Act I.

Scene: Denham's Studio. Large highlight window in sloping roof at back. Under it, in back wall, door to landing. l of the door the corner is curtained off for model's dressing-room. r of door a large Spanish leather folding screen, which runs on castors, shuts off from the door the other corner, in which is a "throne," pushed up against the wall. Above the "throne" hangs a large square mirror in a carved black frame. In front of the "throne" is a light couch of Greek form, without back.

Fireplace, with chimney-breasts panelled in old oak, and high overmantel, in which are shelves and cupboards, l.

Against r wall an old oak cabinet, with carved cornice, and inlaid panelled doors. Close beside it stands on a pedestal a bust of Demeter. Near the cabinet, halfway up stage r c, an easel, on which is seen the back of a large picture.

Beyond the fireplace, and at right angles to it, a large sofa, or lounge, with square ends and back, broad low seat, loose cushions, and valance. In front of the fireplace an armchair, with a book face downward on one arm.

The walls of the studio are distempered in greenish-blue, the curtains of the model's dressing-room are in rich yellow plush or brocade, the couch and sofa covered in greenish-yellow stuffs.

Various artistic properties, tapestries, embroideries, etc., hanging up, or thrown carelessly over Chippendale chairs and the screen.

Canvases leaning against the walls, on which hang designs and figure-studies in chalk and charcoal, with landscape-studies in oil and watercolour, nailed up without much attempt at arrangement.

Near the front, just r of the armchair, an oblong carved oak table, with materials for wood-drawing, paint-box, water in a tumbler, etc., is set end on to the footlights.

At the upper end of this table Undine is discovered, as she sits with a slate and arithmetic book before her, her elbows on the table, her head supported on both hands, holding a slate pencil from which a bit of sponge dangles by a string.

Undine.

(pouting) I hate these old sums! Mother's always making me do sums in the holidays. It isn't fair. Seven times three is—what's father reading? (Rises, and takes up the book.) That's French, I know. Father's always reading French. G.Y.P. Gyp? I wonder what it's about. (Puts the book down, sits, yawns, and takes up the pencil.) Seven times three is—twenty-one. Put down one and carry two. Oh, but it's pence and shillings. I can't do pence and shillings! (Throws down the pencil; it falls off the table.) Horrid old things! they're always coming wrong. (She rises lazily, and stoops to pick up the pencil, then looks round her, stretching her arms and yawning.) I say, what fun to make a libation to Demeter! I will! Let's see. I wish I had mother's Greek dress. I must have one of father's rags. This'll do. (Drapes herself in a piece of embroidery, runs up stage, jumps on "throne," and poses before the mirror.) It's awfully jolly dressing up. But I have no wine. Oh, I know—I'll take some of father's painting water—though it's rather black-and-whity. (Takes up the glass, and approaches the statue.) Hail, Demeter! I have no wine for you, but here's some water. (Makes libation.) I suppose I should pray for something now. Oh, I do wish you'd stop mother persecuting me in the holidays like this! But you can't, you dear old thing. Father says the old gods are dead. I wish they'd come alive again. (Crosses to table.)

(Enter Denham. Undine drops embroidery, kicks it under the table, and sits.)

Denham.

Well, imp, what's up now? (He comes to the fireplace, and takes a pipe from the rack.) Rags again! I shall have to lock them up, I see. (Takes up the embroidery, and throws it over a chair.) Get to your work at once! Sit up straight. (He crosses l, seats himself in the armchair, lights his pipe, and takes up the book, Undine resumes her crouched position at the table.)

Undine.

(pouting) It's very hard to have to do sums in the holidays.

Denham.

(crosses to table behind Undine) You are behind your class, you know. (Looking over her.) Well, seven times three?

Undine.

Let's see—twenty-one?

Denham.

And how many shillings in that?

Undine.

I suppose two shillings and one penny.

Denham.

Nonsense! Don't suppose anything so un-English. How many pence in a shilling?

Undine.

Twelve—I suppose.

Denham.

Well, twelve from twenty-one leaves—

(Undine counts on her fingers)

How many?

Undine.

About eight, I think.

Denham.

Try again, stupid!

Undine.

But, father, I think there ought to be ten pence in a shilling.

Denham.

Why ought there, you monkey?

Undine.

Oh, because then, don't you see, you could count on your fingers all right, but now there are too many pennies for your fingers, and so you never can tell how many are over.

Denham.

Very convenient. But come now, twelve from twenty-one?

Undine.

(counting again) Nine?

Denham.

