A Fool's Paradise: An Original Play in Three Acts

A FOOL’S PARADISE

[Characters]

[Necessary Properties]

[Act I]

[Act II]

[Act III]

[Transcriber’s Note]

A FOOL’S PARADISE.
AN ORIGINAL PLAY
IN THREE ACTS.
BY
SYDNEY GRUNDY.

Copyright, 1898, by Thomas Henry French.

A FOOL’S PARADISE

Produced at the Garrick Theatre on Saturday,
January 2nd, 1892.

CHARACTERS.

Act I.—THE HALL, AT RAVENHURST,
Philip Selwyn’s Country House, near St. Alban’s, Herts.

A Week Elapses.

Act II.—THE BOUDOIR.
Morning.

Act III.—THE BOUDOIR
Night.

NECESSARY PROPERTIES.

Act I.—On R. table: China Bowl, books in case, newspapers, photo views, three letters and newspaper through post. Book on sofa. Ready: Tennis ball to throw on from between C. doors and R.W. Tennis bat for Kate R.U.E. Hand Properties: Basket of cut flowers for Kate. Work bag containing balls of wool and needles, and an apple, for Mildred. Snuff box for Sir Peter.

Act II.—Water bottle and glass, magazine, and Punch, on L. table. Fire lighted. The hearth should be a solid sheet of slate for glass to break easily. Bell rope on flat, R. of opening R.C., bell pull on flat L., below fire-place. Ready: Medicine bottle and glass, L.D. Hand Properties: Water can (no water) for Kate. Two certificates of marriage, and one of death for Sir Peter. Cigarettes in case for Normantower.

Act III.—Clear chair from back of table, and water bottle. Lighted lamp on piano. Ditto on pedestal in conservatory L.C. Small ditto on table, L.C. Ready R.U.D.: Six cups of coffee on salver, sugar and milk on small salver. Ready L.D.: Medicine bottle, wine glass and poison phial. Flower pot to smash on stone, R.U.E. Alarm bell to ring R.U.E. Large lock to work, R.U.E. Hand Properties: Book for Sir Peter. Snuff box for Sir Peter.

A FOOL’S PARADISE.

ACT I.

Scene.—The Hall of an old-fashioned Country House with staircase. Door C. Entrance, L. Door, R. Windows at back, looking into grounds. Letters on table. Gong.

Tom and Mildred discovered together. Mildred on sofa, L.C., Tom on foot-stool at her feet R. of her. She has some work in her hand, and a ball of wool in a satchel. [Note for Tom.—Before curtain rises, tie wool to button on waistcoat, and see the wool is free to “payout” for business.]

Tom. Come, Mildred dear, say “Yes.”

Mil. But I can’t say “Yes.”

Tom. You might help a fellow a bit. I never proposed to anybody before, and I daresay I’ve done it very badly——

Mil. No, Tom, you’ve done it very well.

Tom. (rises and sits beside her, arm round her waist) Say “Yes,” then. Of course, I’m not good enough for a girl like you. But I may be some day. My brother Ned’s a confirmed bachelor, and it’s just on the cards I may be the next Earl of Normantower.

Mil. Yes, Tom, that’s just it. I’m not fit to be a Countess.

Tom. Not fit to be a Countess? Why, some of ’em are awful.

Mil. My brother wouldn’t hear of it, I’m sure.

Tom. Well, then, you shan’t be a Countess. A confirmed bachelor’s always the first to get married; and if Ned has a family, I shan’t come in for the title. You wouldn’t mind being Mrs. Verinder, would you?

Mil. Oh, Tom! I know ought to say I should, but I shouldn’t.

Tom. (half embracing her) Say “Yes,” then.

Mil. Someone’s coming! (Tom runs to opposite side of the stage and sits L. of table. She works; he pretends to read a book on table)

Enter Kate Derwent from grounds, C. from R., with a basket of flowers.

Kate. Well, children! (comes down, puts basket of flowers on back of table, R.C., and goes down to C.)

Tom. (aside) Children!

