasure in store for me. I understood you were in the country. Recovering and moving to her chair. Perhaps you'll be good enough to make me a cup of tea. That is, if the teapot wasn't lost in the scrimmage. There is another pause. Cynthia, determined to equal him in coolness, returns to the tea tray. Mr. Fillimore, I came to get your signature in that matter of cocks versus keely. I shall be at your service, but pray be seated. He indicates a chair by the tea table. John sitting beyond, but not far from the tea table. And I also understood you to say you wanted a saddle horse. You have a mare called a Cynthia Kay. Yes, she's not for sale. Oh, but she's just the mare I had set my mind on. You want it for yourself? I, uh, I sometimes ride. She's rather lively for you, Judge. Mrs. Carslake used to ride her. You don't care to sell her to me. She's a dangerous mare, Judge. And she's as delicate and changeable as a girl. I'd hate to leave her in your charge. Leave her in mine, Mr. Carslake. Mrs. Carslake knows all about a horse, but... Turning to Cynthia. Cynthia Kay's got rather tricky of late. You mean to say you think she'd chuck me? I'd hate to have a mare of mine deprive you of a wife, Judge. Rises. Cynthia shows anger. She goes to Saratoga next week, C.W. Vida, who has been sitting and talking to Matthew for lack of a better man, comes to talk to Carslake. C.W.? Creditors willing. I'm sure your creditors are willing. Oh, they're a breezy lot, my creditors. They're giving me a dinner this evening. I regret I'm not a breezy creditor, but I do think you owe it to me to let me see your Cynthia Kay. Can't you lead her around to my house? At what hour, Mrs. Fillmore? Say, eleven? And you, too, might have a leading in my direction. 771 Fifth Avenue. John Vows. Cynthia hears and notes this. Your cup of tea, Mr. Carslake. Thanks. Taking his tea and sipping it. I beg your pardon. You have forgotten Mrs. Carslake. Very naturally, it has slipped your memory, but... Take sugar. Cynthia, furious with him and herself, he hands the cup back. She makes a second cup. Sorry. Yes, gout. Gives me a twinge even to sit in the shadow of a sugar-maple. First you riot and let you die it. My dear Matthew, he's a darling, but I feel as if we were all taking tea on the slope of a volcano. Matthew sits down. It occurred to me, Mr. Carslake, that you might be glad to find a purchaser for your portrait by Sergeant. It's not my portrait. It's a portrait of Mrs. Carslake. And to tell you the truth, Sergeant's a good fellow, I've made up my mind to keep it. To remember the artist by... Cynthia is wounded by this. Hmm. Cynthia hands a second cup to John. Your cup of tea, Mr. Carslake. John, rising and taking the tea with courteous indifference. Thanks. Sorry to trouble you. He drinks the cup of tea standing by the tea table. You're selling your country place? If I was long of hair, I'd sell that. You're not really selling your stable. John finishes his tea, places the empty cup on the tea table, and receipts himself. Every gelbing I've got. Seven foals and a donkey. I don't mean the owner. How did you ever manage to come such a cropper? Streak of blue luck. I don't see how it's possible. You would if you'd been there. Sitting down. Bloke? Of course. Well, his wife divorced him for beating her over the head with a bottle of Fowler's solution, and it seemed to prey on his mind. He sold me... Sold a race? About ten races, I guess. Just because he'd beaten his wife? No, because she divorced him. Well, I can't see why that should prey on his mind. Well, I've known men that it stroked the wrong way. But he cost me 80,000, and then her vanity ran third in the $1,000 stakes for two-year-olds at Belmont. I never had faith in that horse. And, of course, it never rains monkeys, but it pours gorillas. So, when I was down at St. Louis on the 5th, I had laid 7-3 on fraternity. Crazy. Crazy. I don't see it. With her record, she ought to have romped it an easy winner. She hasn't the stamina. Look at her barrel. Well, anyhow. Geranium finished me. You didn't lay odds on Geranium. Why not? She's my own man. Oh. Streak of bad luck. Streak of poor judgment. Do you remember the day you rode Billy at a six-foot stone wall, and he stopped, and you didn't, and there was a hornet's nest on the other side? And I remember you were hot just because I said you showed poor judgment. She laughs at the memory, a general movement of disapproval. She remembers the situation. I beg your pardon. Matthew rises to meet Vita hastily. It seems to me that horses are like the Fourth Gospel. Any conversation about them becomes animated, almost beyond the limits of the Urbane. Vita, disgusted by such plainness of speech, rises and goes to Philip, who waves her to a chair. I regret that you have endured such reverses, Mr. Carcelake. John quietly bows. You haven't mentioned your new English horse, pantomime. What did he do at St. Louis? John sitting down. Fell away and ran fifth. Too bad. Was he fully acclimated? Ah, well. We always differed, you remember, on the time needed. Matthew coming over to Cynthia and speaking to carry off the situation as well as to get a tip. Isn't there a race tomorrow at Belmont Park? Yes. I'm going down in my auto. Oh! And what animal shall you prefer? I'm backing Carmencita. Cynthia with a gesture of despair. Carmencita? Carmencita? Matthew returns to Vita's side. You may remember we always differed on Carmencita. But there's no room for difference. She's a wild, headstrong, dissatisfied, foolish little filly. The deuce couldn't ride her. She'd shide her own shadow, Carmencita. Oh, very well then. I'll wager you, and I'll give you odds, too. Decorum will come in first, and I'll lay three to one. He'll beat Carmencita by five lengths. How's that for fair? Sorry, I'm not flush enough to take you. Philip, dear, you lend John enough for the wager. Um, really? It's a sporty idea, Mrs. Carr's Lake, but perhaps in the circumstances... In what circumstances? It does seem to me there is a certain impropriety. Oh, I forgot. When horses are in the air. It's the Fourth Gospel, you see. Thomas comes in with a letter on a salver which he hands to Philip. You are quite right, Philip. The fact is, seeing Mr. Carr's Lake again, he seems to me as much a stranger as if I were meeting him for the first time. Matthew, aside to Vita. We are indeed taking tea on the slope of a volcano. Vita about to go, but thinking she will have a last word with John. I'm sorry your fortunes are so depressed, Mr. Carr's Lake. Philip, looking at the card that Thomas has just brought in. Who in the world is Sir Wilfred Cates Darby? There is a general stir. Oh, eh? Cates Darby? Philip opens the letter which Thomas has brought with the card. That's the English chap I bought pantomime of. Philip to Thomas. Show Sir Wilfred Cates Darby in. Thomas goes out. The prospect of an Englishman with a handle to his name changes Vita's