ACT I

The Scene is the Living-room in the country cottage of the BATTERSBYS (father and daughter), a room of oak-beams, distempered walls and lattice windows. At the back, between the windows is a door, wide open to the garden. There is a door on the right which leads to the other inhabited parts of the house. Along the left side of the room a staircase ascends easily, to meet at right angles a low gallery from which bedrooms may be reached. The door on the left of the gallery is that of ANGELA’S room. To the right the gallery leads to BATTERSBY’S room and the bathroom. Underneath the stairs is a “glory-hole” with a curtain across it.

It is nearly 8 o’clock on a warm evening in May. Being summer time it is still full daylight, and no attempt has been made to pretend otherwise. The women’s dresses must take their chance. Time enough to light up after dinner, particularly as electricity has not yet discovered Wych Trentham.

ANGELA, aged 18, half-dressed, in rather a casual wrap, cigarette-holder in mouth, is moving about the room with a slow, indifferent grace, which is much too charming to be a physical attribute only. Her indolence, both of voice and movement, is part of herself; she has the air—odd, and therefore attractive, on such a youthful prettiness—of living in another world, with a faint smile for this one. At present she is tidying up the room for her dinner-party; not with any sort of fussiness; but in the care-free manner of one to whom it has occurred casually in the middle of her dressing that Royalty may be here at any moment, and that her father’s dog-bitten slippers may be in any corner of the room. While we watch her, she stoops down and collects one from underneath the sofa; looks thoughtfully about, moves a chair and discloses the other one. She takes the pair and drops them in the glory-hole. Then she speaks, raising her voice a little.

ANGELA. Are you out of the bath, Father?

(She goes on tidying: old newspapers now. BATTERSBY opens the door of his bedroom and looks out.)

BATTERSBY. In a sense, yes, dear. I was just going in.

ANGELA (to herself). Good Heavens!

BATTERSBY. I’m very quick. (His head begins to go back.)

ANGELA. You’ve put the wine out? (Silence. BATTERSBY’S head stops its movement.) Oh Lord, he hasn’t.

BATTERSBY (firmly, as he comes out, tying his dressing-gown). I am putting the wine out. (He comes down the stairs; a man of about 50, tall and bearded. In a towelled bath-gown and bedroom slippers he is unconventionally dressed for the dining-room, but you feel that he would always be a little like that. He has a quick, nervous way of talking, as if he were communing, rather apologetically, with himself.) And the cigars. (He goes into the glory-hole.)

ANGELA (resigned). Anyway, everybody knows we’re always late in this house.

BATTERSBY (coming out with two boxes of cigars). He wouldn’t know.

ANGELA. Well, he will after to-night.

BATTERSBY. That’s true.... There are only four of the good cigars left.

ANGELA. Surely he won’t want more than four?

BATTERSBY. One requires a certain margin.... And then there are the others. This secretary fellow, Holt, and the Doctor, isn’t it? Five with me.

ANGELA. I can’t have my medical attendant puffing cigars in a hygienic house like this.

BATTERSBY. He’d prefer his pipe, in any case. So, if Holt has one of the cheaper brand, and the secretary and I have one good one each, that will leave two for the Prince. (He puts the four Coronas on top of a broken box of cheaper ones.) I shall tell Holt that the lower ones are nuttier. What about the wine? Champagne, I suppose.

ANGELA (thoughtfully). Emily broke the corkscrew the last time we had champagne. I wonder if we’ve got another.

BATTERSBY. That was an inferior brand. I have some better than that.

ANGELA. She’d better make a popping noise as she takes the cork out—to be on the safe side. Have you got enough?

BATTERSBY. A dozen.

ANGELA. Half a bottle each, and seven and a half bottles for the Prince. That ought to be all right.

BATTERSBY. My dear, you’re looking forward to seeing him again just as much as I am. (Opening an empty box) I suppose you’ve got some cigarettes.

ANGELA. Some.... A Prince seems much more natural in the South of France. You sit next to him at lunch, and he’s like anybody else. In England you feel a snob to be meeting him at all.

BATTERSBY. He invited himself. We didn’t ask him.

ANGELA. I don’t say I am a snob. I say I feel a snob.

BATTERSBY. Pooh! What’s a Prince?

ANGELA. And I don’t say I feel undressed, I am undressed. (She pulls her wrap round her, and strolls upstairs.) Go and tell Emily about the champagne.

BATTERSBY. Prince Michael Robolski of Neo-Slavonia—there are hundreds like that all over Europe. Penny plain, twopence coloured.

ANGELA (on the stairs). Yes, but only one in Wych Trentham. So we must make the most of him. (She goes into her room.)

BATTERSBY (mumbling to himself). What’s a Prince in this democratic age? (He goes kitchenwards.)

(The room is empty for a moment, and then JENNIFER appears at the garden door. She is 30, and so overflowing with vitality that some of it has got into her figure, and led to the word “buxom” being used. But she is tall enough, and big enough, mentally and physically, to carry it off with an air. She enjoys her world; she enjoys herself. It is jolly being JENNIFER.... Nobody is about, so she announces herself.)

JENNIFER (loudly). How do you do? So good of you to come. (Shyly) So kind of you to ask me.

ANGELA (off). Oh, is that you, darling?

JENNIFER. Yes. At least it was yesterday. It’s Jennifer.

ANGELA (appearing in the gallery). You’re early, aren’t you?