Kate. Why aren’t you out of doors this beautiful morning?

Mil. Oh, I wanted to finish this slipper.

Kate. (catching sight of the thread of wool, the end of which has got entangled on Tom’s button and which stretches across the stage, connecting the two) Really? And you, Mr. Verinder?

Tom. I? I was reading Hiawatha.

Kate. You don’t say so! (picking up the thread and drawing them together) Now, how dare you tell me such stories? (breaks the thread, throws it to Mildred, crosses Tom to R. of table and fills a vase with flowers from her basket)

Tom. It’s no use trying to deceive you, Miss Derwent. I’ve been making love to Mildred.

Kate. Making love at ten o’clock in the morning? I’m ashamed of you. It’s almost as bad as playing cards by daylight.

Tom. (C.) I want her to marry me and she won’t! She says my family’s too good for her—as if anything could be too good for Mildred! I’m sure the Verinders are poor enough. As for me, she forgets my father was cut off with a shilling, and blew’d the lot?

Kate. (R.C.) Blew’d the lot.

Mil. Tom means, his father spent it. (C.L. of Tom)

Kate. Spent the shilling?

Tom. Every penny of it. Oh, we’re a reckless lot, we Verinders!

Philip Selwyn enters C. from L., he places his stick in stand L. of C. door, hat on small table up R.C., and goes slowly down to fire-place, R.

Mil. And why was he cut off with the shilling?

Tom. Because he married the girl he wanted; instead of a girl he didn’t want; and his son’s going to do the same. (placing his arm round her and taking her down to L.C.)

Kate. Ah, Mr. Verinder! Marriage is a serious responsibility. (goes to C., basket in hand)

Tom. It’s serious when you marry the wrong person, but I’m going to marry the right one.

Kate. Yes, but who is the right one?

Phil. Surely, the right one is the one we love. (sits, opening letters, in arm-chair R. of table)

Tom. (advances to C.) You think so, Mr. Selwyn? (turns to Mildred, who sits on R. arm of sofa, searches in her work bag and finds an apple which he eats)

Kate. (sits R.C.) Because you have been fortunate in your choice, but how many have made a mistake! Even love matches are often unfortunate. Love has a habit of being so one-sided. (filling a bowl on table, with flowers)

Phil. I haven’t found it so! and mine was a love match, if ever there was one. I met my wife quite casually at Brighton—fell in love, proposed, was accepted and married, all within a month.

Kate. You married in haste.

Phil. And by all the laws of cynical philosophy, I ought to have repented at leisure. (Beatrice Selwyn enters, L. down staircase unobserved, and crosses slowly to back of table R.C.) But I haven’t repented. To the confusion of the philosophers, I’m the happiest husband and have the best wife in the world.

Tom. (turns to Kate, his mouth full of apple) There, Miss Derwent! What do you say to that? (turns to Mildred)

Kate. That is one side of the picture, but I’ve seen the other. My mother also married for love.

Phil. And what was the consequence?

Kate. That her daughter will never marry.

Bea. (softly) Don’t say that, Miss Derwent. (all start slightly, Kate rises, and sits again almost immediately, still filling bowl with flowers) You are always severe on the gentlemen, but don’t be so hard on them as that.

Phil. Good gracious, Mousey, how you startled me! Your footsteps are so fairy-like, one never knows where you are.

Bea. Moral: never tell secrets to Miss Derwent, when you think I’m not listening.

Phil. My dear, it’s no secret that I have the best wife in the world.

Tom. Everybody thinks that, Mrs. Selwyn. (going up C. towards her)

Bea. (goes to Tom, C.) Not everybody. To wit—Sir Peter Lund.

Mil. Oh, what does it matter what that grumpy old bear thinks? (goes to L. of sofa, and round behind it)

Bea. (crosses Tom to sofa, L.C., picks up a book and sits almost reclining, her back to Phil. and Kate. Tom goes up C. and remains in doorway) My dear Mildred, Sir Peter Lund is a most able and distinguished man. Having made his fortune as a fashionable physician, he has almost retired from the active pursuit of his profession to devote himself to his innumerable appointments, and to the transactions of all sorts of royal and learned societies, where the clearing of his erudite throat is the signal of the most reverential attention. (Tom signals to Mildred who joins him up C.)