plans and, instead of leaving the house, she goes to Sofa and poses there. He's a good fellow, Judge. Place near Absam. Peter, over here to take a shot at our races. Thomas opening the door and announcing. Sir Wilfred Cates Darby. Enter Sir Wilfred Cates Darby. He is a high-bred, sporting Englishman. His manner, his dress, and his diction are the perfection of English elegance. His movements are quick and graceful. He talks lightly and with ease. He is full of life and unsmiling good temper. Philip to Sir Wilfred and referring to the letter of introduction in his hand. I am Mr. Fillimore. I am grateful to Stanhope for giving me the opportunity of knowing you, Sir Wilfred. I fear you find it warm. Sir Wilfred delicately mopping his forehead. Ah, well, ah, warm. No, hot, yes. Juiced extraordinary climatures. You know, Mr. Fillimore? Permit me to present you to... The unconventional situation pulls him up short. It takes him a moment to decide how to meet it. He makes up his mind to pretend that everything is as usual and presents Cynthia first. Mrs. Karslake. Sir Wilfred Bowes, surprised and doubtful. How do you do? And to Mrs. Fillimore. Vita bowes nonchalantly but with a view to catching Sir Wilfred's attention. Sir Wilfred bows and looks from her to Philip. My brother and Mr. Karslake, you know. How do, my boy? Half a side to John. No idea you had such a charming little wife. What? Eh? Karslake moves to speak to Matthew and Philip in the further room. You'll have a cup of tea, Sir Wilfred. Thanks awfully. I had no idea who John had a wife. The rascal never told me. Cynthia, pouring tea and facing the facts. I'm not Mr. Karslake's wife. Eh? Eh? I see. Vita, who has been ready for some time to speak to him. Sir Wilfred, I'm sure no one has asked you how you like our country. Sir Wilfred, going to Vita and standing by her at the sofa. Oh well. As to climate and horses, I say nothing. But I like your American humour. I'm acquiring it for home purposes. Aren't you going to acquire an American girl for home purposes? The more narrowly I look at the agreeable project in the face, the more I like it. Or not to say that in the presence of your husband. He casts a look at Philip, who has gone into the next room. He's not my husband. Oh, eh? My brain must be boiled. You are Mrs. A. R. Of course. Now I see. I got the wrong names. I thought you were Mrs. Philomore. And that nice girl, Mrs. Karslake. You're ducidly lucky to be Mrs. Karslake. John's a prime sort, I say. Have you and he got any kids? How many? He's not my husband. Phew! Awfully hot in here. Who adduces John's wife? He hasn't any. Who's Philomore's wife? He hasn't any. Thanks. Fearfully. To Matthew whom he approaches, suspecting himself of having lost his wits. Would you excuse me? My dear irreverence, sir? Your judgement and all that? Would you mind straightening me out? Certainly, sir Wilfred. Is it a matter of doctrine? Oh, damn! I beg your pardon. No, it's not words. It's women. Women? It's divorce. Now, the lady on the sofa... Was my brother's wife. He divorced her in compatibility. Rhode Island. The lady at the tea-table was Mr. Karslake's wife. She divorced him. Desertion. Sue falls. One moment. She is about to marry my brother. I'm out. But I never would be. Thanks. Vida laughs. Have you got me straightened out yet? Straight as a die, I say. You had lots of fun, didn't you? Returning to his position by the sofa. And so she is Mrs. John Karslake. Do you like her? My word. A. She's a box of ginger. You haven't seen many American women. Eh, haven't I? If you'll pay me a visit tomorrow at twelve, you shall meet a most charming young woman who has seen you once and who admires you. Ah. I'm there. What? Seven hundred and seventy-one Fifth Avenue. Seven seventy-one Fifth Avenue at twelve. At twelve. Thanks. Indicating Cynthia. She's a phower-bread. You can see that with one eye shut. Twelve. Shaking hands. awfully good of you to ask me. He joins John. I say, my boy, you're formless in absolute certainty. To Cynthia. I hear you're about to marry Mr. Fillmore. Mrs. Karslake? Karslake crosses to Vida and together they move to the sofa and sit down. Tomorrow, three p.m. Sir Wilfred. Afraid I've run into a sort of family party, eh? A past and a future awfully chic way you Americans have of asking your divorced husbands and wives to drop in, you know, celebrate a christening or the new bride or... Do you like your tea strong? Midlin. Sugar. One. Lemon. Just torture a lemon over it. He makes a gesture as of twisting a lemon peel. She hands him his tea. Thanks. So you do it tomorrow at three? At three, Sir Wilfred. Sorry. Why are you sorry? Hate to see a pretty woman married. Might marry her myself. Oh, but I'm sure you don't admire American women. Admire you, Mrs. Karslake? Not enough to marry me, I hope. Marry you in a minute. Say the word. Marry you now, here. You don't think you ought to know me a little before? Know you? Do know you? Cynthia, covering her hair with her handkerchief. What color is my hair? Sure. You see, you don't know whether I'm a chestnut or a strawberry ron. In the States we think a few months of friendship is quite necessary. A few months of moonshine? Never was a friend to a woman. Thank God, in all my life. Oh, oh, oh. Might as well talk about being a friend to a whiskey and soda. A woman has a soul, Sir Wilfred. Well, good whiskey is spirit. Dozens of souls. You are so gross. Sir Wilfred, changing his seat for one at the tea table. Gross? Not a bit. Friendship between the sexes is all fudge. I'm no friend to a rose in my garden. I don't call it friendship. Hey, hey. A warm, starry night. Moonbeams and elix trees. And a spirit who knows how. And all that, eh? You make me feel awfully poetical, you know. Philip comes toward them, glances nervously at Cynthia and Sir Wilfred, and walks away again. What's the matter? What I say, poetry aside, do you, eh? Does he, you know, is he, does he go to the head? Sir Wilfred, Mr. Fillimore is my sober second choice. Did you ever kiss him? I'll bet he finds you for contempt of court. Look here, Mrs. Carsley. If you're marrying a man you don't care about. Really? Well, I don't offer myself. Oh. Not this instant. Ah. But let me drop in tomorrow at ten. What country and state of affairs do you think you have landed in? New York. By Jove. Been to school too. New York is bounded on the north, south, east and west by the state of divorce. Come, come, Mrs. Carsley. I like your country. You've no fear and no respect. No can't and lots of can. Here you all are, you see. Your former husband and your new husband's former wife. Sounds like Olyndov. Eh? So there you are, you see. But joking apart, why do you marry him? Oh well, marry him if you must. You can run around the corner and get a divorce afterwards. I believe you think they throw one in with an ice cream soda. Damn, my dear lady. A marriage in your country is no more than