Act 2 — Scene 1

Scene 1: Enderways, Yorkshire

It was known as Dick’s room in the old days, so perhaps we may still call it that. For a small boy, home for his holidays, it was all very well, this exciting nest in the roof, but it is terrible to think that a Cabinet Minister is now expected to sleep there.

The room is empty at first, and in darkness. Then we hear a voice outside, and LORD CARCHESTER opens the door and puts the light on for us. So we get our one glimpse of him—Sally’s husband; a big, easy-going, easy-moralled, rather battered man-of-the-world, who, as usual with him at this time of the night, has had just enough to drink and means to have one or two more.

CARCHESTER (outside). Wait a moment. I’d better go first and put the light on. (He does so, and makes way for MANNOCK) There you are.

MANNOCK (coming in). Thanks. (He sees the room) By Jove!

CARCHESTER (for the tenth time). I really do apologise, but Sally insisted on it.

MANNOCK (impatiently). My dear Carchester, of course! (To himself) Of course she did.

CARCHESTER. Said you would understand.

MANNOCK. I understand.

(He is still looking, looking at the room, drinking it in. The years are dropping off him.)

CARCHESTER. Never argue with a woman. I’ve learnt that—(the man-of-the-world laughs)—if I’ve learnt nothing else.

MANNOCK (carelessly). I shall be quite all right here, thanks. (He wants to be alone with the memories of the room.)

CARCHESTER (sitting down on the bed). Funny your turning out to be an old friend of Sally’s like this.

MANNOCK. We were boy and girl together. I used to stay here in the holidays. (With a deep sigh of remembrance) This was my room.

CARCHESTER. Ah well, then, that accounts for it. Still, why not be comfortable in a decent room when you can? (He sinks into somnolence, rousing himself a moment to say sleepily) That was a damn good speech you made.

(MANNOCK is not listening to his host; it is the room which is calling to him. He goes quickly to the window, to the cupboard, finding, remembering, missing. Suddenly he bends down, and turns back a corner of the carpet.)

MANNOCK. Hullo!

CARCHESTER (waking up with a start). What’s the matter?

MANNOCK (accusingly). There used to be a rat-hole here. It’s been boarded up.

CARCHESTER. Good Lord, what do you do to rat-holes? (He settles down to sleep again. But not for long.)

MANNOCK (severely). That bed ought to be over here!

CARCHESTER (dimly feeling that it is his fault). I beg your pardon, I didn’t—(he tries to rise in apology, but sinks back again.)

MANNOCK. Up against the wall.

(He goes to the wall suddenly and taps; a peculiar rhythmic series of taps, just above where the bed used to be.)

CARCHESTER. Hullo!

MANNOCK (coming to himself with an apologetic laugh). Who sleeps there now?

CARCHESTER. The staff. I dunno. P’raps it’s the cook. (Wagging his head in reproof) Too old, Mannock, my boy. Too stout.

(MANNOCK turns away in disgust. Then he goes back to the wall, and begins to talk, looking at CARCHESTER, but seeing only himself as a boy, thirty-five years ago.)

MANNOCK. That was the signal. That meant “I want to talk to you.” Then we talked to each other through the wall. One tap for A, two for B, and so on, spelling out messages. Oh, for hours sometimes ... just making up things to say ... plans for to-morrow ... wonderful plans for to-morrow ... adventures which never quite happened. “G” meant “Good-bye”—if one sent it, the other had to stop and go to sleep. “G.D.” meant “Good-bye, dear”—that was when we had had a specially happy day together. Then, in the morning, the first one awake sent the signal. If the other one answered it, the first one sent “S.W.”—that meant “Shall we?” Shall we get up? “Y” for “Yes,” and we’d race each other to be first down on that old broken wall in the Wilderness.

(He stops; he is racing to be first down; SALLY’S door flies open; she has the start of him. She can run—how she can run!—but he will catch her ... CARCHESTER breaks in on his vision.)

CARCHESTER. A damn good speech. (He yawns) And mind you, I know what I’m talking about, because I was awake practically all the time. (He struggles to his feet) I say, what about another spot of whisky?

MANNOCK (curtly). No, thanks.