Kate. And well it may be.

Bea. Forgive me, I quite forgot he was a friend of yours.

Phil. And mine as well, my dear. When Sir Peter was an ordinary family practitioner, he brought both Mildred and myself into the world, he attended my father in his last illness, and in spite of the multitude of his engagements, he is good enough to take an interest in us still. What could be kinder than his voluntary proposal to run down here and see me, simply because he had heard casually that I was rather out of sorts?

Kate. Sir Peter is coming here?

Phil. I expect him this morning.

Bea. I can only wonder that in “the multitude of his engagements” he can find the leisure.

Phil. Sir Peter is one of those wonderful men, who get through the work of a dozen, yet never seem to have anything to do.

Kate. (rises) Who can always find time for an act of kindness, and are never too busy to remember an old friend. (goes up and puts basket on table at back R.C., and joins Tom and Mildred.)

Bea. Well, I will make him as comfortable as I can.

Phil. I know you will, and the more you see of him the more you will like him. (opening another letter) Hallo! Tom, a letter from your brother.

Tom. Ned! (comes down L. of table, Mildred L. of Tom.)

Phil. “A thousand thanks, old man, for your kind invitation to stay with you while Normantower is being prepared for the reception of my august person! How glad I shall be to shake hands with you once more! Expect me when you see me. Yours as always, Ned. P.S.—Fancy you putting up my cub of a brother! Surely the stables were good enough for him.”

Mil. Well, I declare!

Tom. Ned always talks like that; but he’s a very good brother to me, and always down with the dust, when he’s any dust to down with. (takes her up C. rejoining Kate)

Bea. (rises, crosses to L. of table, puts book in case on table, and then gets back of table, L. of Philip) You see, Phil, Lord Normantower is quite grateful for your invitation.

Phil. It was a happy thought of yours to suggest it; but when aren’t your thoughts happy? They are always of others. (Beatrice kisses him.)

Enter Price, L.D.

Pri. Sir Peter Lund. (Beatrice comes down C. Kate down R.C. corner of table, Tom and Mildred behind arm-chair R.)

Enter Sir Peter Lund. He comes to L.C.

Phil. (rises and crosses to Sir Peter, taking his hand) Welcome to Ravenhurst! I scarcely expected you so soon. You must have risen early this morning. (exit Price with Sir Peter’s hat and stick L.D.)

Sir P. Always get up at five. (crosses to Beatrice) How are you? (shakes hands with Beatrice) How d’ye do? (crosses Beatrice to Kate, and waves his hand to Tom and Mildred) How are you, boy?

Bea. Always get up at five? (L. of Sir Peter)

Phil. And never goes to bed before two. It’s a marvel to me how you do it! (front of sofa)

Sir Peter. (crosses to Phil.) It’s a marvel to me how you don’t do it. That’s why you are out of sorts. You eat too much.

Phil. Sir Peter!

Sir P. Drink too much.

Bea. Sir Peter!

Sir P. Sleep too much.

Kate. Sir Peter!

Sir P. (turning on the ladies) So do you!

Bea. (turning to Kate) Oh! (Tom and Mildred steal off into the grounds, C. to R.)

Sir P. Of course you do. Everybody does. (watch) What time’s the next up train?

Phil. You’re not thinking of going already?

Sir P. Certainly not. Not going for ten minutes.

Bea. Surely you’ll stay to lunch?

Sir P. Lunch, what d’you want with lunch? If you’ve an appetite for dinner, thank heaven for it, and don’t go and spoil it with lunch.

Bea. Do you ever eat?

Sir P. Eat? Like a cormorant.

Phil. Drink?

Sir P. Like a fish. (Philip reclines on sofa, R. of it)

Kate. Sleep?