a... eh? What do you call him? A thank you, mom. That's what an American marriage is. A thank you, mom. Bump, bump. And you're over it and on to the next. You're an odd fish. What? I believe I like you. Of course you do. You'll see me when I call tomorrow at ten. We'll run down to Belmont Park, eh? Don't be absurd. Vida has finished her talk with John and breaks in on Sir Wilfred, who has hung about Cynthia too long to suit her. Tomorrow at twelve, Sir Wilfred? Twelve. Vida shaking hands with John. Don't forget, Mr. Cars Lake, eleven o'clock tomorrow. John bowing assent. I won't. Vida coming over to Cynthia. Oh, Mrs. Cars Lake, I've ordered Tiffany to send you something. It's a sugar bowl to sweeten the matrimonial lot. I suppose nothing would induce you to call. Thanks, no. That is, is Cynthia Kay really to be there at eleven? I'd give a gold mine to see her again. Do come. If Mr. Cars Lake will accommodate me by his absence. Dear Mr. Cars Lake, you'll have to change your hour. Sorry, I'm not able to. I can't come later for I'm to be married. It's not as bad as that with me, but I'm to be sold up. Sheriff, you know, can't come later than eleven. Vida to Cynthia. Any hour but eleven, dear. Mrs. Fillmore, I shall call on you at eleven to see Cynthia Kay. I thank you for the invitation. Good afternoon. Vida aside to John, crossing to speak quietly to him. It's mere bravado. She won't come. You don't know her. There is a pause and general embarrassment. Sir Wilfred uses his eyeglass. John angry. Cynthia triumphant. Matthew embarrassed. Vida irritated. Philip puzzled. Everybody is at odds. Sir Wilfred, for the first time, a witness to the pretty complications of divorce. To Matthew. Do you have it as warm as this ordinarily? It's not so much the heat as the humidity. John looks at watch and relieved, glad to be off. I shall be late for my creditor's dinner. Creditor's dinner? Fifteen of my sporting creditors have arranged to give me a blowout at Sherry's, and I'm expected right away or sooner. And by the way, I was to bring my friends, if I had any. So that was the time to stand by me. Mrs. Fillmore? Of course. Mrs. Cars Lake? I beg your pardon. Judge. Philip declines. No. Sir Wilfred? I'm with you. John to Matthew. Your Grace? I regret. Is it the custom for creditors? Come on, Sir Wilfred. Thomas opens door. Good night, Judge. Your Grace. Is it the custom? Hang the custom. Come on. I'll show you a gag of creditors worth having. Sir Wilfred and John go out, arm in arm, preceded by Vida. Matthew crosses the room, smiling, as if pleased, in a Christian way, with this display of generous gaiety. He stops short suddenly and looks at his watch. Good gracious! I had no idea the hour was so late. I've been asked to a meeting with Maryland and Iowa to talk over the divorce situation. He leaves the room quickly, and his voice is heard in the hall. Good afternoon. Good afternoon. Cynthia is evidently much excited. The outer door slams. Philip comes down slowly. Cynthia stands, her eyes wide, her breathing visible, until Philip speaks when she seems suddenly to realize her position. There is a long pause. I have seldom witnessed a more amazing cataclysm of jocundity. Of course, my dear, this has all been most disagreeable for you. Yes, yes, yes! I saw how much it shocked your delicacy. Outrageous! Philip sits down. Do be seated, Cynthia. Taking up the paper quietly. Very odd sort of an Englishman that cates Darby. Sir Wilfred. Oh, yes. Philip settles down to the paper, to herself. Outrageous! I have a great mind to go at eleven, just as I said I would. Do sit down, Cynthia. What? What? You make me so nervous. Sorry, sorry. She sits down, and seeing the paper takes it, looking at the picture of John Carslake. Ah! Now that I see him, I don't wonder you couldn't stand him. There's a kind of a… spontaneous inebriity about him. He is incomprehensible. If I might with reverence cross-question the creator, I would say to him, Sir, to what end or purpose did you create Mr. John Carslake? I believe I should obtain no adequate answer. However, at last we have peace. And the post. Philip, settling himself, reads his paper. Cynthia, glancing at her paper, occasionally looks across at Philip. Forget the dust of the arena, the prolicity of counsel, the involuntary fatuity of things in general. After a pause he goes on with his reading. Compose yourself. Miss Hennage, Mrs. Fillmore, and Grace come in. Cynthia sighs without letting her sigh be heard. She tries to compose herself. She glances at the paper, and then hearing Miss Hennage starts slightly. Miss Hennage and Mrs. Fillmore stop at the table. Miss Hennage carrying a sheet of paper. There, my dear Mary, is the announcement as I have now reworded it. I took William's suggestion. Mrs. Fillmore takes and casually reads it. I also put the case to him. And he was of the opinion that the announcement should be sent only to those people who are really in society. She sits near the table. Cynthia braces herself to bear the Fillmore conversation. I do wish you'd make an exception of the Dudley's. Cynthia rises and moves to the chair by the table. And of course that excludes the Oppenheims, the Vance Browns. It's just as well to be exclusive. I do wish you'd make an exception of Laina Dudley. We might, of course, include those new gerados, and possibly, possibly the Paddingtons. I do wish you would take in Laina Dudley. They are now sitting. Mother Dudley is as common as a charwoman and not nearly as clean. Ah, I certainly am fatigued. Cynthia begins to slowly crush the newspaper she has been reading with both hands, as if the effort of self-repression were too much for her. We shall have to ask the Dudley sooner or later to dine, Mary, because of the elder girl's marriage to that disillute French marquis. I don't like common people any more than I like common cats. And, of course, in my time... I think I shall include the Dudleys. You think you'll include the Dudleys? Yes. I think I will include the Dudleys. Here Cynthia's control breaks down. Driven desperate by their chatter, she has slowly rolled her newspaper into a ball, and at this point tosses it violently to the floor and bursts into hysterical laughter. Why, my dear Cynthia, compose yourself. What is the matter, Cynthia? Why, Mrs. Carslake, what is the matter? Mrs. Carslake. The furniture, the ornaments, what pictures there are, all witnessed to taste up to date. Two French windows open onto a balcony from which the trees of Central Park can be seen. There is a table between them, a mirror, a scent bottle, etc. upon it. On the right, upstage, is a door. On the right, downstage, another door. A lady's writing table stands between the two, nearer center of stage. There is another door upstage, below it an open fireplace filled with potted plants and irons, etc., not in use. Over it is a tall mirror. On the mantelpiece are a French clock, candelabra, vases, etc. On