CARCHESTER. Just a little baby spot? You won’t? Well, I will. Quite sure you’re all right here?

MANNOCK. Yes, thanks.

CARCHESTER (getting to the door). Well then, g’night.

MANNOCK. Good-night.

CARCHESTER (after thought). G’night. (He opens the door, and then turns round with the air of one having a message to deliver. He delivers it.) G’night. (He goes.)

(MANNOCK is alone with his room; alone with a thousand ghosts, a thousand memories; most of them happy ones, bringing a smile to his face; all of them tearing at that solemn mask of success in which, for so many years, he has hidden himself. You can see the mask falling from him, you can see those years dropping away....

He takes off his coat and waistcoat and puts on a dressing-gown; takes off his shoes and puts on bedroom slippers. Then he sits on the bed, still smiling at his thoughts. He swings his feet up and puts his head back on the pillows, looking up at the well-remembered ceiling. He gives a deep sigh, and just breathes the word “Sally!” Sleepily he puts his hand up to the wall and gives that rhythmic knock. There is no answer; it is the wrong wall; it was a thousand years ago. But, still sleepily, he taps out G.D., “Good-bye, dear, God be with you, dear.” Then his hand, coming down from the wall, feels the electric switch. With the happy sigh of one on the very threshold of sleep, he turns off the light ... and the thousand ghosts, who have been waiting for him, rush thronging into his dreams....

Listen! Very faint, very far-off, a tune is coming—the War Song of the Dreadnought Nite ... Pom-perom-perompity-pom....

Now it comes again, clearer, louder ... Pom-perom-perompity-pom....

Now the DREADNOUGHT NITE is here; here too is his faithful SQUIER.... Pom-perom-perompity-pom.... A whole orchestra of sound.

Listen! It is only a child’s trumpet.... And—see!—there are the children. For it is light now, and we can see where we are. Yet, even so, we are not quite certain. For there is the bed with MANNOCK (is it?) still lying there, but there also is that overgrown, tangled corner of the Wilderness, and the broken wall where DICK and SALLY used to meet.

“Pom-perom-perompity-pom.” It is the faithful SQUIER who has the trumpet. NITE, in a paper cap, and with a martial sword in hand, leads the way. SQUIER, a toy gun hung round him, follows tooting....

Enough, however, of toots. Let NITE give tongue.)

NITE (singing lustily).

Come on, Squier!

SQUIER.

NITE. That’s not the way! It’s “tuppenny rice.”

SQUIER (reproachfully). You know I always say ham and eggs, Nite!

NITE. Well, what’s the good of being my Squier, if you don’t sing the same as me? Squiers always sing the same as Nites.

SQUIER. Sally said⁠——

NITE (seeing MANNOCK). Hullo! Here’s an old, dead gentleman.

SQUIER. Oughtn’t I to salute him? (He unslings his gun.)

NITE (sternly). Wait till I give the order. Now then, Squier, shun! Shoulder—arms! (Squier slopes) That’s not shouldering arms, stupid, that’s sloping.

SQUIER. That’s all the shouldering you’ll get. (Proudly) We don’t shoulder in our regiment.

NITE. Then you can jolly well take a month’s notice, and I shall engage an entirely new Squier. (Squier salutes, walks away a few paces and comes back again.) Are you an entirely new Squier?

SQUIER (saluting). Yes.

NITE. Then I shall give you 350 a year.

SQUIER. 350 what?

NITE. Oh, I dunno. Stand easy. (Kindly) You can look at the old gentleman if you like.

SQUIER (looking). Is he a very old gentleman, Nite?

NITE. Not so tremendous. About 25 or 50 or something.

SQUIER. Is he dead?

NITE. Oh, a long time ago, I should think. Just as dead as dead.

SQUIER. Then I shall sing to him. (Singing) “Half a pound⁠——”

MANNOCK (sitting up). I’m not dead. I’ve heard every word you’ve been saying.

NITE (to SQUIER). He says he isn’t dead.

SQUIER. Ask him if he can sing.

NITE. Can you sing?

MANNOCK. Rather!

NITE. All right, sing!

MANNOCK. “Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle⁠——”

NITE (triumphantly). There you are, Squier!