Sir P. Like a humming-top!

Bea. But you say, you oughtn’t.

Sir P. Well? Do you never do what you oughtn’t! I do. (turns up to head of sofa and surveys Philip through pince-nez)

Bea. Since Sir Peter is so pressed for time——

Sir P. Pressed for time? Not at all. (getting behind sofa still looking at Philip)

Bea. I understood you——

Sir P. You misunderstood me.

Bea. At any rate we’d better leave you with your patient. Come, Miss Derwent—(bows—Sir Peter bows. Exit with Kate into grounds, C. to R.) (Sir Peter turns up stage and watches them off, then comes down, moves chair R. of sofa towards Philip, and sits)

Sir P. Well, what’s the matter with you?

Phil. Really, Sir Peter! That’s what I want you to tell me.

Sir P. You have a high opinion of the medical profession. Do you suppose we can tell you anything, if you don’t tell us first?

Phil. I have always supposed so.

Sir P. Error, sir. You tell us everything we tell you. The only difference is, you tell us in English, and we tell you in Latin. You take a fee out of your pocket; we put one in ours.

Phil. Well, doctor, I can’t tell you what’s the matter with me. I should very much like to know.

Sir P. Why! What has it to do with you?

Phil. (smiling) A great deal unhappily.

Sir P. Vulgar fallacy. A patient’s complaint concerns nobody but his doctor. (feels pulse—watch in hand)

Phil. I have no energy. I don’t take my usual interest in what goes on around me. One day I’m restless—another, lethargic. There’s nothing particular the matter with me, but I seem to have no pleasure in existence; and instead of getting better, I get worse.

Sir P. (shuts watch) Happy at home? (after feeling his hand)

Phil. Perfectly.

Sir P. How has your marriage answered?

Phil. My wife is simply a treasure.

Sir P. (dryly) Oh! Any money difficulties?

Phil. None. My father left me beyond reach of any trouble of that sort.

Sir P. Any pain? (feeling his chest)

Phil. No.

Sir P. I see, Miss Derwent is still with you.

Phil. And I hope, will remain. Beatrice wouldn’t be without her for the world, and I think Mildred almost worships her. I can’t sufficiently thank you for the introduction.

Sir P. How’s your appetite?

Phil. It varies.

Sir P. I thought Miss Derwent would suit you. I picked her up at Guy’s. She was a nurse there. Something about her struck me. Has it struck you?

Phil. What?

Sir P. Her likeness to your father.

Phil. Well, now you mention it, there is a likeness.

Sir P. Sleep pretty well?

Phil. Too well. I’m always drowsy.

Sir P. So, altogether, you’re quite a happy family?

Phil. Yes, doctor. With more money than I know what to do with, heir to a name that is honoured wherever it is known, the husband of the dearest wife in the world, I sometimes think I am the happiest man on earth.

Sir P. Humph.

Phil. You smile.

Sir P. I seem to have dropped into a little paradise.

Phil. Yes, doctor.

Sir P. Where’s the serpent?

Phil. The serpent?

Sir P. There was a serpent even in paradise.

Phil. There’s none in mine.

Sir P. (rises) I’m sorry to hear it. (crosses to C.) There is only one sort of paradise in which there is no serpent.

Phil. What sort do you mean?

Sir P. (C.) A fool’s. (takes snuff and goes to hearthrug, R., back to fire-place)

Phil. (rises and crosses to R.C. and sits L. of table) You are plain spoken, Sir Peter. Now tell me with equal candour what is the matter with me. Perhaps that is the serpent.

Sir P. Shall I tell you the truth?

Phil. Of course.

Sir P. I don’t know.

Phil. Surely, with your experience——

Sir P. Sir, I have no experience.

Phil. Well, with your knowledge——

Sir P. Sir, I have no knowledge. Knowledge is the monopoly of extremely young practitioners. I have been doctoring for forty years; and now, I stand here on your hearthrug, sir, a monument of triumphant ignorance.

Phil. Nonsense, Sir Peter.