a line with the fireplace is a lounge, gay with silk pillows. A florist's box, large and long, filled with American beauty roses, rests on a low table near the head of the lounge. Small tables and light shares where needed. Benson, alone in the room, is looking critically about her. She is a neat and pretty little English lady's maid in black silk and a thin apron. Still surveying the room, she moves here and there, and her eyes lighting on the box of flowers, she goes to the door of Vita's room and speaks to her. Yes, ma'am. The flowers have come. She holds open the door through which Vita, in a morning gown, comes in slowly. She is smoking a cigarette in as aesthetic a manner as she can, and is evidently turned out in her best style for conquest. Terribly garish light, Benson. Pull down the— Benson, obeying, partly pulls down the shade. Lower still. That will do. As she speaks, she goes about the room, giving the tables a push here and the chairs a jerk there, and generally arranging the vases and ornaments. Men hate a clutter of chairs and tables. Stopping and taking up a hand mirror from the table, she faces the windows. I really think I'm too pale for this light. Yes, ma'am. Benson goes out for the rouge, and Vita seats herself at the table. There is a knock at the door. Come. Brooks comes in. Brooks, an ultra-English footman in plush and calves. Any orders, lady? Oh, of course. You're the new— Footman, m'lady. Your name? Brooks, m'lady. Benson returns with the rouge. Vita carefully giving instructions while she keeps her eyes on the glass and is rouged by Benson. Brooks, I am at home to Mr. Cars Lake at eleven, not to anyone else till twelve, when I expect Sir Wilfred Cates Darby. Brooks, watching Benson, is inattentive. Yes, m'lady. And I regret to inform you, Brooks, that in America there are no ladies, except sales-ladies. Yes, m'lady. I am at home to no one but the two names I have mentioned. Brooks bows and exits. She dabs on rouge while Benson holds glass. Is the men's club room in order? Perfectly, ma'am. Whiskey and soda? Yes, ma'am, and the tick has been mended. The British sporting papers arrived this morning. Vita, looking at her watch, which lies on the dressing table. My watch has stopped. Benson, glancing at the French clock on the chimney-piece. Five to eleven, ma'am. Hmm, hmm, I shall be caught. Rising. The box of roses, Benson. Benson brings the box of roses, uncovers the flower and places them at Vita's side. My gloves, the clippers, and the vase. Each of these things Benson places in turn within Vita's range where she sits on the sofa. She has the long box of roses at her side on a small table, a vase of water on the floor by her side. She cuts the stems and places the roses in the vase. When she feels that she has reached a picturesque position in which any onlooker would see in her a creature filled with the love of flowers and of her fellow man, she says, There. The door opens and Brooks comes in. Vita nods to Benson. John, dressed in very knobby writing togs, comes in gaily and forcibly. Benson withdraws as he enters and is followed by Brooks. Vita, from this moment on, is busy with her roses. Is that really you, Sir John? I see now where we Americans are going to get our titles. Good morning. You look as fresh as paint. He lays his gloves and writing crop on the table and takes a chair. I hope you don't mean that. I never flattered myself for a moment you'd come. You're writing Cynthia Kay. Fiddler's going to lead around here in ten minutes. Cigars and cigarettes. Scotch. Indicating a small table. Scotch. Goes up quickly to table and helps himself to scotch and seltzer. And now do tell me all about her. Putting in her last roses, she keeps one rosebud in her hand of a size suitable for a man's buttonhole. Oh, she's an adorable creature. Delicate. High bread. Sweet tempered. Sweet tempered? Oh, you're describing the horse. By her I meant... Cynthia Carr's Lake? I'd rather talk about the last tornado. He drops moodily into a chair. There is only one thing I want to talk about and that is you. Why were you unhappy? Why does a dollar last such a short time? Why did you part? Do you ever see a schooner towed by a tug? Well, I parted from Cynthia for the same reason the haws are apart from the tug. I couldn't stand the tug. Aw. Awful cheerful morning chat. I must hear the story, for I'm anxious to know why I've taken such a fancy to you. Why do I like you? I won't tell you. It would flatter you too much. Tell me. There's a rose for you. Giving him the one she has in her hand. I want more than a rose. You refuse to tell me? There's nothing to tell. We met, we loved, we married, we parted, or at least we wrangled and jangled. Ha! Why weren't we happy? Don't ask me why. It may have been partly my fault. Never. But I believe it's all in the way a girl's brought up. Our girls are brought up to be ignorant of life. They're ignorant of life. Life is a joke and marriage is a picnic and a man is a shawl strap. Pond my soul, Cynthia Dean. Nope, I can't tell you. Please tell me. Well, she was an heiress, an American heiress, and she'd been taught to think that marriage meant burnt almonds and moonshine and a yacht and three automobiles, and she thought, I don't know what she thought, but I tell you, Mrs. Fillmore, marriage is three parts love and seven parts forgiveness of sins. He continues restlessly to pace the floor as he speaks of Cynthia. She never loved you. Yes, she did. For six or seven months there was a lot of shadow between us. It was perfect, and then one day she went off like a pistol shot. I had a piece of law work and couldn't take her to see flashlight race the Maryland mare. The case meant a big fee, big kudos, and in sales Cynthia, flashlight mad. And will I put on my hat and take her? No. And bang, she goes off like a stick of dynamite. What did I marry her for? And words. Pretty high words until she got mad when she threw over a chair and said, oh well, marriage was a failure or it was with me, so I said she'd better try somebody else. She said she would and marched out of the room. But she came back. She came back, but not as you mean. She stood at the door and said, Jack, I shall divorce you. Then she came over to my study table, dropped her wedding ring on my law papers, and went out. The door shut. I laughed. The front door slammed. I damned. After a silence, moving abruptly to the window, she never came back. He turns away and then, recovering, moves toward Vita, who catches his hands. She's broken your heart. John, taking a chair by the lounge. Oh no. You'll never love again. Try me. Try me. Oh no, Mrs. Fillmore. I shall laugh, live, love, and make money again. And let me tell you one thing. I'm gonna wrap her one over the knuckles. She's had a stick of a Connecticut lawyer and he, well, they're cut a legal story short. Since Mrs. Carr's Lake has been in Europe, I have been