SQUIER (wistfully). I always say “Ham and eggs.”

MANNOCK (shaking his head). Wrong!

NITE. There you are, Squier!

SQUIER (sadly). I don’t like rice.

MANNOCK. Ah, but wait till you try the tuppenny sort. Whew!

SQUIER. Is that a bit better?

MANNOCK. Ever so much.

SQUIER. Oh! (Humbly) Still, I think I’ll go on saying ham and eggs, if you don’t mind very much.

MANNOCK. Right!

NITE (pointing to SQUIER’S trumpet). That’s his loot, what he plays on.

SQUIER (proudly). I got it at the sack of Jerusalem.

NITE. When there’s a sack on, there’s always a lot of loots. Almost everybody gets one. I lost mine. (Carelessly) Don’t mind, because a Nite has such a lot of fighting to do, he can’t bother about loots. I say, where’s the Buteus Maiden?

MANNOCK. That’s just what I was going to ask you.

SQUIER. I’m going to shout for her. Shall we shout for her, Nite?

NITE. Yes, let’s shout for her.

MANNOCK. All together. One, two, three⁠——Buteus Maiden!

NITE (apologetically). I don’t expect she heard.

SQUIER. Perhaps she’s being Sleeping Beauty, and is waiting for Nite to kiss her.

NITE (rather hot and red). Shut up, Squier.

MANNOCK. Well, I shall try calling “Sally.”

NITE. Yes, let’s call Sally.

ALL. Sally! Sally! Sally!

BUTEUS MAIDEN. Here I am!

(And here she is. Only ten at the moment, but as sweet, as precious, as daintily dignified, as our Sally when she grew up.)

NITE (rushing to her—even then she was everything to him). Oh, Sally, you have been a long time. We’ve found an old, dead gentleman to play with us.

MANNOCK (indignantly). I’m not dead! I’m not dead!

NITE. Yes, you are. Isn’t he, Squier?

SQUIER. I thought he was at first. And then I thought p’raps he wasn’t.

MANNOCK (almost in tears). I’m not dead. I shan’t play if he says I’m dead.

MAIDEN. Do play! Then that will show you’re not.

MANNOCK. I’m a very important, successful man.

SQUIER. I saw at once he was a very important, successful man, so that’s what made me think he was all dead. (Kindly) But p’raps he isn’t.

MANNOCK (doggedly). I’m not dead.

NITE. Yes, he is.

MAIDEN (to NITE). Dear, if he says he isn’t dead, I don’t think it would be kind not to believe him.

SQUIER. We can pretend he isn’t, anyhow.

MAIDEN (to NITE). Please, dear.

NITE (magnanimously). All right, we’ll pretend you’re alive, and see how you get on.

MANNOCK (humbly). Thank you very much.

NITE (moving him). Now you just stand there, out of the way. What shall we be, Squier?

SQUIER. I think—I think⁠——

NITE. I know! We’ll be Three Suitors. Sally, you sit over there⁠——We’ll be Three Suitors, Squier.

SQUIER (wistfully). I suppose I shan’t be the Third Suitor?

NITE. No, I’ll be⁠——(Impatiently) Sally, why don’t⁠——

MAIDEN (sitting down). Here I am, dear.

NITE (to MANNOCK). What would you like to be? You could be another Squier, if you like, (SQUIER looks sadly at the Buteus Maiden.)

MAIDEN (gently). There couldn’t be more than one Squier, dear.

MANNOCK (hopefully). Could I be a Lord of High Degree?

NITE (doubtfully, to MAIDEN). Could he?

MANNOCK. I’m a Right Honourable, really.

NITE. That’s an awful thing to be.

MANNOCK (humbly). Oh!

SQUIER. Couldn’t he just be a wight or a varlet or something?

NITE. A wight of low renowne! A wight of low renowne! That’s what he is. Isn’t he, Sally?

MAIDEN. If you like, dear.

MANNOCK. Thank you very much.

NITE. Now, Squier goes first. We’re all Suitors, and Squier goes first. Go on, Squier. (In a whisper to MANNOCK) You go next.