(resuming his book) All right then. Down with it in the pence column, and get on.

Undine.

(kissing him) Oh, you jolly old father! I should like to do my sums with you always.

Denham.

Heaven forbid! Get on! Get on! (Crosses to chair l.)

(A pause.)

Undine.

Father! Father!

Denham.

H'm!

Undine.

I say, Father!

Denham.

Do let me read in peace.

Undine.

But, father—

Denham.

Well?

Undine.

Do the Greeks worship Demeter now?

Denham.

No, not now.

Undine.

The old Greeks were the cleverest people that ever lived, and they had the nicest gods. Don't you wish there were goddesses now, father? (Rises, and leans against table.)

Denham.

(absently) Yes, of course.

Undine.

Goddesses sometimes fell in love with people, father—didn't they?

Denham.

People who didn't happen to be gods? It did occur sometimes, they say.

Undine.

And one might fall in love with you, father. That would be fun!

Denham.

That would be awful. But do stop this chatter, and get on.

Undine.

She'd give me all sorts of jolly things.

(A pause.)

Mrs. Denham (outside the door) In a quarter of an hour will do, Jane.

Denham.

Here comes mother!

Undine.

Oh, bother these horrid old sums! (Flops into chair.)

(Enter Mrs. Denham, with flowers. She comes to the cabinet to place them in a vase, and sees the water spilt.)

Mrs. Denham.

What's all this mess? What have you been doing, miss? (Crosses to Undine.)

Undine.

(rising and standing before her) Please, mother, I only made a libation.

Mrs. Denham.

You naughty, wicked girl! Oh, this wicked, wicked waste of time!

Undine.

(whimpering) But, mother, I only—

Mrs. Denham.

Hold your tongue, miss. Don't attempt to make excuses. (Steps back, looks at Undine.) And just look at that pinafore, that was put on you clean this morning, and now it is all over dirt! You have been climbing trees again.

Undine.

(whimpering) I wasn't climbing trees. I only climbed one tree.

Denham.

(aside) Well parried!

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, these mean prevarications! If I take my eye off you for a moment, you disobey me. But you shall obey me—you shall obey! (Shakes the child; she screams.)

Denham.

Dear! Dear!

Mrs. Denham.

How dare you scream at me like that?

Undine.

(crying) But you're hurting me.

Mrs. Denham.

Bear it then, bear it decently, without screaming like a beast. Have you done your sums?

Undine.

Not all.

Mrs. Denham.

(looking at sums) Only one done, and that not right. Oh, this wicked waste of time! You are killing me and killing yourself. When you waste your time you are wasting your life. Why will you waste your time?

Undine.

I don't know.

Mrs. Denham.

Then you must be taught to know.

Denham.

May I say a word? I am chiefly to blame. We were talking about the Greek gods.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh well, if you encourage her in her laziness, I can do nothing. (Crosses l as she speaks, then turns suddenly.) Get out of my sight, miss! It is time for you to go out now. Go away, and take off that pinafore. You are a disgrace to your father and to me. (Gives her a final shake. Undine runs out screaming.) Oh dear! Oh dear! There! Listen to that precious daughter of yours, filling the house with her yells. (She presses her hands over her ears.) Oh, that child will be the death of me! (Throws herself down upon the couch.) She ought never to have been born. Her existence is a mistake and a curse.

Denham.

(sighing) Yes, we are all mistakes from the ideal standpoint.

Mrs. Denham.

It makes me mad to think that I—I—should have brought such an idiot into the world!

Denham.

Yes, you are an over-populated woman, dear. (Rises up to her.) The modern woman is very easily over-populated.

Mrs. Denham.

You can joke about it, of course. To me it is a serious calamity. (Weeps.)

Denham.

Well, dear, at least we have not repeated our initial mistake. (Crosses to picture.)

Mrs. Denham.

Do you regret it?

Denham.

God forbid! I only regret that our relations were not always strictly platonic. That is the highest practical ideal of the age—modern woman being what she is.

Mrs. Denham.

Yes, I know you despise me in your heart. You are always sneering at me as a modern woman. What do you mean?

Denham.

(crosses to her) I agree with Michelet: "La femme est une malade."

Mrs. Denham.

And what is man?

Denham.

(sits in armchair) Oh, a sick creature too—that's the worst of it. The world spirit is moulting, and we're all sick together.

Mrs. Denham.

Phrases, phrases, always phrases! When I am most in earnest you put me off with a jest.

Denham.