quietly testing the validity of the decree of divorce. Perhaps you don't understand. Oh, about a divorce, everything. I shall hear by this evening whether the divorce will stand or not. But it's today at three, she marries. You won't let her commit bigamy. John, shaking his head. I don't suppose I'd go as far as that. It may be the divorce will hold, but anyway, I hope never to see her again. He sits down beside her so that their faces are now directly opposite. Taking advantage of the close range, her eyes, without loss of time, open a direct fire. Oh, my poor boy. She has broken your heart. Believing that this is her psychological moment, she lays her hand on his arm, but draws it back as soon as he attempts to take it. Now don't make love to me. Why not? Because I like you too much. I might give in and take a notion to like you still more. Please do. Jack, I believe you'd be a lovely lover. Try me. You charming, tempting, delightful fellow. I could love you without the least effort in the world. But no. Oh, well now, seriously. Between two people who have suffered and made their own mistakes. But you see, you don't really love me. Cynthia, Vida! No man can sit beside you and look into your eyes without feeling. Oh, that's not love. That simply... Well, my dear Jack, it's beginning at the wrong end. And the truth is you hate Cynthia Karslake with such a wholehearted hate that you haven't a moment to think of any other woman. I hate her! Jack, Jack... I could be as foolish about you as... I was foolish as anything, my dear. And perhaps someday... Perhaps someday you'll come to me and say Vida, I am totally indifferent to Cynthia. And then... And then? Then perhaps you and I may join hands and stroll together into the Garden of Eden. It takes two to find the Garden of Eden, you know. And once we're on the inside, we'll lock the gate. And lose the key under a rose-bush. Under a rose-bush. There is a very soft knock at which John starts up quickly. Come! Brooks comes in with Benson close at his heels. My lady, Sir Wolf. Benson stops him with a sharp movement and turns toward Vida. Your dressmaker, ma'am. Benson waves Brooks to go and Brooks very hotly complies. My dressmaker, Benson? Oh, of course. Show her up. Mr. Karzlik, you won't mind for a few minutes using my men's clubroom. Benson will show you. You'll find cigars and the ticker, sporting papers, whiskey. And if you want anything special, just phone down to my chef. John, looking at his watch. How long? Half a cigar. Benson will call you. Don't make it too long. There's my sheriff's sale on at twelve and those races this afternoon. Fiddler will be here in ten minutes, remember? The door opens. Run along. John leaves and Vida, instantly practical, makes a broad gesture to Benson. Everything just as it was, Benson. Benson whisks the roses out of the vase and replaces them in the box. She gives Vida scissors and empty vases and, when Vida finds herself in precisely the same position which preceded John's entrance, she says. There. Brooks comes in as Vida takes a rose from the basket. Your ladyships, dressmaker, m'lady. Enter Sir Wilfred in morning suit, boutonniere, etc. Is that really you, Sir Wilfred? I never flattered myself for an instant that you'd remember to come. Come? Of course I come. Keen to come see you. By Jove, you know, who look as pink and white as a hunting morning. Your smoke? Orphly long fingers you have. Wish I was a rose or a ring or a pair of shoes, I say. Do you ever notice what a devil of a fellow I am for originality? What? You've got a delicate little den up here. Not so much low living, and how I think in? There's low lights and no thinking at all. I hope. Hey? By this time Vida has filled a vase with roses and rises to sweep by him and, if possible, make another charming picture to his eyes. Vida, gliding gracefully past him, you don't mind my moving about? Not if you don't mind my watching. Sitting down on the sofa and saying how well you do it? It's most original of you to come here this morning. I don't quite see why you did. She places the roses here and there as if to see their effect and leaves them on a small table near the door through which her visitors entered. Oh! I saw that you admired her. And, of course, she did say she was coming here at eleven. But that was only bravado. And besides, I've given orders to admit no one. May I ask you? And indeed, if she came now, Mr. Carslake is gone and her sole object in coming was to make him uncomfortable. She moves toward the table, stopping a half minute at the mirror to see that she looks as she wishes to look. Very dangerous symptom, too, that passionate desire to make one's former husband unhappy. But I can't believe it to your admiration for Cynthia Carslake is so warm that it led you to pay me this visit half hour too early in the hope of seeing. I say, would you mind stopping a moment? I'm not an American, you know. I was brought up not to interrupt. But you Americans, it's different with you. If somebody didn't interrupt you, you'd go on forever. My point is you come to see Cynthia. I came hoping to see... Cynthia? But I would have come even if I'd known. I don't believe it. Give you my word, I... You're here to see her. And, of course... May I have the floor? I was jolly well bowed over with Mrs. Carslake. I admit that. And I hope to see her here, but... You had another object in coming. In fact, you came to see Cynthia and you came to see me. What I really longed to know is why you wanted to see me. For, of course, Cynthia's to be married at three. And if she wasn't, she wouldn't have you. Well, I mean to jolly well ask her. To be your wife. Why not? And you came here to my house in order to ask her. Oh, but that's only my first reason for coming, you know. Well, now I am curious. What is the second? Are you feeling pretty robust? I don't know. Will you have something? Then I'll tell you. Can't I support the news without... Mrs. Fillmore, you see it's this way. Whenever you're lucky, you're too lucky. Now, Mrs. Castleck is a nipper and no mistake. But as I told you, the very same evening and house where I saw her... He attempts to take her hand. What? That's it. You're over. He suggests with his right hand the movement of a horse taking a hurdle. You don't really mean. I mean, I stayed awake for an hour last night thinking about you. But you've just told me that Cynthia... Well, she did. But so did you. Don't you think there's a limit to... Now, see here, Mrs. Fillmore. You and I are not bottle babies, eh? Are we? You've been married and I... I've knocked about. And we both know there's a lot of stuff I've talked about. Eh, eh? Well, you know, the one and only, that a fella can't be awfully well smashed by two at the same time. Don't you know? Or rubbish, you know it. And the proof of the puddings in the eating. I am. May I ask where I come in? Well, now, Mrs. Fillmore. I'll be frank with