Sir P. Sense, sir, sense.

Phil. Be candid and tell me frankly what is wrong with me.

Sir P. Your liver, probably.

Phil. Only my liver?

Sir P. (advances to table) Don’t speak disparagingly of your liver, sir. That eminently respectable organ has been much misunderstood. It is commonly supposed to serve certain functional purposes in the physical economy. Another fallacy! The liver was made, by a beautiful provision of nature, for the benefit of the medical profession. (sits in arm-chair, R.)

Re-enter Mildred and Tom, followed by Lord Normantower, C. from R.

Mil. Phil, here’s Lord Normantower. (Mildred runs on to back of table, followed by Tom, who gets R. of sofa, and sits on arm of it. Sir Peter rises and goes down two steps, R.)

Phil. Ned! (rises and turns up to meet Lord Normantower)

Tom. He’s so brown, and he’s grown such a beard!

Nor. (up C.) Well, Phil, old man, how are you?

Phil. (they come down stage together, C., Philip on R. of Lord Normantower, Mildred crosses behind them to back of sofa, L. of Tom) My dear Ned! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. Sir Peter Lund—Lord Normantower. How kind of you to come and stop with us! How pleasant it will be to chat over old times! But first of all, let me congratulate you on your new dignity.

Nor. Dignity? My dear Phil, I have no dignity. I am a born Bohemian, and the idea of me dropping in for a peerage strikes me as so ludicrous, I’ve done nothing but laugh ever since I became a hereditary legislator. (laughs)

Tom. Ha, ha, ha!

Nor. (suddenly serious) What’s the matter with you?

Tom. Fancy Ned a legislator!

Nor. Even Tom sees the joke. (throws hat to Tom)

Tom, suddenly serious, turns up to be consoled by Mildred; exeunt, C. to R.; Tom hanging Lord Normantower’s hat on stick in stand.

Phil. Lord Normantower and I were at Oxford together. We became great friends; and though circumstances have kept us a good deal apart—we’ve never quite lost sight of one another.

Nor. I haven’t the pleasure of knowing Sir Peter myself, but I believe other members of my family have had that privilege.

Sir P. (crosses to Lord Normantower, C.) Sir, I had the honour of attending the last three Earls of Normantower. Your uncle—gout; your cousin Richard—lungs; your cousin John—delirium—humph—delirium! (Philip drops down, R.C.)

Nor. (throws gloves on table, L.C.) That branch of the family disposed of, the peerage devolved on me as the eldest son of my poor father—the only Verinder who never enjoyed the title, and the only one who deserved it.

Sir P. (shaking him by the hand) I quite agree with you. (turns up C.)

Phil. Let us hope his son will be worthy of him.

Nor. (sits in chair R. of sofa) Ah, well, I’ll do my best; but ten thousand a year, paid quarterly in advance, would have suited Ned Verinder’s book better than an empty honour without a shilling to support it.

Phil. (crosses to Lord Normantower) Well, there’s one consolation. If it’s a difficult matter for a peer to make money, it’s very easy for him to marry it. (Sir Peter comes down to fire-place, R.)

Nor. Marry? Not me! No! I was born a bachelor, and am not going to fly in the face of Providence.

Phil. You don’t believe in marriage?

Nor. Of course there are exceptions; and I hope from the bottom of my heart, yours is one of them. I haven’t seen your wife yet, you know.

Phil. I’ve married a most charming woman, Ned—haven’t I, Sir Peter? (going to L. of table, R.C.)

Sir P. (picks up Punch from table, R.) Sir—your wife is my hostess, and one’s hostess is always charming. (bows and turns off—sitting R., reading)

Nor. A charming woman? You arouse painful memories. I once knew a charming woman. To be quite frank, I was engaged to one.

Phil. (goes to Lord Normantower) You have been engaged to be married! I never heard of it.