"If I laugh at any mortal thing, 'tis that I may not weep."

Mrs. Denham.

(sobbing) I know I have disappointed you; I know you are not satisfied with me; I have not made you happy.

Denham.

(starting up and pacing) Happy? Give me life! Give me life! Happiness can take care of itself. But there is no use in crying "Give, give!" like the horse-leech. If we want impossibilities we must achieve them. (Crosses r.)

Mrs. Denham.

You want incompatible things.

Denham.

Of course I do. So do you. Your reason and your instincts are at war, just like mine. That is our sickness.

Mrs. Denham.

How at war?

Denham.

Your reason tells you that woman is independent, self-sufficing. Your instincts cry feebly for passion, that savage outlaw which still lies in wait for the modern woman, to carry her whither she would not. Hence your lapse from strict agnostic morality into matrimony, bondage, subjection, and the mistake, Undine.

Mrs. Denham.

That child has come between us. I think children often do.

Denham.

Is that one of the necessary horrors of matrimony?

Mrs. Denham.

Heaven help me, that girl drives me mad!

Denham.

Nerves, nerves, as usual. She irritates you, and you irritate her. The mere presence of a child sets your teeth on edge. (Crosses, and sits r of table.)

Mrs. Denham.

My brain has been torn to pieces by children all my life. I was a slave to my own brothers and sisters, because I was the eldest.

Denham.

That was very hard, I know; but your own child is different, surely?

Mrs. Denham.

You seem to think I don't love her?

Denham.

Not wisely, but too well—as you love me.

(Re-enter Undine, dressed to go out, and stands just inside door. Mrs. Denham rises, and Undine comes slowly towards her.)

Mrs. Denham.

Well, dear, have you washed your hands and face?

Undine.

Yes, mother.

Mrs. Denham.

That's my nice clean little girl. (She embraces and kisses her.) Why does my little girl make mother angry?

Undine.

I don't know.

Mrs. Denham.

Well, kiss father, and go out while it is fine and bright.

Undine.

(coming behind Denham, and pulling back his head) Father, I'm going to bring you some buttercups, to put on your table and make your work look pretty.

Denham.

Thanks, my wee one. And bring me some sunshine in their cups, like a good little fairy.

Undine.

I will.

Denham.

(kissing her) Good-bye, and now run away.

Undine.

I'll bring you some speedwell, mother.

Mrs. Denham.

(kissing her) Thanks, my little Undine.

(Undine goes out, then peeps back through the door.)

Undine.

And I'll make a daisy chain for Demeter.

Mrs. Denham.

That will be pretty. Good-bye.

Undine.

Good-bye. (Kisses her hand to Denham.)

(Exit Undine.)

Denham.

Well, it isn't such a very wicked idiot, after all. Now is it? (Crosses l, and sits.)

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, she is good enough when she hasn't to do what she dislikes. (Crosses back of table.)

Denham.

Children are shockingly human, just like you and me. I wish I could cure you of this intense irritability, Constance.

Mrs. Denham.

You have often lost your own temper with her when you have tried to teach her anything—often enough. (Sits l of table.)

Denham.

Yes, it was sheer stupidity. It is a bad educational method. It involves loss of dignity on both sides. Be as stern as you please, but not furious.

Mrs. Denham.

Furious! (Rises) Thank you for the word. (Crosses r.) I know I am making myself hated by her and despised by you; but I must do my duty as best I can in the teeth of your cruel criticism. I must think of her future.

Denham.

(rises, and lights pipe) Oh, damn the future—and the past too! You take life too seriously. You are a born self-tormentor, too full of anxiety to live. You have the worst form of the great malady of the age, conscience in the agnostic form. You suffer from the new hysteria.

Mrs. Denham.

I am not hysterical.

Denham.

Pardon me, we are all hysterical nowadays. We have lost our self-possession. You don't kick on the hearthrug and that kind of thing. A bucket of cold water is not "indicated" in your case.

Mrs. Denham.

It seems to me you are always throwing buckets of cold water over me.

Denham.

For heaven's sake, go and reform the world! That is the modern woman's true vocation—and cure. Denounce our sensuality and selfishness from the platform, as well as from the hearth. They are the defects of our qualities. If you don't like us as we are, mould us.

Mrs. Denham.

(approaching) That is what we are trying to do.

Denham.

Yes. You have not mastered your material yet. Your technique is a little crude. (He resumes his seat in the armchair, and puts down his pipe as she comes.)

Mrs. Denham.