you. Cynthia's my favourite, but you're running her a close second in the popular esteem. What a delightful, original, fantastic person you are. I knew you'd take it that way. And what next, pray? Oh, just the usual, eh? Thing? The... The same question. Don't you know? Will you have me if she don't? And you call that the same old usual question? Yes, I know, but... But will you? I sail in the week. We can take the same boat. And, eh, eh, my dear Mrs. meant I say, Vida, I'd like to see you at the head of my table. With Cynthia at the foot? Never mind, Mrs. Carslake. I admire her. She's... But you have your own points. And you're here. And so am I. There am I for myself and my affections. And I'm no ice-cool, my dear. Tell you that for a fact. And... And in fact, what's your answer? Vida sighs and shakes her head. Make it yes, I say. You know, my dear Vida. He catches her hands. Vida drawing them from his. Unhand me, dear villain. And sit further away from your second choice. What can I say? I'd rather have you for a lover than any man I know. You must be a lovely lover. I am? He makes a second effort to catch her fingers. Will you kindly go further away and be good? Look here, if you say yes, we'll be married. In a month? Oh, no, this evening. This evening? And sail in the same boat with you? And shall we sail to the Garden of Eden and stroll into it and lock the gate on the inside and then lose the key under a rose-bush? Yes, yes, I say. That's too clever for me. He draws nearer to her to bring the understanding to a crisis. Vida interrupted by a soft knock. My maid, come. Sir Wilfred swinging out of his chair and moving to the sofa. Eh? Benson coming in and approaching Vida. The new footman, ma'am. He's made a mistake. He's told the lady you're at home. What lady? Mrs. Carslake, and she's on the stairs, ma'am. And show her in. Sir Wilfred has been turning over the roses. On hearing this, he faces about with a long-stemmed one in his hand. He subsequently uses it to point his remarks. Sir Wilfred to Benson, who stops. One moment. To Vida. I say, eh? I'd rather not see her. But you came here to see her. I'd rather not, eh? I fancied I'd find you here and her together. But her, finding me, with you looks so doosed intimate. No one else do you see. I believe she draw conclusions. Pardon me, ma'am. But I hear Brooks coming. Sir Wilfred to Benson. Hold the door. So you don't want her to know. Sir Wilfred to Vida. Be a good girl now. Run me off somewhere. Vida to Benson. Show Sir Wilfred the men's room. Brooks comes in. The men's room? Ah, oh, eh. Vida beckoning him to go at once. Sir Wil... He hesitates, then, as Brooks advances, he flings off with Benson. Lady Cars Lake, my lady. Anything more inopportune. I never dreamed she'd come. Cynthia comes in veiled. As she walks quickly into the room, Vida greets her languorously. My dear Cynthia, you don't mean to say. Yes, I've come. Do take off your veil. Is no one here? Won't you sit down? Thanks, no. That is, yes, thanks, yes. You haven't answered my question. Cynthia waves her hand through the haze, glances suspiciously at the smoke and looks about for the cigarette. My dear, what makes you imagine that anyone's here? You've been smoking. Oh, puffing away. Cynthia sees the glasses. And drinking. A pair of drinks? Her eyes lighting on John's gloves on the table at her elbow. Do they fit you, dear? Vida smiles. Cynthia picks up the crop and looks at it and reads her own name. Jack, from Cynthia. Yes, dear, it's Mr. Cars Lake's crop, but I'm happy to say he left me a few minutes ago. He left the house. Vida smiles. I wanted to see him. Too quarrel? I wanted to see him. And I sent him away because I didn't want you to repeat the scene of last night in my house. Cynthia looks at crop and is silent. Well, I can't stay. I'm to be married at three and I had to play truant to get here. Benson comes in. Benson to Vida. There's a person, ma'am. On the sidewalk. What person, Benson? A person, ma'am, with a horse. It's Fiddler with Cynthia Kay. She walks rapidly to the window and looks out. Vida to Benson. Tell the man I'll be down in five minutes. Cynthia looking down from the balcony with delight. Oh, there she is. Vida aside to Benson. Go to the club room, Benson, and say to the two gentlemen I can't see them at present. I'll send for them when— I hear someone coming. Quick! Benson leaves the door, which opens, and John comes in slowly, carelessly. Vida whispers to Benson. Benson moving close to John and whispering. Big pardon. Go back. I beg pardon. Go back. Cat, I have a date with the sheriff. Please use your eyes. I am using my eyes. Don't you see there's a lovely creature in the room? Of course there is. Hush. But what I want to know is— Hush. Is one want to stroll in the garden of Eden? Hush. And lose the key. To put a stop to this, she lightly tosses her handkerchief into his face. By George! Talk about Ator of Roses! Cynthia, at window, excited and moved, seeing her mare once more. Oh, she's a darling! A perfect darling! John starts up. He sees Cynthia at the same instant that she sees him. Oh! I didn't know you were here. I came to see you. Oh, pray feel at home, Cynthia, dear. Stopping by the door to her bedroom, to John. When I have a nice street frock on, I'll ask you to present me to Cynthia Kay. Vita opens the door and goes out. Cynthia and John involuntarily exchange glances. Of course I told you yesterday I was coming here. And I was to deny myself the privilege of being here? Yes. And you guessed I would do that. No. What? Jack, I mean Mr. Carslake. No, I mean Jack. I came because, well, you see, it's my wedding day and—and I— I was rude to you last evening. I'd like to apologize and make peace with you before I go. Before you go to your last, long home. I came to apologize. But you'll remain to quarrel. I will not quarrel. No, and I'm only here for a moment. I'm to be married at three and just look at the clock. Besides, I told Philip I was going to Louise's shop and I did, on the way here. But you see, if I stay too long, he'll telephone Louise and find I'm not there and he might guess I was here. So you see, I'm risking a scandal. And now, Jack, see here. I lay my hand on the table. I'm here on the square and—what I want to say is why— Jack, even if we have made a mess of our married life, let's put by anger and pride. It's all over now and can't be helped. So let's be human. Let's be reasonable and let's be kind to each other. Won't you give me your hand? John refuses. I wish you every happiness. John, turning away, the past rankling. I had a client once, a murderer. He told me he murdered the man and he told me too that he never felt so kindly to anybody as he did to that man after he'd killed him. Jack! You murdered my happiness. I won't recriminate. And now I must put by anger and pride. I do, but not self-respect, not a just indignation, not the facts and my clear memory