(SQUIER slopes his gun, makes a long detour of the castle walls, and arrives at the Great Gate. He pulls an imaginary bell.)

NITE. Bom! Bom! Bom! (To MANNOCK) That’s the bell ringing inside to summon the agéd Seneschal. Go on, Squier.

SQUIER. What ho, within!

NITE (as Seneschal). What ho, without!

SQUIER. Open the door, thou scurvy bald-pate!

NITE. What name, please?

SQUIER. Faithful Squier. I am come to pay attentions to thy mistress, the Buteus Maiden.

NITE. Not at home.

SQUIER. Have a care, agéd man, lest I carve thee to the brisket! (He pushes past the SENESCHAL into the MAIDEN’S presence.)

MAIDEN (turning to him). Who seeks me?

SQUIER. It is I, thy faithful Squier, who loves thee.

MAIDEN. Alas!

SQUIER. If thou wilt wed with me, I will give thee a golden castle, two palfreys, a box of fireworks and—and—lots of things.

MAIDEN (drooping). I want none of these things.

SQUIER. Oh!... Not even a box of fireworks?

MAIDEN. No.

SQUIER. Oh! (He salutes) Good-bye! (He retreats.)

NITE. Well done, Squier!

(SQUIER, rather pleased with himself, lies down and rests.)

MAIDEN (kindly). Dear Squier. (She resumes her character.)

NITE (to MANNOCK). Now then, Low Renowne, it’s your turn.

MANNOCK (confidently). Right! (He marches up to the castle gate and pulls the bell. There is dead silence. He pulls it again. Still there is silence. He looks round, a little alarmed, at NITE) This bell doesn’t ring! (NITE laughs loudly. MANNOCK rings it again, vigorously, but with no effect. He turns round to NITE again) I say⁠——(But NITE and SQUIER have vanished. He calls out loudly, frightened) I say! (There is no answer. The BUTEUS MAIDEN still waits silent. MANNOCK suddenly drops the bell, and attempts to push his way into the castle, but DIGBY, the immaculate butler, bars the way.)

DIGBY. Yes, sir?

MANNOCK. Open the door, thou scurvy bald-pate.

DIGBY (coldly). What name, please?

MANNOCK. Wight of Low Renowne.

DIGBY. Then it’s no good your hanging about here. Only people of high renown, successful people, are allowed in this house.

MANNOCK. Have a care, agéd man, lest I carve thee to the brisket.

DIGBY (calmly). Those are my instructions. Her ladyship is not at home to any of her husband’s old friends. Mr. Selby Mannock says he might perhaps give you a job in the garden, if you come round to the back door.

MANNOCK (desperately). But—but I’ve come to see the Buteus Maiden!

DIGBY (contemptuously). Dressed like that?

MANNOCK. You don’t understand. I’ve just come up from the country for a day. (He turns round) Nite, how can I play this game if⁠——(But NITE is not there; and when he turns back, DIGBY has vanished. He rings the bell again. ARTHUR appears.)

ARTHUR. Name, please.

MANNOCK. Wight of Low Renowne.

ARTHUR (coldly). I don’t think I know him. Who is he?

MANNOCK. I—I don’t⁠——It was Nite, who⁠——

ARTHUR. Your name, I think, is Richard Selby Mannock?

MANNOCK. Y—Yes.

ARTHUR. Then why do you give a false name? It only leads to misapprehension.

MANNOCK. I want to see the Buteus Maiden.

ARTHUR. Dressed like that?

MANNOCK. I—I⁠——

ARTHUR. Look at yourself in the glass! A wight of low renowne! Have a glass of port! Have a cigar! A wight of low renowne!

MANNOCK (turning round). Nite! I can’t get in! People keep stopping me! (He turns back. ARTHUR has gone. He rings the bell. BERTIE CAPP is there.)

BERTIE. Name, please.

MANNOCK. Selby Mannock—I mean Wight of Low—(pathetically) I don’t know.

BERTIE. I thought perhaps it was the Chancellor of the Exchequer?

MANNOCK. N—no, I don’t think so.

BERTIE. What a pity! Couldn’t you work it somehow? Pull a few strings? Talk to the Duke? Square an editor? I’m sure, if you had a little time, you could think of something. Ask the Archbishop of Canterbury to dinner! Invent a scandal about Mowbray! Intrigue a bit! Surely you can do something!