Nor. No, I kept it quiet. So did she. (Beatrice enters, C., from R., pausing to look in at window, R.C., and comes down behind chair, R.C.) At the time, there was not the remotest likelihood of my ever succeeding to the title, and of course I was hard up. I always was. A gilded calf appeared upon the scene; and the charming woman wrote me a charming letter, protesting eternal fidelity, and announcing her approaching marriage.

Phil. To the calf?

Nor. To the gilt.

Phil. You had a lucky escape.

Nor. Luckier than I thought: for I discovered afterwards that the charming creature was a regular adventuress—a garrison hack—a boarding-house belle—the sole support of an aged father—a venerable old gentleman, with the manners of a patriarch and the morals of a welsher! She was a charming woman, for all that.

Phil. I congratulate you on your escape. But who was the unfortunate calf?

Nor. I never took the trouble to inquire.

Bea. (advancing—all start slightly as before) And the charming creature? Pray, who was she? (C.R. of Philip)

Nor. (rises) Miss Challoner!

Phil. (proudly—introducing Beatrice) My wife. (Normantower bows) You know one another.

Bea. (with perfect self-possession) I believe, now that I see Lord Normantower, I once had the pleasure of meeting him. (crosses to Normantower) Let me see—where was it?

Nor. It sounds ungallant to say so, but I really forget for the moment.

Bea. Well, never mind that now. Tell us who was the lady who used you so shamefully. I am dying to know. (looking him straight in the face)

Nor. You must excuse me. Though I am ungallant enough to forget where I met Mrs. Selwyn, I am not so unchivalrous as to betray a lady’s secret. (moves away to L.C. in front of sofa)

Bea. (goes to Philip, R.C.) Phil, dear, your friend is quite a hero of romance. If you have any more such friends, please lose no time in introducing them.

Phil. My love, don’t make me jealous. (Beatrice goes to Normantower. Philip turns and speaks to Sir Peter)

Bea. (giving her hand frankly to Normantower) Thank you, Lord Normantower.

Nor. (taking her hand, rather disconcerted) For what, Mrs. Selwyn?

Bea. For your loyalty—to my sex. (turns off up stage to back of table, calling Sir Peter, who rises and joins her. She shows him a book, which she takes from table)

Phil. (crosses to Normantower, takes his arm, and draws him back to sofa) You’ve had a narrow escape, evidently; but don’t make the mistake of letting the unworthiness of one woman blind you to the merits of the rest. Believe me, there is no happiness like that of married love. (sits on sofa. Sir Peter is looking at book; Beatrice listening to conversation)

Nor. (sits L. of Philip) Love! there is no such thing. We think we are in love, but we aren’t. What is called love is an affliction of the brain, not an affection of the heart. Luckily, we soon get over it.

Bea. Men may—but women, never. Do they, Sir Peter?

Sir P. I never offer an opinion on matters I don’t understand—(lifting his forefinger)—unless, mark, they are strictly medical. Love has no place in the British pharmacopæa. (goes down R. of table, Beatrice L. of it. She shows him some photographic views)

Phil. Yet it exists. I have even known cases of love at sight.

Nor. Love at sight! Now you’re going too far for anything. I can imagine an enthusiast believing even in love, but love at sight! (rises) No, my dear Phil, that’s too ridicu—— (a tennis ball comes flying in from the grounds, rolling down to L. corner; Normantower picks it up and gets L.C.)

Kate runs in after the ball, C. from R., she has a tennis bat in her hand, and comes down C.

Kate. (speaking off, as she enters) Stay where you are! I’ll get it for you, children! (stops) Has anybody seen—— Oh! there it is! (seeing it in Normantower’s hand)

Nor. Allow me—— (goes to C. and gives it to Kate)

Kate. Thank you, very much. (running out) Here you are! Catch! (throwing ball off R. Exit Kate; Normantower turns up C., and stands gazing after her; pause. Philip rises and goes L.)

Nor. (to Philip) Who is that lady? (comes down C. to sofa)

Phil. (L.) That’s Miss Derwent.

Nor. And who is Miss Derwent?

Bea. (R.C.) Only a companion. (coldly)

Phil. You’ll be delighted with her, when you know her, as of course you will, if you stay with us for a week or two.