JENNIFER. I haven’t really come yet. Am I dining?

ANGELA. Of course. Life and soul of the party.

JENNIFER. That’s a comfort. I just stepped across to make sure. Last time, you remember, you sent me away and told me to come in afterwards. Luckily I had a little cold beef in the house. But there’s something about sitting down to cold beef and pickles in diamonds and a dress with no back to it——Well, I just stepped across to make sure. And now I’ll step back again.

ANGELA. Oh, stop now you’re here!

(She disappears into her room for a moment, but JENNIFER doesn’t realise that she is gone.)

JENNIFER. Good gracious, no! And be introduced to the Prince with a crowd of others? Never on your life! I shall make a late but superb entry. All the men will look at me, and say, “Thank God, now we can eat”; and all the women will look at me and say (quite correctly), “She came late on purpose, how like her”; and the Prince will look at me, with a sudden reviving interest in what he had feared would be a very dull evening, and he’ll say, “Chère Madame”—Or does he talk English? (There is no answer. She realises that she is alone.) Have I been soliloquising all this time?

ANGELA (coming out). Sorry. What did you say?

JENNIFER. My last words, when solitude descended upon me, were, “Does he talk English?”

ANGELA. Perfectly. (She comes slowly downstairs, still smoking.)

JENNIFER. You should have mentioned it in your invitation. We’ve all been rubbing up our Easy French in Six Lessons. Well, then, the Prince will say, “Ah, dear Lady, this was indeed worth waiting for.” No, that isn’t very good. Well—anyhow—he’ll look at me. And there’s more of me to look at every day.

ANGELA. It is ridiculous of you to pretend that you’re fat. Why do you?

JENNIFER. I don’t. No woman pretends she’s fat. But every woman over thirty is afraid. On her thirtieth birthday she starts looking at herself in the glass, and saying, “Is it, or is it not?” And a morning comes when she says, “I wonder.” I said it this morning. I say, where is—wherever it is?

ANGELA. Neo-Slavonia? I don’t know. (With a wave of her cigarette) Down at the bottom on the right, I suppose. Somewhere.

JENNIFER. They make geography so quickly nowadays that I can’t keep up with it.

ANGELA. A sort of buffer-state. (She gives JENNIFER her ear-rings.) There’s a dear. I shall make a mess of my hair.

JENNIFER (fixing them). If one has never heard of a country, one always calls it “a sort of buffer-state.” “Miss Angela Battersby was wearing the family drops.” It must be difficult to feel very patriotic about a country which is only used so as to prevent two other countries from getting at each other.... Other ear.

ANGELA (turning round). It’s never difficult to feel very patriotic.

JENNIFER. True. At least it’s never difficult to feel how very unpatriotic other people are.... My buffer, ’tis of thee!... Is he very good-looking?

ANGELA. Not bad.

JENNIFER. And, to get down to my own class, what’s the secretary like?... There!

ANGELA (looking at herself in the glass). Thanks.... We haven’t seen him. The Prince wrote to say that he was in London. Could he—and so on? I said, Delighted. Then he wrote that he and his secretary were at the Bull at Medenham. Could they—and so forth? I said, Of course. I suppose he’s a sort of courier, equerry, orderly, or whatever you call it. I must go and finish myself. (She goes.)

JENNIFER. Well, speaking as a widow with no desire to marry again, I wish you luck.

ANGELA (smiling mysteriously at her from half-way up the stairs). Don’t be vulgar, Jennifer.

JENNIFER. I like being vulgar. It suits my shape. Anyhow, darling, promise that I shall be the first to hear.

ANGELA. You’re sure to be, I should think. You’re quite capable of hiding behind a tree, and listening. (She goes into her room.)

JENNIFER (complacently). I am. (Surveying herself) And thank you for “tree,” darling. I was afraid you were going to say “bush” or “clump.” (Going.) About another quarter-of-an-hour, do you think, for my entry? (ANGELA calls out something.) What?

ANGELA (putting her head out). You haven’t got any French mustard, have you?

JENNIFER (doubtfully). With French mustard, you think?

ANGELA. I knew I’d forgotten something.

JENNIFER. I’ll bring some round, if you like.

ANGELA (retiring). Do.

JENNIFER. I will.

(At which moment BATTERSBY comes back from the cellar.)

BATTERSBY. Hallo, Jennifer, good-evening.

JENNIFER. Good-evening, Simon. (Reproachfully) You never told me it was court dress!

BATTERSBY. What? Oh! (Looking at himself) Just going to have a bath. You couldn’t be much sweller than you are, could you?

JENNIFER (anxiously). Much—what?

BATTERSBY. Much more grand.

JENNIFER (re-assured). Oh! Just for a moment I——Well, a train and feathers.

BATTERSBY. He isn’t really royalty, you know. Neo-Slavonia is only⁠——

JENNIFER (nodding). A sort of buffer-state.

BATTERSBY. Exactly. And though, I understand, he’s related to the reigning house⁠——

JENNIFER. There’s no chance of Angela being a queen.

ANGELA (from her bedroom). Send that woman away, Father. And for goodness’ sake, get dressed.

BATTERSBY. It’s Jennifer, dear.

ANGELA. It sounded like Mrs. Bulger.

JENNIFER. It is, darling.

BATTERSBY (throwing up his hands). If only it weren’t! Why did.... I mean, why don’t.... (He shudders.)

JENNIFER (innocently). Don’t you like my name?