MANNOCK. I—I want to see the Buteus Maiden.

BERTIE. Dressed like that? Without the Chancellor’s robes?

MANNOCK. I must speak to her! I want to tell her⁠——

BERTIE. You know, that was a damn good speech of yours. The Prime Minister knows what he is talking about, and he was awake practically all the time.

MANNOCK. Let me in! I must get in!

BERTIE. I don’t know what the Prime Minister will say. You see, Eversley—the Garden Eversley—has just given him a month’s notice, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer⁠——But, of course, if I were to marry Freda, we should keep it in the family. It all helps.

MANNOCK (despairingly). Nite, Squier, where are you? (He pulls the bell again. To his surprise it rings—or is it the BUTEUS MAIDEN saying “Bom, bom, bom”? He takes a step forward, and is there at last—at her feet.)

MAIDEN (turning to him). Who seeks me?

MANNOCK. Er—er—(but he can say nothing).

MAIDEN (leaning to him). Tell me.

MANNOCK (struggling desperately to tell her). Er—er—(and behold! Reader, his secretary, is prompting him) Mr. Chairman, my lords, ladies and gentlemen!

MAIDEN (turning away in disappointment). Oh!

MANNOCK (longing to say just the one word “Sally”—and then, “Sally, I love you!” but Reader won’t have it). Mr. Chairman, my lords, ladies and gentlemen!

MAIDEN (sadly). Have you nothing more to say to me?

MANNOCK (after another desperate struggle). Mr. Chairman, my lords, ladies and gentlemen!

MAIDEN (knowing that it is hopeless). Alas! he hath a sickness!

(And now, suddenly, NITE and SQUIER have him by the arms, and are leading him away.)

NITE. That’s not the way, is it, Squier?

SQUIER (sadly). I s’pose he must have been dead all the time.

NITE. I’ll show you! Now you watch me! (He walks bravely up to the BUTEUS MAIDEN. No door-bells, no parleyings for him.) Buteus Maiden, I would speak with thee.

MAIDEN. Who seeks me?

NITE. It is I, thy love-lorn Nite.

MAIDEN (wistfully). What wouldst thou, Nite?

NITE. Fain would I marry thee.

MAIDEN. Ah!

NITE. No jewels do I bring thee; no golden palaces do I offer thee; only⁠——

MAIDEN (whispering). Only⁠——?

NITE. Only my love and my faithful service.

MAIDEN (getting down off the wall and giving him her hand). Then do I plight thee my troth.

(He goes on one knee to her and kisses her hand. Then, her arm in his, he marches out of the castle, followed by the faithful SQUIER, who plays the War Song of the Dreadnought Nite.)

MANNOCK (as they go). Don’t go! Don’t go! (But they go) Sally! Sally!

SQUIER (popping back). Tell her it’s Dick calling. (He hurries back after the others.)

MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you? It’s Dick! (He goes from one side to the other, calling “Sally!” and then “It’s Dick!” And as he comes back to the castle, there she is, sitting on the wall in just the same attitude as that child Sally—and as beautiful, as dear. Nineteen, twenty; and MANNOCK, seeing her, is himself no older, so eagerly his face lights up.) Ah, Sally, Sally! (At last he has found her again.)

SALLY. Here I am, Dick.

MANNOCK. Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.

SALLY. Just down by the river.

MANNOCK (jealously). What were you doing?

SALLY. Just sitting in the buttercups, looking at the river.

MANNOCK. Is that all?

SALLY (nodding). That’s all, dear.

MANNOCK (after a pause). Did you look at yourself in the river, Sally?

SALLY (nodding). Yes.

MANNOCK (with a deep sigh). Oh, Sally! (There is so much that he cannot say, that words cannot express. She cannot help him now. She waits, tremulous) Sally, listen! (She is listening. He taps the signal. She nods. Then he sends “I.” She nods again) Did you get that?

SALLY. Yes.

MANNOCK. What was it?

SALLY. “I.”

MANNOCK. That’s right. That’s all the word.

SALLY (to herself). Dick.