Nor. I’ll stop for a month. (sits on sofa)

Sir P. (watch) Well, my ten minutes are up. (crosses to C.) Before I go I’d like to see you alone. (to Philip)

Phil. (turns up L. behind sofa) Come to my room. (to Normantower, over back of sofa) We shan’t be very long. Meanwhile, I leave you in good company. (goes to foot of stairs L., followed by Sir Peter)

Bea. (goes up C. to Sir Peter) Good-bye, Sir Peter—if I don’t see you again.

Sir P. You will see me again. I’ll stay to lunch after all. (follows Philip)

Phil. (going upstairs) That’s right, doctor. Give yourself a holiday for once. (exit L.)

Bea. (following Sir Peter to foot of stairs) But your patients? What will they do without you? (smiling sweetly)

Sir P. (on stairs) What will they do? Recover. (exit L.)

Beatrice stands at the foot of the stairs, watching them off. Normantower is sitting with his back to staircase. He rises and crosses thoughtfully to R.C. corner of table. Beatrice advances and stands looking at him.

Nor. Are they gone?

Bea. (C.) Yes. Oh, Ned, can you ever forgive me? (L. of Normantower)

Nor. Forgive you? I forgave you long ago. Indeed I am grateful to you for teaching me a lesson which I shall never forget.

Bea. You are cruel; but I suppose I deserve it. (on a line with Normantower)

Nor. My grievance is a thing of the past. I have no wish to injure you or to cause you pain, and I should not have expressed myself so freely just now, had I known that you were present or that I was speaking of the wife of a friend. (a step down)

Bea. You have been misinformed. There is not a word of truth in what you have heard about me.

Nor. No doubt. People exaggerate so. (standing below her)

Bea. They invent so.

Nor. They invent so.

Bea. And you have believed them! What must you think of me? (moves away a little)

Nor. To be perfectly frank, Mrs. Selwyn, I endeavour not to think of you at all. (goes to fireplace R.)

Bea. (goes up to L. of table) You have forgotten me? You have stripped me from your mind?

Nor. I have done my best to forget you. (leans on mantel, his back to her)

Bea. (moving away) And this is constancy! (down to L.)

Nor. (faces round) Constancy! I am not more punctilious than most men, but surely it is scarcely my duty to be constant to a woman who has become the wife of another. (advances to R.C.)

Bea. (goes up to C.) Ah! it is easy to talk of one’s duty but it is not always so easy to do it. (Normantower looks at her) Ned—may I call you so? Let me tell you the secret of my life.

Nor. You have a secret? (comes to her C.)

Bea. Yes—I was always constant. I was forced into this marriage. The letter I wrote breaking off our engagement was dictated to me. I never loved my husband. (turns away to L.C.)

Nor. (C.) Mrs. Selwyn, you forget, your husband is my friend. If you didn’t know it when he asked me here, you know it now.

Bea. (turns to him) I always knew it. It was I who suggested the invitation. I could bear my unhappiness no longer. I felt I must see you again. Oh, if you could only look into my heart! Ned! Though I used you badly, you are bitterly avenged! (drops into sofa L.C., and buries her face in her hands)

Nor. (goes up to head of sofa, looking down on her) I have no wish to be avenged. I loved you—I lost you—and there is an end of it. (turns up C.)

Bea. (rising) Why was I born a woman? (crosses to R.C. corner of table) Why was I not a man? To amuse myself just for the moment, and then to be able to forget!

Nor. (comes down behind chair R.C.) You do us an injustice. We men are not so inconstant as you think. Sometimes we pretend to forget what we are half ashamed to remember. (Beatrice listens intently, watching him out of the corner of her eyes) But the past is past. You are a wife now. (goes to C.)

Bea. If I were not a wife?

Nor. Then, it would be different.

Bea. (close to him) Hush! I have said, I do not love my husband; and if you say that, you will make me hate him. To think that he—and he alone—stands between me and happiness.