BATTERSBY. It’s a horrible name.

JENNIFER. I love it. Jennifer Bulger, widow of the late General James Bulger, C.B. It’s sweet.

BATTERSBY. It may have been all right for him—we never knew him—but for you! Jennifer!

JENNIFER. No, no, you mustn’t propose in your dressing-gown.

ANGELA (off). Is Father proposing again?

BATTERSBY (shouting). This is not a proposal. It’s an æsthetic impulse. (To JENNIFER) I want you to have a name which becomes you. You ought to be Jennifer Battersby, even at the cost of marrying me.

JENNIFER. Dear Simon, nice Simon. You know you don’t mean it.

BATTERSBY. I mean it, every time.... But I must admit that I’m always a little relieved when you refuse me.

JENNIFER. Dear Simon, of course you are.

ANGELA (looking out). Oh, come on, Father!

JENNIFER (soothingly). I won’t marry you.

BATTERSBY. Yes, but I don’t think you must marry anybody else. Promise me that you won’t marry the Prince without my permission.

JENNIFER. Good gracious, that’s two of us after him already! (Firmly) I promise nothing, but that I shall enjoy myself to-night.

BATTERSBY. You always do. That’s why you’re so adorable.

ANGELA (from the gallery). Give him a smile, Jennifer, and get rid of him.

JENNIFER (laughing happily). I do like Battersbys. There’s something about them.... Au revoir! (She waves and is gone.)

(BATTERSBY at last goes up to his bath.)

ANGELA. Hurry up, darling.

BATTERSBY (impressively). Have you ever seen forked lightning playing over water? That’s me in my bath. (He disappears.)

(ANGELA remains on the gallery, as EMILY, the parlourmaid, comes in with a tray of cocktails.)

ANGELA. Are those the cocktails, Emily?

EMILY. Yes, miss.

ANGELA. Good. (She comes slowly downstairs, still smoking.)

EMILY. Ellen says I was to remind you about the French mustard, miss.

ANGELA. Mrs. Bulger is bringing some round. (She takes a cocktail.)

EMILY. Thank you, miss. (Nervously) Do I say, “Your Royal Highness,” miss?

ANGELA. I really don’t know. (Drinking) “Your Highness,” I should think. But don’t overdo it.

EMILY. Thank you, miss.

ANGELA. He won’t throw anything at you, if you’re wrong. (Finishing her drink, and giving EMILY the glass) You’d better take this out. (She goes back to her room.)

EMILY. Yes, miss.

[She goes out.

(ROBERT and ETHEL HOLT come in. He, a thick-set young soldier, is just over 30, she just under. He is a very serious young man, of a sort of determined intellectuality. Nothing escapes him. Even the lightest remark made by another requires thinking out. She is a bright helpmeet for such a man, the best of wives; with, like most wives, more intelligence than appears on the surface, and enough character to look after herself.)

ETHEL (brightly). Why, we’re the first!

ROBERT (feeling his chin). I might have gone over it again, after all.

ETHEL. Better early than late. Particularly with royalty.

ROBERT. Hardly royalty, dear. Neo-Slavonia ... one of these small buffer-states which have sprung up since the Armistice. All Mittel-Europa⁠——

ETHEL. (loudly). We’re here, Angela! Are we very early? (To ROBERT) Yes, dear.

ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa⁠——

ANGELA (off). Hallo! Is that the Holts?

ETHEL. You did say eight, didn’t you?

ANGELA (her head visible). Did I? We’re a bit late, I expect. Do you want to take anything off?

ETHEL. No, thank you, dear.

ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa⁠——

ANGELA. Have a drink, Robert.

ROBERT. Thanks.

ANGELA. Cigarettes. (A leather case sails into the room.) Sorry.

ETHEL (picking it up). Thank you, dear.

ROBERT. All Mittel-Europa⁠——(Holding out drink) Will you have one, Ethel?

ETHEL. I don’t think so. Well, perhaps I will. No, later, I think. (She feels that she would like Royalty to see her drinking one.) I’ll keep the Prince company. (She laughs a little self-consciously.) Cigarette?

ROBERT. No, thanks. (He drinks.)

ETHEL. I don’t think I will either. What were you saying about all Mittel-Europa, dear?

ROBERT (drinking). All Mittel-Europa is in a state of flux just now.

ETHEL (wearing her intelligent face). I suppose so. Naturally. The War, of course. And the Peace.

ROBERT. The old Empires are splitting up—disintegrating. A sort of de-centralisation is going on. And so you get these small states coming into a precarious existence. Almost literally a case of “Here to-day and gone to-morrow.”

ETHEL. You must talk it over with the Prince—if he talks English, as I suppose he does. They all do, don’t they? I love listening to a good talk. Men talk so well, I always think.... They say he’s very good-looking.

ROBERT. In many cases, of course, these little states have a connected history of their own. Centuries ago, before they were absorbed into some ramshackle empire, they had their own court and customs. You would probably find that they had never quite lost their individuality.

ETHEL. Individuality is the great thing, isn’t it? Oh, did you find out whether we said Sir or Your Highness or Prince?

ROBERT. I shall say Sir, of course. You’d better not say anything.

ETHEL. Yes, that’s best, isn’t it?

(ANGELA still in her wrap, empty cigarette-holder in her mouth, comes down the stairs.)

ANGELA. Can I have my cigarettes?

ROBERT (standing to attention). Good-evening.