(kneeling beside him) Why will you push me away from you, Arthur? You know I only want to be your wife. You are always implying that our marriage is a failure. Why not say it directly?

Denham.

We are creatures of the transition. We have not quite found the new centre of equilibrium. Marriage, except as a symbol, is either a superfluous bond or the consecration of a mistake. You have taught us this great truth, anyhow.

Mrs. Denham.

Why did you get married then?

Denham.

Practically it is still a necessary evil, like war and politics. The brute world, howling, forces us into bonds. It is our business to adjust them so as to gall us as little as possible.

Mrs. Denham.

(starting up, crosses r) If the bonds gall you so much, break them. Don't spend your breath in this puling talk. If you are tired of me, go! As far as I am concerned, I set you free. Find some other woman, if you can, who will be more satisfactory.

Denham.

(rising, and standing with his back to the fire) But why one other woman? Why not extend my freedom to two?

Mrs. Denham.

Two or a dozen, what is it to me?

Denham.

A dozen, Constance? Do you take me for a Turk? I have often told you every man should be content with three wives. More than this verges upon polygamy. But blessed is he who finds the three in one!

Mrs. Denham.

Indeed. Have you found that in Gyp?

Denham.

No, not directly; though Gyp fills me with thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. Her cynicism is always illuminating.

Mrs. Denham.

I wish I could say the same of yours. But why three, and not a dozen?

Denham.

There are only three possible women in the world, the Divine Mistress—

Mrs. Denham.

And the "Divine Matron"—I have heard this sickening cant before.

Denham.

Cant? Philosophy! But don't forget the third, The Divine Virgin—Womanhood fashioning itself independently after its own ideal. She has driven us, naked and ashamed, into the desert of disillusion.

Mrs. Denham.

Truth, truth—let me have truth, though it kill me! Men are cowards; they dare not face the naked facts of life.

Denham.

Men are poets. Facts are but the crude stuff of life. Imagination is all.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, if you want romance, had you not better go and look for your Divine Mistress? Perhaps you may find some ugly truths in her too.

Denham.

(laughing) One woman is surely enough for the purposes of disillusion. It is too late to begin sowing one's wild oats. There are no dangerous women about. If there were one healthy women in the world—(Crosses to picture.)

Mrs. Denham.

Well?

Denham.

You might have some cause for jealousy.

Mrs. Denham.

You would quit the wreck?

Denham.

If it were really a wreck—perhaps. But why should it be? (He takes her in his arms, and kisses her.) For Heaven's sake, cease to wallow in the mud of pessimism! Have faith in yourself and Nature—or at least Human-nature.

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, if I could, if I could! (A knock at the door.)

Denham.

Come in.

(Enter Jane with a telegram, which she hands to Mrs. Denham.)

Jane.

Please, m'm, a telegram; the boy's waiting!

(Mrs. Denham tears open the telegram.)

Mrs. Denham.

(pointing to spilt water) Just wipe up that water, Jane, and push back this table. (Jane wipes up water, moves table against r, wall, and takes away Undine's slate and book.)

Mrs. Denham.

(reads) "In town; will call this afternoon."

Jane.

Is there any answer, m'm?

Mrs. Denham.

No answer. (Exit Jane.) Arthur! this is from Blanche Tremaine. She is in town, and comes here to-day. Let me see; it must be more than ten years since we've met—before we were married.

Denham.

Blanche Tremaine? Who is she?

Mrs. Denham.

My old class-fellow at our college in town. She played in our Greek play. She was just seventeen then.

Denham.

Younger than you?

Mrs. Denham.

Two years. Yes; she must be about eight-and-twenty now. You know I told you about her. She married a Mr. Overton.

Denham.

Overton? I seem to have heard the name. Didn't she run away from her husband, or something?

Mrs. Denham.

Yes, poor thing! He led her an awful life.

Denham.

Oh, and then she married the co-respondent! I remember.

Mrs. Denham.

What an interest you take in these scandals!

Denham.

Of course, dear. A scandal is a typical case of the great social disease.

Mrs. Denham.

She promised to be handsome.

Denham.

I wonder whether this woman is a weak fool, or a bold experimenter in the art of life?

Mrs. Denham.

How so?

Denham.

Why, having had the courage to come down from the cross, should she go back to it again?

Mrs. Denham.

What cross?

Denham.

What is woman's cross from the foundation of the world but man, man? The cords are the bonds of marriage, her children are the nails, and love her crown of thorns.

Mrs. Denham.

Very poetical, no doubt.

Denham.