of them. Jack! No! Cynthia with growing emotion and holding out her hand. I give you one more chance. Yes, I'm determined to be generous. I forgive everything you ever did to me. I'm ready to be friends. I wish you every happiness and every—every horse in the world. I can't do more than that. She offers it again. You refuse. I like wild cats and I like Christians, but I don't like Christian wild cats. Now I'm close hauled. Trot out your tornado. Let the tiger loose. It's the tamer, the man in the cage that has to look lively and use the red-hot crowbar. By Jove, I'm out of the cage. I'm a mere spectator of the married circus. Be a game sport, then. Our marriage was a wager. You wagered. You could live with me. You lost. You paid with a divorce. And now is the time to show your sporting blood. Come on, shake hands and part friends. Not in this world. Friends with you? No. I have a proper pride. You're supposed to put my pride in my pocket. Oh, I wouldn't ask you to put your pride in your pocket while Vida's handkerchief is there. Pretty little bijou of a handkerchief. Pulling out the handkerchief. And she is charming and divorced and reasonably well-made up. Oh, well, Vida is a woman. Toying with a handkerchief. I'm a man. A handkerchief is a handkerchief. And as some old Aristotle or other said, whatever concerns a woman concerns me. Insufferable. Well, yes. You're perfectly right. There's no possible harmony between divorced people. I withdraw my hand and all good feeling. No wonder I couldn't stand you. Eh? However, that's pleasantly passed. But at least, my dear Cars Lake, let us have some sort of beauty behavior. If we cannot be decent, let us endeavor to be graceful. If we can't be moral, at least we can avoid being vulgar. Well... If there's to be no more marriage in the world... Oh, but that's not it. There's to be more and more and more. Very well. I repeat then. If there's to be nothing but marriage and divorce and remarriage and re-divorce. At least, at least those who are divorced can avoid the vulgarity of meeting each other here, there and everywhere. Oh, that's where you come out. I thought so yesterday and today I know it. It's an insufferable thing to a woman of any delicacy of feeling to find her husband. Ahem. Former. Once a husband always. Oh, no. Oh dear, no. To find her. To find the man she has once lived with in the house of, making love to, to find you here. You smile, but I say it should be a social axiom no woman should have to meet her former husband. No, I don't know. After I've served my term I don't mind meeting my jailer. It's indecent. At the horse show, the opera, at races and balls to meet the man who wants... It's not civilized. It's fantastic. It's not baked. Oh, I never should have come here. But it's entirely your fault. My fault? Of course. What business have you to be about? To be at large. To be at all. Gosh. To be where I am. Yes, it's just as horrible for you to turn up in my life as it would be for a dead person to insist on coming back to life and dinner and bridge. Horrid idea. Yes, but it's you who behave just as if you were not dead. Just as if I'd not spent a fortune on your funeral. You do. You prepare to bob up at afternoon teas and dinners and embarrass me to death with your extinct personality. Well, of course we were married, but it didn't quite kill me. You killed yourself for me. I divorced you. I buried you out of my life. If any human soul was ever dead, you are, and there's nothing I so hate as a gibbering ghost. Oh, I say. Go gibber and squeak where gibbering and squeaking are the fashion. And so, my dear child, I'm to abate myself as a nuisance. Well, as far as seeing you is concerned, for my part, it's just like seeing a horse who's chucked you once. The bruises are okay, and you see it with a sort of easy curiosity. Of course, you know he'll jolly well chuck the next man. Permit me. John picks up her gloves, handkerchief, and parasol, and gives her these as she drops them one by one in her agitation. There's pleasure in the thought. Oh. And now, may I ask you a very simple question? Mere curiosity on my part, but why did you come here this morning? I have already explained that to you. Not your real motive. Permit me. Oh. But I believe I've guessed your real... permit me. Your real motive. Oh. Cynthia, I am sorry for you. Hmm? Of course, we had a pretty lively case of the fever. The mutual attraction fever, and we were married a very short time. And I conclude that's what's the matter with you. You see, my dear, seven months of married life is too short a time to cure a bad case of the fancies. What? That's my diagnosis. I don't think I understand. Oh, yes you do. Yes you do. What do you mean? Would you end up breaking my crop? Thank you. I mean, that ours was a case of premature divorce, and you're in love with me still. He pauses. Cynthia has one moment of fury. Then she realizes at what a disadvantage this places her. She makes an immense effort, recovers her calm, thinks hard for a moment more, and then has suddenly an inspiration. Jack, some day you'll get the blind staggers from conceit. No, I'm not in love with you, Mr. Cars Lake, but I shouldn't be at all surprised if she were. She's just your sort, you know. She's a man-eating shark, and you'll be a toothsome mouthful. Now come now, Jack, what a silly you are. Oh, yes you are to get off a joke like that. Me, in love with— She looks at him. Why are you here? Why are you here? Yes. Why are you— Why am I here? I'll tell you. I'm going to be married. I had a longing and irresistible longing to see you make an ass of yourself just once more. It happened. I know better. But I came for a serious purpose, too. I came, my dear fellow, to make an experiment on myself. I've been with you thirty minutes and— She sighs with content. It's all right. What's all right? I'm immune. Immune? You're not catching any more? Yes, you see, I said to myself, if I fly into a temper— You did! You did! If I fly into a temper when I see him, well, that shows I'm not yet so entirely convalescent that I can afford to have Jack Carr's leg at my house. If I remain calm, I shall ask him to dinner. Ask me if you dare. He rises. Ask you to dinner, oh, my dear fellow. I'm going to do much more than that. We must be friends, old man. We must meet. We must meet often. We must show New York the way the thing should be done, and to show you I mean it. I want you to be my best man and give me away when I'm married this afternoon. You don't mean that! He pushes back his chair. There you are, always suspicious. You don't mean that! Don't I? I ask you, come, and come as you are, and I'll lay my wedding gown to Cynthia Kay that you won't be there. If you're there, you get the gown, and if you're not, I get Cynthia Kay. I take it! Done. Now then, we'll see which of us, too, is the real sporting goods. Shake. They shake hands on it. Would you mind letting me