ETHEL (brightly). How are you, dear? Here you are. (She goes, case in hand, to kiss her.)

ANGELA (taking the case and avoiding the kiss). Thanks.

ETHEL (with a little laugh). We were just wondering what one called your Prince.

ANGELA (putting in a cigarette). As long as you don’t call him my Prince, I don’t mind what you call him. I’ve only met him once.

ROBERT. Oh, is that so? Monte Carlo, wasn’t it? (He strikes a match for her.)

ANGELA. Thanks.... That village above Mentone—what’s its name? Gorbio. We went there one day. With a party. Sort of picnic. He was one of them.

ETHEL (with the air of one who knows Gorbio well). Oh, yes.

ANGELA (strolling upstairs again). Shan’t be long.

(They watch her go.)

ETHEL (as soon as it is safe). Well, if you ask me, I should say that Miss Angela Battersby must have made good use of that one day.

ROBERT (uncomfortably, feeling that this is rather bad form). Oh, I don’t know.

ETHEL. I mean it quite nicely, of course. I can quite see the attraction. She’s so very British, isn’t she? That would always attract a foreigner.

ROBERT (wondering if his country is being insulted). British?

ETHEL. That air of “Oh, is that you?”

ROBERT. I don’t see that that’s British exactly. I should call it the individual rather than the type.

ETHEL. You know what I mean. (With sudden inspiration) “I’m Angela Battersby, take it or leave it.” There!—that’s what I mean. I think it’s rather attractive.

ROBERT (frowning). But why British?

ETHEL. Well, that’s rather what Englishmen say.

ROBERT (wrestling). H’m!... I see what you mean.... In a way—yes.... I suppose we do. (He looks at her with an admiration that would be flattering if it were not surprised.) Now what made you think of that?

ETHEL. Oh, I’m not such a fool as you think.

ROBERT. I have never thought so for a moment. Women often have surprising intuitions.... “I am an Englishman, take it or leave it.” That’s good, Ethel. I must tell the Prince that.

ETHEL (eagerly). You will say I said it, won’t you?

ROBERT. My dear, of course.

ETHEL (taking his arm). Dear old boy! Let’s go into the garden. It’s nicer outside.

ROBERT (coming). You’re quite right, Ethel. We do.

ETHEL. Do what?

ROBERT. That’s why so many foreigners⁠——

ETHEL (as they approach the door). Mrs. Faithfull—I didn’t know she was coming.

(But she is. For here they are at the door—the Queen of Wych Trentham, and her only child, IMOGEN. MRS. FAITHFULL, short and square, with the absolute assurance of a woman of 55 who has to her credit the achievements of wifehood and motherhood, and can therefore speak with authority on all subjects, exercises her prerogatives benignly. Practically all it comes to is that she expects the host to take her in. At present she is very much a mother to IMOGEN, who at 18, ANGELA’S age, is a dumb school-girl in the royal presence, and a precocious one in her absence.)

ETHEL (brightly). Good-evening. Angela’s still dressing. We’re early, so we’re just going into the garden. (Which explains the whole thing.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. Good-evening, Ethel. Good-evening, Captain Holt.

ROBERT. Good-evening. (To IMOGEN) How are you, Miss Faithfull?

(IMOGEN smiles shyly.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. Very well, thank you, Captain Holt.

ETHEL (to IMOGEN). What a sweet dress, dear. (IMOGEN looks modest.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. Pink suits us. We always try to keep to pink.

ANGELA (off). Is that you, Mrs. Faithfull? Do you want to take anything off, or would you rather have a cocktail?

MRS. FAITHFULL. I will just come up for a moment, I think. (To IMOGEN) You can keep that shawl on, dear, for the present. It suits you. (She goes up the stairs.)

ANGELA (off). Robert, give Imogen a cigar or a drink or something.

MRS. FAITHFULL (firmly). No, thank you, Captain Holt. (She goes into ANGELA’S room.)

ETHEL (to IMOGEN). Come into the garden with us. It’s cooler there.

ROBERT (with glass). Sure you won’t?

IMOGEN (to ETHEL). Have you had one?

ETHEL. No, I don’t think just yet, perhaps.

IMOGEN. Oh! (She takes the drink.) Then I will. And Mother will count and think it’s your glass. (Drinking) I don’t like the taste very much, do you? I suppose you get used to it. I say, aren’t you excited about the Prince? Do you think he’s a real Prince? Do you think he’s in love with Angela? (She drinks again.) I don’t think I like this very much.

ROBERT (holding out his hand). I shouldn’t drink it if you don’t like it.

IMOGEN (before letting go of the glass). Would you leave half of yours, Mrs. Holt?

ETHEL. I might. I do sometimes.

IMOGEN. Oh, then that’s all right. (To ROBERT) Thank you. (To ETHEL) Do we curtsey?

ETHEL (who hadn’t thought of this). Oh, no! I don’t⁠——(Panic.)

IMOGEN. I’ve been practising. Up in my room. (She gives us one.) It looks jolly, doesn’t it? I’ve been doing it in front of the glass—mostly in a nightie. (She gives us another, not so successful.) It’s easier in a nightie.

ETHEL. Oh, but Robert has just been explaining. Neo-Slavonia is only⁠——

ROBERT. A sort of buffer-state.

IMOGEN. Mother says you just call him Prince Michael. I like “Sire” better, don’t you? You’ve never met him, have you? I believe he’s awfully good-looking.