Bitter truth, as you are never tired of demonstrating to me. Do you think the unfortunate cross has not had his share of the torment?

Mrs. Denham.

Too light a share for his tyranny, cruelty, and, above all, his mean hypocrisy. May he burn in some spiritual fire for that!

Denham.

So he does; it runs in his veins. Well, something better may come of it, some day. By-the-bye, I expect some men to see my picture.

Mrs. Denham.

Brynhild?

Denham.

Yes, such as she is. (Crosses R, and looks at the picture.) Another failure, of course. (Sighs.)

Mrs. Denham.

Why will you always speak of your work so despondently?

Denham.

Because I want to do better. Vanity, I suppose. (He comes back towards the fireplace.)

Mrs. Denham.

Just move out this sofa. (They move sofa to C.) Who are coming?

Denham.

Oh, Fitzgerald, of course, and possibly Cyril Vane.

Mrs. Denham. That little creature? You know I detest him.

Denham.

Why little? Do you estimate men of genius by the pound?

Mrs. Denham.

Men of genius, indeed? The man has a second-hand intellect.

Denham.

Really, you sometimes say a good thing—that is, an ill-natured one. How you hate culture! (Enter Jane, showing in Fitzgerald.)

Jane.

Mr. Fitzgerald! (Exit Jane.)

(Fitzgerald saunters up to Mrs. Denham, stops suddenly, straddling his legs, and shakes hands loosely and absently.)

Fitzgerald.

Lovely day, eh? Have you heard the news?

Denham.

We never have heard the news.

Mrs. Denham.

You are the only gossip who comes our way.

Fitzgerald.

(good-humouredly) Gossip, eh? Oh, you needn't think I mind being denounced from your domestic altar, Mrs. Denham! I know you're dying to hear the last bit of scandal.

Mrs. Denham.

Take pity on me then.

Fitzgerald.

I know this'll interest you awfully. Pottleton Smith's wife's run away at last. Now wasn't I right? (Looks smilingly at both for sympathy.) I always said she would, you know.

Mrs. Denham.

Poor silly little flirt! I'm very sorry.

Fitzgerald.

(rubbing his hands) I'm—I'm awfully glad. It'll be the saving of poor Smith. Though he's awfully cut up about it, of course.

Denham.

Did she run away with—any one in particular?

Fitzgerald.

A Captain Crosby or Cosby, or something. He's in some horse regiment, the cavalry or something. He's—he's an awful scamp, a blackleg and all that, but an awfully nice fellow. I met him at Smith's the other day, and they—they—they were carrying on all the time under poor little Smith's nose. (He saunters absently to the easel and looks at the picture.) The picture—eh? It's—it's awfully good, you know—an advance on your last.

(During this speech Denham also goes to the easel.)

Mrs. Denham.

Don't you think so?

Fitzgerald.

Yes, it's an advance, decidedly. What is it, eh? I forget.

Denham.

Brynhild.

Fitzgerald.

Oh, Brynhild! The horse is awfully good, you know—savage and that; but the woman isn't ugly enough—at least, you haven't quite got the right kind of ugliness, eh?

Denham.

Unfortunately I meant her to be beautiful.

Mrs. Denham.

(smiling) And I gave him some sittings, Mr. Fitzgerald.

Fitzgerald.

(with a genial laugh) Did you, now? Well, he tried to improve on you—that was it. (With great conviction to Denham.) But—but surely you're wrong in that. Brynhild was an ugly, passionate woman. The passionate woman is always ugly. The passionate woman has character, and character is always ugly.

Denham.

Yes, I know what you mean. But I thought—no, the thing's a failure. Don't bother about it, but come and sit down. Have a cigarette? (Gives him a cigarette.)

Fitzgerald.

Thanks.

(They sit down, Fitzgerald lights cigarette, and puffs solemnly before he speaks again.)

Mrs. Smith (puff), you didn't know her well? Did you, Mrs. Denham? (Puff.)

Mrs. Denham.

No—not well.

Fitzgerald.

You know I painted her portrait (looks at lighted end of cigarette), portrait (leans back in his chair, replaces cigarette in his mouth, and puffs again. Then putting his hands behind his head, he stretches out his legs, and looks at the ceiling), so I knew her like my own sister. (Puff.) She was a pretty little devil (puff), awfully aristocratic, mind you, vulgar, of course, an'—an' poor refined little Smith just didn't drop his H's. (Puffs, chuckles to himself.) Yes, she was a born jade. (Puff.) I—I liked her awfully. (Puff.)