MANNOCK. Listen! (He taps “L.” She nods.)

SALLY (so gently). “L.”

MANNOCK. That’s right. (He taps “O.” She nods.)

SALLY (as gently). “O.”

MANNOCK. Yes. (He taps “V.” When he gets as far as “U,” he pauses a moment, his hand up. SALLY is waiting breathlessly. With a smile he makes it “V”; out comes her deep sigh of relief; she laughs back at him.)

SALLY (nodding). “V.”

MANNOCK. Did you think it would be “V,” Sally?

SALLY (shyly). I wondered if it might be “V.”

MANNOCK (tapping “E”). There!

SALLY. “Love!” (She looks straight in front of her seeing—who shall say what?) “I love⁠——”

MANNOCK. I haven’t finished yet.

SALLY (softly). No, you haven’t finished yet.

MANNOCK. Shall I do the alphabet backwards for this letter?

SALLY. Does it come at the end of the alphabet?

MANNOCK. It does come rather at the end, Sally.

SALLY (with a deep sigh of happiness). I think I’d like you to do it forward, Dick. (Gently) To make it longer.

MANNOCK. All right. (He taps “Y.”)

(Breathlessly, her chin up, her eyes all love, SALLY is counting.)

SALLY (certain now). Ah!

MANNOCK. Did you know it would be “Y,” Sally?

SALLY (ever so softly). I think I knew, Dick.

MANNOCK. Did you—did you want it to be “Y,” Sally?

SALLY. Oh, I wanted it to be “Y”!

MANNOCK. (holding out his arms to her). Oh, Sally, Sally, I love you! Could you ... do you⁠——

SALLY (nodding). Always, dearest, always.

MANNOCK. Sally!

(If it were real, he would have her in his arms now, but it is a dream, insubstantial. BERTIE and FREDA are there suddenly, between them. They each have an arm of MANNOCK’S, and are marching him away; yet talking to each other across him, as if he were not there.)

BERTIE. As I said to the Prime Minister, the more these things are kept in the family, the better.

FREDA. That’s just what Father said, when Marjory married Robert.

BERTIE. It will be useful for me, my wife being the Chancellor’s daughter, and it will be useful for your Father, his daughter being married to the Prime Minister’s secretary.

FREDA. Exactly, Bertie. It all helps.

(They have let go of MANNOCK, and are now arm-in-arm, but still talking as if he had never been there.)

BERTIE. In these days, we must stick together, or where are we?

FREDA. Exactly! Where are we?

(And they are gone. But, alas! SALLY is gone too.)

MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you?

(He hurries from one side to the other, calling for her. But it is EVERSLEY, as old as when we last saw him, who appears.)

MANNOCK (turning round with a shout of welcome). Teddy!

EVERSLEY. I beg your pardon?

MANNOCK (coming closer). I’m sorry, sir—you looked much younger—I thought at first⁠——

EVERSLEY (smiling). Not at all. Very charming of you to think so. You live here, I suppose?

MANNOCK (charmingly boyish). I’m staying here. Teddy and I stay here in the vac. sometimes. We’re up at Cambridge. At least, we’ve just come down.

EVERSLEY (smiling). And what are you going to do?

MANNOCK. I’m going to the Bar. But—(shyly) I want to write.

EVERSLEY. Ah!

MANNOCK. You see, you don’t get much money at the Bar, and I must have some, because you see—you see, Sally and I—we’ve just got engaged.

EVERSLEY. Oh, youth, youth! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. But to be young was very heaven!

MANNOCK. Only between ourselves, you know. We shan’t tell anybody until I’m making a living.

EVERSLEY. I shan’t say a word—except just to myself sometimes, “Bless them.”

MANNOCK (shyly). I say, thanks awfully. Sally would love that.

EVERSLEY. Perhaps I shall be able to give you a hand later on. I write too. I daresay I could introduce you—a word in the right ear⁠——

MANNOCK. I say, that’s awfully decent of you. I don’t suppose I’m much good. But it’s fun.... It is fun, isn’t it? I mean being alive ... and trying ... and wondering ... and having somebody else who wonders too.... Oh, what a lot there is in the world that nobody knows anything about! All the lovely things! All the precious things! (Ashamed suddenly) I say, I’m awfully sorry—talking such rot⁠——

EVERSLEY. Keep on looking for the lovely things.... And bless you both.