ROBERT. It isn’t like an English Prince, you know, Miss Faithfull. You know, in Europe, “Prince” is just a title like Duke or Count. That is to say⁠——

ETHEL. Oh, is that so, Robert?

IMOGEN. Let’s go into the garden, shall we? I won’t smoke a cigarette, but if you would, Mrs. Holt, and blow the smoke in my hair, Mother will think I’ve been smoking, and then you’ll be able to tell her afterwards that I haven’t.

ETHEL (her arm round IMOGEN). Come on, you funny girl. (They go out, ROBERT still holding forth.)

ROBERT (following). This Prince Michael, you know, is probably not of the Royal Family—such as it is. A distant connection, perhaps, but⁠——

[They are gone.

(MRS. FAITHFULL and ANGELA appear in the gallery.)

ANGELA (as they come downstairs). Have a cocktail, won’t you?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Thank you.

(She comes down; ANGELA after her, still undressed, still smoking.)

ANGELA. Help yourself.

MRS. FAITHFULL (helping herself). He talks English, of course?

ANGELA. Oh, yes.

MRS. FAITHFULL. That’s a comfort. About how old, would you say?

ANGELA. Thirty-five. Forty.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, as old as that? Good-looking?

ANGELA. All right.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Who else are coming?

ANGELA. Dr. Ainslie.

MRS. FAITHFULL (disapproving). Oh!

ANGELA. Jennifer.

MRS. FAITHFULL (disapproving in a different way). Ah!... There’s something about her which would appeal to a foreigner, don’t you think?

ANGELA. Why to a foreigner, particularly?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Her figure is a little—foreign, don’t you think?

ANGELA (indifferently). Is it?

MRS. FAITHFULL. What sort of stays does she wear—if any? In my young days when stays were stays, you either had a ridge across the back or you hadn’t. Nowadays, there’s nothing to tell you whether they wear them or they don’t.

ANGELA. We’ll ask her at dinner to-night.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Not in front of Imogen, dear, if you don’t mind.

ANGELA. Doesn’t she know about them?

MRS. FAITHFULL. She’s looking sweet to-night, don’t you think? I’m sure the Prince will think so. A little English wild rose. And have you a pretty dress for us?

ANGELA. Same old blue.

MRS. FAITHFULL (relieved). Ah!... But it suits you very well, dear.

ANGELA. It’s had long enough to get used to me.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Still, if the Prince has never seen it⁠——

BATTERSBY (off). Angela!

ANGELA. Hallo!

BATTERSBY. May I wear my old coat and a soft shirt?

ANGELA. Why ever not?

BATTERSBY. Holt will have a white waistcoat, I suppose?

ANGELA (to MRS. FAITHFULL). Had he?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, yes! (Loudly) Yes, Mr. Battersby.

BATTERSBY. Oh, is that you, Mrs. Faithfull? Sorry I’m not ready.

MRS. FAITHFULL (a little primly). It’s quite all right, thank you.

BATTERSBY. Well, then, Angela, if Holt has a white waistcoat, and I have a soft shirt, and Ainslie has an ordinary tail-coat with a stethoscope in it, the Prince is bound to be all right, whatever he wears.

ANGELA. The perfect host.

BATTERSBY (loudly). What?

ANGELA. Soft shirt, darling.

BATTERSBY. Good! Shan’t be a moment, Mrs. Faithfull.

MRS. FAITHFULL. That’s all right, thank you. Angela is looking after me.... I always think Mr. Battersby looks so artistic in his velvet coat.... Of course this is quite an informal visit of Prince Michael’s.

ANGELA. Naturally.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Did you see much of him at Monte?

ANGELA. We met him.

MRS. FAITHFULL. And he said, could he come and see you when he was in England?

ANGELA. He did say something about it, I believe.

MRS. FAITHFULL. They often say it, but they don’t always come.

ANGELA (sympathetically). Don’t they?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Well, of course, I don’t encourage it for Imogen. Not abroad. You never know Who is Who.

ANGELA. As long as they’re amusing⁠——

MRS. FAITHFULL. The amusing ones are never Who. You can depend on that.

ANGELA. Then we’re in for a dull evening.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, a Prince is different. Prince Michael⁠——(Very carelessly) We just call him Prince Michael, I suppose. An informal visit, naturally. I told Imogen, yes—he is sure to be interesting. (Vaguely) All Europe just now, I think. New groupings of nationalities. One so rarely hears the real truth. I am told that we are much nearer to another world-war than we think. The Prince must tell us. I suppose Neo-Slavonia is pro-Ally?

ANGELA. Are there any allies now? They’re fond of the English, I believe.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, well, that’s a good thing.

(They are interrupted by JENNIFER.)

JENNIFER (at the open door). French mustard. Don’t tell me I ought to have gone to the back door with it.

ANGELA. Oh, thanks. (She puts the mustard on the table, and calls out.) Emily!

JENNIFER (to MRS. FAITHFULL). Good-evening, dear. What a charming dress! (To ANGELA) May I go back and change mine?

MRS. FAITHFULL (pleased). We must do what we can when there are so many pretty young ones round us.

JENNIFER (with a charming, modest laugh). Oh, how sweet⁠——(The laugh stops suddenly. In which group is she included? She says solemnly) Yes. We must.

ANGELA (indicating cocktail). Have one?

JENNIFER. My dear, I daren’t.

ANGELA. You are absurd.