Mrs. Denham.

You seem to like every one awfully.

Fitzgerald.

(with fervour, sitting up in his chair, and flinging away his half-smoked cigarette) So I do. I enjoy the Human Comedy. Now you don't enjoy the Human Comedy a bit.

Mrs. Denham.

It comes too near me.

Denham.

A cab at the door; this may be Vane. (Crosses l to fire.)

Fitzgerald.

Vane? That's splendid! He cuts me dead now, because I reviewed his last Society Verses, with some other men's, under the head, "Our Minor Poets," in Free Lances.

Denham.

Oh, an editorial? Serves you right, you Jack-of-all-trades. How if some brother Minor Critic were to class you as a Minor Painter?

Fitzgerald.

For Heaven's sake introduce me to him.

(Enter Jane, showing in Vane.)

Jane.

Mr. Vane!

(Exit Jane.)

(Vane shakes hands languidly with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and stares at Fitzgerald, who smiles genially.)

Denham.

Ah, Vane, glad to see you.

Vane.

How d'ye do? Ah, Mrs. Denham, that tea-gown is charming.

Mrs. Denham.

Flattery from you, Mr. Vane, is more than flattery. Pray excuse me for a moment.

(Exit Mrs. Denham.)

Denham.

Fitzgerald, you know Vane, of course?

Fitzgerald.

Upon my word I scarcely know. Do we know each other, Vane?

Vane.

My dear Fitzgerald, when will you learn that you can never know me? (Crosses to picture.)

Fitzgerald.

Then, my dear Vane, I must learn to be resigned. (Fitzgerald turns away, and takes up Gyp. Vane looks at the picture.) What's this? "Autour du Marriage," eh? (Opens book, and reads, then lies on sofa, still reading.)

Vane.

Ah, the Brynhild! My dear Denham, why will you do such things?

Denham.

What have I done?

Vane.

Not what you have tried to do—to paint an epic picture.

Denham.

Is that wrong?

Vane.

Worse than wrong; it is a bêtise. (Comes to fire, and stands with his back to it.) You might as well try to write a long poem. Such things are certainly long, and as certainly not poems. That huge thing is not a picture.

Denham.

Ah, you write quatrains. Should no poem exceed four lines?

Vane.

Not only should not, but in our present state of development, cannot. The quatrain is the analogue of the Greek gem, the consummate flower of the national art of the period. It will take at least a century to perfect and exhaust it. Have you seen my book, "Three Quatrains"?

Denham.

No; have you published it lately?

Vane.

My dear Denham! I never publish anything. In a wilderness of mediocrity obscurity is fame.

Denham.

Yes, a well-advertised obscurity. But surely you have published poems?

Vane.

Where have you lived, my dear fellow? I breathe a poem into the air, and the world hears. If some one prints it, can I help it? One does not print, wake, and become famous; one becomes famous, and the world awakes, cackles, and prints one.

Fitzgerald.

By-the-bye, Vane, there's a quatrain in your "In the House of Hathor" I wanted to ask you about.

Vane.

Which?

Fitzgerald.

Let me see—it begins: "I saw a serpent in my Lady's heart"—

Vane.

Ah! spare me the torment of hearing—

Fitzgerald.

Your own lines?

Vane.

Mur-dered!

Fitzgerald.

Ah yes! I didn't quite catch the meaning.

Vane.

Meaning? It is a piece of mu-sic, in which I have skilfully e-lu-ded all meaning.

Fitzgerald.

Oh, I see! (Resumes his book.)

Denham.

(to Vane) Have a cigarette? (Denham offers him a cigarette; he takes one absently, then lets it drop back into the box.)

Vane.

Thanks, no—I never smoke. It has become so vulgar.

Denham.

Really? What do you do then—absinthe?

Vane.

For the purposes of art it is antiquated. (He sighs.) I have tried haschish.

Denham.

Well?

Vane.

Without distinct results—for one's style, that is.

Denham.

Oh!

Vane.

One sometimes sees oneself inventing the Narghilé. It involves the black slave, of course, and might lead to a true retrogressive progress—even to the Harîm. One pities the superfluous woman, there are so many about.

Denham.

Yet Mormonism seems to be a failure.

Vane.

It was so dreadfully upholstered!

Denham.

The Harîm would be a new field for the collector. How prices would run up!

Vane.

Ah, Denham, never touch a dream with the vulgarity of real things! (Crosses to picture.)

(Fitzgerald, who has been reading Gyp, suddenly comes forward with the book in his hand, and breaks in.)