have a plain soda? John goes to the table, and as he is rattled and does not regard what he is about, he fills the glass three-fourths full with whiskey. He gives this to Cynthia, who looks him in the eye with an air of triumph. Thanks. Maliciously as Vita enters. Your hand is a bit shaky. I think you need a little King William. John shrugs his shoulders, and as Vita immediately speaks, Cynthia defers drinking. Vita to Cynthia. My dear, I'm sorry to tell you your husband. I mean my husband. I mean Philip. He's asking for you over the phone. You must have said you were coming here. Of course, I told him you were not here and hung up. Benson entering hurriedly, and at once moving to Vita. Ma'am, the new footman's been talking with Mr. Fillymore on the wire. He told Mr. Fillymore that his lady was here. And, if I can believe my ears, ma'am, he's got Sir Wilfred on the phone now. Sir Wilfred making his appearance perplexed and annoyed. I say you know, extraordinary country. Then I'll chat Fillymore. He's been damned impertinent over the wire. Says I've run off with Mrs. Carr's Lake. Talks about Louise. Now, who are the do-sees Louise? He's coming round here too. I said Mrs. Carr's Lake wasn't here. Scene, Cynthia. Hello. Good job. What a liar I am. Benson coming to the door to Vita. Mr. Fiddler, ma'am, says the mayor is getting very restive. John hears this and moves at once. Benson withdraws. John to Vita. That mayor's restive? She'll break out in a rash. Vita to John. Will you take me? Of course. They go to the door. Cynthia to John. Ta-ta, old man. Meet you at the altar. If I don't, the mayor's mine. Sir Wilfred looks at her amazed. Vita to Cynthia. Do the honours, dear, in my absence. Come along, come along. Never mind them. A horse is a horse. John and Vita go out gaily and in haste. At the same moment, Cynthia drinks what she supposes to be her glass of plain soda. As it is whiskey straight, she is seized with astonishment and a fit of coughing. Sir Wilfred relieves her of the glass. Sir Wilfred indicating the contents of the glass. I say, do you ordinarily take it as high up as seven fingers and two thumbs? Jack poured it out. Just shows how groggy he was. And now, Sir Wilfred. She gets her things to go. Oh, you can't go. Brooks appears at the door. I am to be married at three. Let him wait. Aside to Brooks whom he meets near the door. If Mr. Fillmore comes, bring his card up. Brooks going. Yes, Sir Wilfred. To me. Tipping him. Brooks bowing. To you, Sir Wilfred. Brooks goes. Sir Wilfred returning to Cynthia. I've got to have my innings, you know. I say, you've been crying. King William. You are crying. Poor little girl. I feel all shaken and cold. Brooks returns with a card. Poor little girl. I didn't sleep a wink last night. Oh, what is the matter with me? Why, it's plain as a pork star for you. Brooks is carried in the card to Sir Wilfred, who picks it up and says aside to Brooks. Fillmore? Brooks assents. Allowed to Cynthia, calmly deceitful. Who's Wardolph Smith? Cynthia shakes her head. To Brooks, returning card to Salver. Tell the gentleman Mrs. Cars-Lake is not here. Brooks leaves the room. I thought it was Phillip. So did I. And now Mrs. Cars-Lake I'll tell you why you're crying. Sitting down beside her. You're marrying the wrong man. I'm sorry for you, but you're such a goose. Here you are marrying this legal luminary. What for? You don't know. He don't know. But I do. You pretend you're marrying him because it's a sensible thing. Not a bit of it. You're marrying Mr. Fillmore because of all the other men you ever saw he's the least like Jack Cars-Lake. That's a very good reason. There's only one good reason for marrying. And that is because you'll die if you don't. Oh, I've tried that. The scripture says try, try again. I'll tell you. There's nothing like a whim. What's that? Wim? Oh, you mean a whim. Do please try and say whim. Whim? You must have a whim. Whim for the chappie you'll marry. I had for Jack. Your whim wasn't whimmy enough, my dear. If you'd had more of it and tougher, it would have stood, you know. Now, I'm not proposing. I hope not. Oh, I will later. It's not time yet, as I was saying. And pray, Sir Wilfred, when will it be time? As soon as I see you have a whim for me. And now, I'll tell you what we'll do. We've got just an hour to get there in. My motor's in the corner. In 50 minutes we'll be at Belmont Park. Belmont Park? We'll do the races and dine at Martin's. Oh, if I only could, I can't. I've got to be married. You're awfully nice. I've almost got a whim for you already. There you are. I'll send a telegram. She shakes her head. He sits and writes at the table. No, no, no. Sir Wilfred, reading what he has written. Off with Kate Starby to races. Please postpone ceremony till 7.30. Oh, no, it's impossible. No more than breathing. You can't get a whim for me, you know, unless we're together. So together we'll be. John Carr's Lake opens the door and unnoticed walks into the room. And tomorrow you wake up with a jolly little whim. Reading. Postpone ceremony till 7.30. There. He puts on her cloak and turning, sees John. Hello. Hello. Sorry to disturb you. Just the man. Giving him the telegraph form. Just step round and send it to my boy. Thanks. John reads it. No, no, I can't go. Cuckity cuckoo can't. I say you must. No. Do you mean you're going? Off to the races, my boy. Mrs. Carr's Lake can't go with you there. Cynthia starts amazed at his assumption of marital authority and delighted that she will have an opportunity of outraging his sensibilities. An hour before her wedding? May I know if it's the custom? It's worse than a loping. Custom, you know, for the husband that was to dictate. By George, there's a limit. What? What? What? Gathering up her things. What did I hear you say? Ah, I say there's a limit. Oh, there's a limit is there. There is. I bar the way. It means reputation. It means... We shall see what it means. Uh-huh. I'm here to protect your reputation. We've got to make haste, you know. Now I'm ready. Be sensible. You're breaking off the match. What's that to you? It's boots and saddles. John, taking a stand between them and the door. No thoroughfare! You care, my boy. Wait a moment, Sir Wilfred. Give me the wire. Thanks. Taking the telegraph form from him and tearing it up. There. Too rude to chuck him by wire. But you, Jack, you've taken on yourself to look after my interests. So I'll just ask you, old man, to run down to the Supreme Court and tell Philip, nicely, you know, I'm off with Sir Wilfred and where. Say, I'll be back by seven if I'm not later. And make it clear, Jack, I'll marry him by eight-thirty or nine of the latest. And mind you're there, dear. And now, Sir Wilfred, we're off. I-I'm not the man to...to carry. Oh, yes you are. A message from you? Oh, yes you are. You're just exactly the man. Cynthia and Sir Wilfred were allowed. Great miracles of Moses! End of act two.