EMILY (coming in). Yes, miss?

ANGELA (nodding at it). Mustard.

[EMILY takes it and goes out.

JENNIFER (resigned). I suppose I shan’t see that again.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Angela was just telling me that the Neo-Slavonians are very fond of the English.

JENNIFER. Yes, Gladstone or somebody said something in 1874 which they have never quite forgotten ... but which I have.

ANGELA. What sort of thing?

JENNIFER. Legitimate aspirations ... which although ... yet ... in the not far-distant future⁠——You know how they talk.

MRS. FAITHFULL (nodding profoundly). It is curious to think that if Mr. Gladstone had never said—whatever exactly it was—fifty years ago, Prince Michael mightn’t have been dining here to-night.

JENNIFER. And if Mr. Faithfull had never said “I love you” twenty-five years ago, Imogen mightn’t have been dining here to-night.

MRS. FAITHFULL (stiffly). That doesn’t strike me as so curious.

JENNIFER. Still, it is interesting. Angela, darling, if you don’t get dressed, nobody will be dining here to-night.

ANGELA (lounging off). I’m just ready. (She goes up.) The others are in the garden.

JENNIFER. I saw a pretty pink butterfly on the lawn. I suppose that was Imogen.

MRS. FAITHFULL (absently). Yes, we always wear pink in the evening.

JENNIFER (suddenly). Isn’t it funny that there aren’t any pink butterflies? I’d never thought of it before. Reds and yellows and blues and browns and purples, but no pinks. I wonder why?

MRS. FAITHFULL (who doesn’t wonder why). We shall know one day, I daresay.

JENNIFER. I’d rather know now, because I’m sure to forget later on. There will be so many questions to ask when we get to Heaven. (Childishly) What’s your first one? I’ll tell you what mine is. I shall say, “Now, what about all those stars? What were they there for?”

(MRS. FAITHFULL feels uncomfortably that there is nothing about this in the Church of England Services, and gets back to butterflies.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. The General must have seen many beautiful butterflies in India.

JENNIFER. He didn’t talk about them.

MRS. FAITHFULL (coming to the point). What did happen at Monte, do you know?

JENNIFER (at a loss). Monty?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Between Angela and the Prince.

JENNIFER. Oh—Monte! I always call it Carlo.... Did anything happen?

MRS. FAITHFULL. She evidently made a great impression. Of course nothing could ever⁠——Still, in these democratic days, I suppose⁠——She hasn’t said anything to you?

JENNIFER. She told me not to be vulgar when I hinted that⁠——

MRS. FAITHFULL (stiffly). There is a vulgar way and another way, no doubt, of making these enquiries.

JENNIFER (cheerfully). Yes, mine was the vulgar way. (With an air) But, after all, are we not women? The moment they meet, shall we not know if “soft eyes look love to eyes which speak again”?

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh, one always knows, of course.

JENNIFER (romantically).

But if the light be not there, I shall wish Imogen luck, and I don’t care how vulgar anybody calls me.

MRS. FAITHFULL (deprecating, but pleased). Oh, Imogen is only a baby.

JENNIFER. As old as Angela.

MRS. FAITHFULL (firmly). Not in the sight of Heaven.

JENNIFER (to herself). That will be another thing to ask about when I get there.... (To MRS. FAITHFULL) Of course we must remember that the Prince’s prospects are not necessarily confined to Wych Trentham. He may decide to marry out of the village.

(DR. AINSLIE is at the door. At 50 he has a sense of humour which the ladies call “so satirical”; and, in his own words, he can “stand anything but shams,” by which he means Religion, Royalty and other politenesses much esteemed in Wych Trentham. Some people call him a cynic, without quite knowing what it means, and they all say that “it is a great pity he never married.”)

AINSLIE. Do I come in, or do I go to the front door and get announced in style?

JENNIFER. Which do you generally do?

AINSLIE (sarcastically). I don’t generally have the honour of meeting a Prince. Good-evening, Mrs. Faithfull.

MRS. FAITHFULL (coldly). Good-evening.

AINSLIE. Outwardly calm, but with beating hearts, and murmuring a few French phrases to ourselves, we await the arrival of His Highness.

MRS. FAITHFULL (to JENNIFER). Is Imogen outside, dear? I think I’ll go to her.

AINSLIE (making way for her). She is the one in pink. (MRS. FAITHFULL goes out haughtily.) That woman doesn’t like me.

JENNIFER (consolingly). But the next doctor is a long way off.

AINSLIE. Oh, professionally, I have no anxiety. But she doesn’t like me. Do you know why?

JENNIFER. Your diffident manner?

AINSLIE. I told her that she was bringing Imogen up badly.

JENNIFER. Speaking as a doctor, or as a—bachelor?

AINSLIE. As a substitute for the Vicar. (Indicating the drinks) Are these for me?

JENNIFER. Some of them. (He goes to the table, and holds up one.) No, thank you.

AINSLIE (drinking). I said: “You are robbing Imogen of her youth.” Look at all the other jolly little girls you see about. They drink, and they smoke, and they swear, and they read improper books, and they’re very clever and cynical, and we say, “Bless their dear little hearts! Youth, youth! I was as young as that once.” I tell you, Jennifer, it brings tears into my eyes sometimes, to see them so young and so pleased with themselves, and to think that they will have to grow up. But Imogen will marry and settle down before she has had any youth at all.