Fitzgerald.

This Gyp's awfully good. Who is he, eh?

Vane.

(with patient scorn) A woman!

Fitzgerald.

(with conviction) To be sure! That makes it—splendid! (Chuckles to himself, sits again on sofa, and goes on reading.)

Vane.

(looking at picture) Will you never learn to be an artist, Denham? The modern picture should be a painted quatrain, with colours for words—words which say nothing, because everything has been said, but which suggest all that has been felt and dreamed. Art is the initiation into a mood, a mystery—a sphinx whose riddle every one can answer, yet no one understand.

Fitzgerald.

(shutting the book on his finger) Bravo, Vane! 'Pon my word, I begin to believe in you.

Vane.

I can endure even that.

Denham.

I am on the wrong tack then?

Vane.

My dear fellow, look at that canvas. What a method! You are like an amateur pianist who tries laboriously to obtain tone, without having mastered the keyboard. One cannot blunder into great art. Only Englishmen make the attempt. You are a nation of amateurs. (He turns away, and sees a sketch on the l wall) Did you do this?

Denham.

My brush did it somehow.

Vane.

Ah! this is exquisite—or would be if you could paint. Why, why not learn the technique of your art, and make these notes of a mood, a moment, so as to give real delight?

Denham.

Upon my word, Vane, you are right. That sketch is worth a wilderness of Brynhilds. But look here! (Crosses to picture. He opens a pocket knife, and makes a long cut across the figure of Brynhild.) There goes a year's work.

Fitzgerald.

(rising) By Jove!

Vane.

My dear fellow, I congratulate you. The year's work is not thrown away—now. (Re-enter Mrs. Denham.)

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, Mr. Vane, what have you made him do?

Vane.

My dear Mrs. Denham, I have saved your husband's reputation for a few months at least. He cannot do anything so consummately bad in less. Pray, pray, do not try to understand art! Women never can; they have not yet developed the sixth sense—the sense of Beauty. But I must really tear myself away.

(Mrs. Denham sits gloomily on throne, ignoring Vane.)

Denham.

Won't you stay and have some tea?

Vane.

Thanks, no. Lady Mayfair made me promise to go and hear her new tenor. One knows what one has to expect, but one goes.

(Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane.)

Jane.

Miss Macfarlane!

(Miss Macfarlane shakes hands with Mrs. Denham and Denham, and nods to Fitzgerald and Vane.)

Miss Macfarlane.

How d'ye do, Fitz? Ah, Vane! you here? Don't run away.

Vane.

Unfortunately I must. The wounds of our last encounter are not yet healed.

Miss Macfarlane.

Pshaw, man! I don't use poisoned weapons.

Vane.

Ah, Miss Macfarlane, the broadsword is very effective in your hands! (Going.)

Fitzgerald.

Oh, Vane, will you dine with me at the Bohemians on Friday? I want you to hear—

Vane.

The Bohemians? Impossible!

Fitzgerald.

You'll see life, at any rate.

Vane.

My dear fellow, I have seen life. Don't ask me to see it again. It is a painful spectacle. Adieu!

(Exit.)

Miss Macfarlane.

(looking at picture) Why, what's all this?

Mrs. Denham.

Arthur, I shall never forgive you for destroying your picture—just because that wretched little creature was spiteful about it.

Denham.

Pooh! He wasn't spiteful. He only told me the truth about it, in his own jargon. I knew it already.

Miss Macfarlane.

Oh, but it's none so bad, my dear boy—if it's a failure, it's a good wholesome failure. (Crosses l to fire.)

(Enter Jane, showing in Mrs. Tremaine.)

Jane.

Mrs. Tremaine! (Exit Jane.)

Mrs. Denham.

My dear Blanche!

Mrs. Tremaine.

My dear Constance! (They embrace.)

Mrs. Denham.

My husband, Mrs. Tremaine. Miss Macfarlane, Mr. Fitzgerald. (She introduces them.)

Fitzgerald.

(thrusting the book into his side pocket) Well, I must run away. (Crosses c.)

Denham.

Must you go?

Fitzgerald.

Yes—I've—I've a lot of things to do. Good-bye. (Shakes hands absently.)

Denham.

Oh, Fitz, I want to show you something. Will you excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Tremaine?

(Exeunt Denham and Fitzgerald.)

Mrs. Denham.

Do sit down, and let us have a little quiet talk.

(They sit down. Mrs. Denham crosses and sits on sofa r; Mrs. Tremaine on sofa l, and Miss Macfarlane in armchair by fire, quietly observe each other.)