LADY JANE (off). Edward!

(MANNOCK looks up at the voice.)

EVERSLEY. There she is!

(LADY JANE comes on in full evening dress.)

LADY JANE. Ah, there you are, Edward!

(MANNOCK gazes at her, struggling with horrible memories.)

EVERSLEY. Here I am, my dear. (To MANNOCK) This is my wife, Lady Jane.

MANNOCK (to himself). His wife! (He draws a deep breath of relief) How do you do?

LADY JANE (casually). How do you do? Are we ready, Edward?

EVERSLEY. Yes, my dear.

(They turn and go off together, talking loudly to each other as if MANNOCK were not there.)

LADY JANE. Who is he?

EVERSLEY. Just a nice young man.

LADY JANE. He looks as if he had possibilities. Ask him to Drayton, if you like. He might do. (They are gone.)

MANNOCK (still looking for her). Sally, where are you?... Sally!

(NITE and SQUIER march across, singing the Dreadnought war song.)

SQUIER (as they disappear). Say it’s Dick calling.

MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you? It’s Dick!

(And there she is, on her wall again, just as if she had never gone.)

SALLY. Here I am, dear.

MANNOCK (rushing to her). Oh, Sally, I’ve had the most awful dream! I dreamed—just for a moment—I was married to—to somebody else. It was horrible. And then I couldn’t find you, and—Oh, Sally, it is you, isn’t it? Say it’s you.

SALLY (nodding). It is, dearest, it is. Never mind the dream.

MANNOCK. It couldn’t happen, could it?

SALLY (trembling). Oh it couldn’t, it couldn’t.... Oh, if it did!

MANNOCK (comforting her). It couldn’t, Sally. It will always be you.

SALLY. It was always you. From the very first. Those dear, silly games we played as children—do you remember?⁠——

MANNOCK. I remember.

SALLY. I think I liked Teddy better—(doubtfully) I think he was nicer, Dick—(hurriedly) Oh no, no, he wasn’t⁠——

MANNOCK. He was. I was a little beast.

SALLY. You weren’t, you weren’t. It was always you.... I loved Teddy; I love him now; it’s sort of friendly, loving him. But you were different. It’s sort of terrible, loving you, Dick. You’re right in my heart, so twined that it can hardly beat without hurting me. You can’t go now; not unless you tear my heart out too.

MANNOCK. I’m happy being in your heart.

SALLY. It was always you. I used to say to myself when we were children, “Squier’s heaps nicer, really”—(nodding) Yes, he was—but Squier couldn’t hurt me. Only you could hurt me. I think that was how I knew that I loved you.

MANNOCK. I won’t hurt you, darling. Never again.

SALLY (wistfully, wondering at his innocence). Oh, my dear!... (Very gently) If you stop hurting me, I have stopped loving you.

MANNOCK (softly). I will stay in your heart.

SALLY (putting her hands to her heart). You are all that I have there.

(They are silent together.... Very faintly the War Song of the Dreadnought Nite is heard. SALLY stands up.)

SALLY. Come, dearest.

MANNOCK. I come, my beautiful.

SALLY. Into the world, for whatever the world may send, but always together.

MANNOCK. Always together, my lovely.

(They begin to move, but are held there. It is a deputation arriving. The War Song grows louder, as all the people of MANNOCK’S dream file in. Now they are between SALLY and her lover. She calls to him with her eyes, “Come, dearest,” but he cannot.... She is gone.)

DIGBY. Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! The Chancellor of the Exchequer will now put on his robe of office.

(The deputation solemnly presents MANNOCK with the robe and departs with dignity.)

MANNOCK. Half a moment, Sally, I must just put this on. (He struggles into it) Sally! (He looks up, still struggling. She is not there) Wait a moment, Sally! (He struggles) Sally, I must get this on! Don’t you understand, dear?... (Frightened) Sally! Wait for me! (Desperately) Sally!... Sally!⁠——

(But he has lost her.)

ACT II