JENNIFER (smiling). I fancy that Imogen is deeper than you think. When she is away from her mother⁠——

AINSLIE. Deep! But that’s what I’m saying! She’s as deep as you or I. She has no business to be deep at her age. Deep! She’s probably romantic, and all sorts of nice elderly things like that. I daresay she’s told herself stories about this ridiculous Prince of yours. Just as you have. (He drinks and says firmly) I don’t know about anybody else, but I do not propose to call him “Sir.”

JENNIFER. “Nobody asked you, Sir, she said.... Sir, she said.”... Sir, she said—unlike the doctor of Wych Trentham.

AINSLIE. And I shall talk English.

JENNIFER (disappointedly). Oh!... Couldn’t you say a few words in medical Latin now and then?

AINSLIE. That reminds me. Is there an Established Church in Neo-Slavonia?

JENNIFER. Good gracious, what a question to ask a lone widow woman suddenly!

AINSLIE. It’s a new country, so it may still be free from the shackles of ecclesiasticism.

JENNIFER. Will this be the general trend of the conversation this evening? Because, if so, I should like to go back for my cigarette cards.

AINSLIE (warming to it). No country with an Established Church has any claim to be considered civilised. But the fools won’t see it.

JENNIFER (soothingly). They never do, do they? I don’t believe they try. (Very soothingly) Shall I put your glass down for you, or hold your hobby-horse while you dismount?

AINSLIE (with a laugh). All right, I’ll spare you the rest. (He pats her hand affectionately.)

(ANGELA comes down, dressed at last.)

ANGELA. Hallo!

AINSLIE (shaking hands). Good-evening. Produce your Prince.

ANGELA. Isn’t he here?

AINSLIE. He’s looking for the red carpet. Have you got a red carpet? I came in through the garden. The village band ought to be playing the Neo-Slavonian National Anthem. Why isn’t it? This party is being run very badly.

(BATTERSBY comes down from his bedroom, as the others return from the garden.)

BATTERSBY. Hallo, Doctor. (He beckons him on one side.) I say, we’re a cigar short. You’d rather have a pipe, wouldn’t you?

AINSLIE. Even if I wouldn’t, I should smoke it to-night, as an assertion of my Republican principles.

BATTERSBY. Excellent. Could you also assert your medical principles, and tell Holt that any one of the four big cigars on the top of the box would undoubtedly be fatal to him?

AINSLIE. Do I speak as one who knows Holt’s constitution, or as one who knows the cigars?

BATTERSBY. I don’t mind which way you put it, as long as you frighten him.

(ANGELA and JENNIFER have been greeting the others. AINSLIE now joins them.)

ANGELA. Well, we may as well sit down. I don’t know how long he’s going to be. (To MRS. FAITHFULL) Come along.

(They sit on the sofa together. ETHEL and IMOGEN, assisted by the men, find seats. JENNIFER stands by the open door, where she is joined by BATTERSBY.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. He’s driving over, I suppose.

ANGELA. I suppose so.

(There is an awkward silence.)

ETHEL (breaking it). One, two, three.... I was just counting, making sure we weren’t going to be thirteen.

AINSLIE. Why? (To ANGELA) Have you got only twelve plates?

ETHEL. I don’t care what you say, Dr. Ainslie, there is something in it.

AINSLIE. Folly.

ROBERT (seriously). I’ve known some funny things happen, Ainslie. In the war.

AINSLIE. Even in a war nothing would happen which could be so funny as the superstitious man’s Theory of the Universe. Particularly if he also professed to be a religious man.

ANGELA. Well, nothing funny is going to happen to-night, because we’re only ten.

MRS. FAITHFULL (looking round the room). Ten?

ANGELA. There’s a sort of secretary person coming with him. Name of Oliver.

MRS. FAITHFULL. Oh! Hasn’t he any other name?

ANGELA. James.

MRS. FAITHFULL (at a loss). Oh!

AINSLIE. J. Oliver or O. James? Or doesn’t he mind?

ANGELA. J. Oliver. He’s driving him over, much to the disappointment of the cook, who hoped for a real chauffeur.

AINSLIE. With the latest royal scandal to communicate.

(There is another awkward silence.)

ETHEL (breaking it). Mr. Oliver’s a soldier, I suppose. (To ROBERT) I wonder if you’ll know him.

ROBERT. There was an Oliver in the Middlesex Regiment—Second Battalion.

(Another silence. But ETHEL is determined to make the party go.)

ETHEL. Was he nice?

ROBERT. Oh, all right. I hardly knew him.

(Silence.)

ETHEL (trying again). I wonder if that’s the one.

ROBERT. Hardly likely, I should think.

(Silence.)

ETHEL (a last effort). Oh, I don’t know, he might be.

(The conversation, which never promised much, has now abandoned hope. There is another long silence.)

MRS. FAITHFULL } (simultaneously). { I wonder if there’s any chance⁠——

ROBERT You don’t know if he plays⁠——

ROBERT } (simultaneously). { I beg your pardon.

MRS. FAITHFULL

(Each waits for the other.)

ROBERT. Please!

MRS. FAITHFULL. I was only wondering how long he was to be in the neighbourhood. Did he say anything about that?

ANGELA. No.

AINSLIE. It depends how charming we are to-night.

(Everybody waits for ROBERT.)

ETHEL (after a pause). What were you going to say, dear?

ROBERT. Nothing. I wondered if we might rope him in for the match on Saturday.

ETHEL. He wouldn’t play cricket, would he? It’s such an English game, isn’t it?

ROBERT. I just wondered. He was at an English school, wasn’t he?

ANGELA. I think so.

ETHEL. Oh! I didn’t know. That makes a difference, doesn’t it?

(Another silence.)

BATTERSBY (from the window, where he has been talking to JENNIFER). I don’t believe he’s coming, dear.

ANGELA (calmly). Then he’ll miss a very good dinner.

AINSLIE. Good!

MRS. FAITHFULL (the authority). Naturally Royalty must arrive last.

ETHEL. I suppose so. (To ROBERT) Oh, I meant to ask you, Robert, what happened when that German Prince dined in your Mess? (Hurriedly to the others) Before the war, of course.

JENNIFER (at the door). S’sh.

(She takes a step into the garden. They all listen.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. I think I hear his car.

JENNIFER (looking in). He comes!

(She disappears, but they are not noticing her. All, save ANGELA, have become self-conscious. There is a strained silence. They feel at their clothes to make sure they are all right. MRS. FAITHFULL touches up IMOGEN. ANGELA, at ease, is still smoking.)

EMILY (announcing). Prince Michael Robolski, Mr. Oliver.

(They come in. The PRINCE is a man of 40, with an upturned moustache, pleasant-looking, active in body and mind. He speaks with a very slight foreign accent, and wears a coloured ribbon in the lapel of his coat. OLIVER is a very young Englishman, smooth, round-faced, and rather obviously new to his job.)

ANGELA (getting up gracefully). Hallo! Nice to see you again.

PRINCE (bending over her hand). Mademoiselle! But this is delightful! May I present my good friend who takes care of me, Mr. Oliver?

ANGELA (to OLIVER). How do you do? (They shake hands.)

BATTERSBY (coming forward). Very glad to see you again, Prince Michael.

PRINCE (shaking hands with him). But how kind of you to have me in your house.

BATTERSBY (hand out to OLIVER). How do you do? Find the way all right?

OLIVER. Oh yes, rather, thank you, sir.

ANGELA (to the PRINCE). Now then, come along.... This is Mrs. Faithfull.

PRINCE (holding out his hand). Madame!

MRS. FAITHFULL (curtseying). How do you do?

ANGELA. And Miss Faithfull.

MRS. FAITHFULL. May I present my little girl, Imogen, to Your Highness?

PRINCE (holding out his hand, and smiling). How do you do, Miss Imogen?

(IMOGEN nearly swoons.)

MRS. FAITHFULL. Imogen, dear! I am afraid, Prince Michael, that my little girl is rather shy.

PRINCE (charmingly). But we are all friends here, are we not?

(He takes her hand.)

IMOGEN (in a faint whisper). How do you do?

(MRS. FAITHFULL administers first aid.)

ANGELA. Dr. Ainslie.

PRINCE (smiling). The Champion of the Established Church?

ANGELA. He’s a Republican, really.

AINSLIE. Angela has been telling tales out of school.

PRINCE (holding out his hand). Still we shake hands, do we not?

AINSLIE (shaking it, and smiling). Without prejudice.

PRINCE. Oh, but perfectly. (To ANGELA) You see, I remember what you tell me. (He comes to the HOLTS.) And this would be—you tell me of them⁠——The soldier with the pretty wife⁠——(To ETHEL) Pardon, madame, but she did say so. And now I see for myself.

ANGELA. Captain and Mrs. Holt.

PRINCE. Holt! But of course.

(They shake hands.)

ETHEL (blushing). How do you do?

ROBERT (bravely, like a soldier). How do you do, sir?

(OLIVER has been following with BATTERSBY.)

ANGELA. But where’s Jennifer?

(They all look round in bewilderment.)

PRINCE. That would be Madame Boulager, the General’s widow.... And that’s all Princes are good for in these times, is it not so, Doctor? Remembering.

ANGELA. Well, come and have a drink.

PRINCE. Mademoiselle thinks of everything. (He takes a cocktail, and looks round the room.) So this is where my friends the Battersbys live?

ANGELA. You like it?

PRINCE. How can I not like it? It is yourselves. I bow to the flowers as I come through the garden: “Miss Angela, we meet again.” I shake hands with the front door, and say, “Battersby, how well you are looking.” (Indicating the gallery) Mademoiselle stands up there sometimes. (ANGELA nods.) And looks down on the little children playing below. I can see her. (Raising his glass to the room) I drink to you. (He drinks.) And Mademoiselle is here also. (To his cocktail) “How do you do, Miss Angela?” (He picks up a second glass.) But you must drink too.

EMILY (announcing). Mrs. Bulger!

(JENNIFER sweeps superbly in.)

JENNIFER (to ANGELA, who comes to meet her). Darling, I’m so sorry I’m late. Do forgive me! (She kisses her.)

ANGELA (smiling and releasing herself). Come along. Prince Michael, this is my friend, Jennifer.

(JENNIFER’S smile changes suddenly into an expression of amazement. She stares at the PRINCE, who smiles pleasantly back at her. Then with an effort she gains control of herself.)

JENNIFER (slowly). How do you do, Prince Michael?

PRINCE (with a friendly smile). How do you do? (He has a glass in each hand, and he looks whimsically from one to the other of them.) You will forgive me?

JENNIFER (with a sudden laugh). I think I’ll have one too.

(He gives her one. They drink, their eyes on each other.)

EMILY. Dinner is served.