You are looking splendidly, Blanche.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes, I'm in very good form. But you're not looking well—rather pale, you know.

Mrs. Denham.

I'm a little tired, that's all. I am so glad to see you again. Why have you quite given me up?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Well, you see, I have been rather making a mess of my life, and I have not been much in town. Besides, I was a little shy about coming, after—all my escapades.

Mrs. Denham.

You know I'm not a censorious person, Blanche. I don't think our conventional morality very admirable, and I never adored the patient Griselda.

Mrs. Tremaine.

You don't know how I feel your kindness, Constance. I have had a hard time of it, so far; but now I have taken my life into my own hands, and I mean to live it out.

Mrs. Denham.

But your husband? You married again, did you not?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes. Fancy a woman making that mistake twice! But, you see, I was in an equivocal position. I had left my first husband, Miss Macfarlane; I don't want to conceal my misdeeds.

Miss Macfarlane.

Oh, don't expect paving stones from an old woman like me! I judge every case on its own merits. I know what men are, though I've been content to gain my experience at my friends' expense. I tell ye I know more about the ins and outs of marriages than most married women, just as the curler on the bank sees most of the game. You mayn't have been anything worse than a fool, and ye mayn't have been even that.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Thank you. I was a fool, of course. You see, my first marriage was a mistake altogether. It was my mother's doing. I knew nothing of marriage, or love either, for that matter. That came afterwards, and—all the scandal.

Miss Macfarlane.

And may I ask, young woman, have you run away from your second husband? You say that marriage was a mistake too

Mrs. Tremaine.

No; he is dead now.

Miss Macfarlane.

But you don't—(Looks at her dress.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

No, I don't afficher eternal bereavement. We were separated for two years.

Mrs. Denham.

Poor Blanche! Then it was not a success?

Mrs. Tremaine.

No; it was not a success.

Miss Macfarlane.

Well, we mustn't ask why?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Oh, I'm in the humour for confession. I think you can understand. We got on well enough while I was—free. But he did the chivalrous thing—asked me to marry him; and I was glad enough to scramble back to the platform of respectability.

Miss Macfarlane.

Well, I understand that, anyhow.

Mrs. Tremaine.

That seemed to kill the romance, such as it was. I need not go into the sordid details, but we quarrelled finally about money—my money. My husband took to gambling in stocks. But I have managed to keep my little pittance, fortunately. Well, that is enough of my affairs. Have you any children, Constance?

Mrs. Denham.

One little girl, just nine. Have you any?

Mrs. Tremaine.

No—none.

Miss Macfarlane.

A woman who has had such unpleasant experiences ought to hate and despise men. But of course you don't?

Mrs. Tremaine.

(laughing) No—I don't think I hate men exactly. I despise some men heartily.

Miss Macfarlane.

They're gey ill to live wi', eh?

Mrs. Tremaine.

I don't think marriage suits me, somehow. I suppose it suits some people. But I think it often tends to reduce them to a dead level of commonplace. The artificial bond makes people too sure of each other. It does not do to take love too much for granted, I think.

(Re-enter Denham.)

Mrs. Denham.

Well, Arthur, have you got rid of Mr. Fitzgerald?

Denham.

Yes—I'm so glad to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Tremaine.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Thanks. It is so pleasant meeting unconventional people.

Miss Macfarlane.

(Rising) Eh! we've all been getting solemn and lugubrious. I must be going, my dear. Won't you show me your drawing-room? (Mrs. Denham rises.) You wanted my advice about curtains, didn't you?

Mrs. Denham.

Will you excuse me, Blanche? We are refurnishing our drawing-room. I don't want you to come just yet. Arthur will entertain you.

Denham.

Oh, with pleasure! (Exeunt Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane.) How do you think Constance is looking, Mrs. Tremaine? (Draws chair over, and sits near her.)

Mrs. Tremaine.

It struck me she was looking rather worn and ill.

Denham.

I'm afraid she is.

Mrs. Tremaine.

She has let herself run down too much. Does she go in for exercise—tennis or anything?

Denham.

Nothing of the kind, I am sorry to say.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Oh, I could not live without exercise! I used to ride while I could afford it, and I always try to do gymnastics or something.

Denham.

I'm sure you're right. Do you intend to stay in town now?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes, I hope to get some work. I have enough income to keep me going; but I want some real employment.

Denham.

Quite right. (Rises, and puts log of wood on fire, then stands with tongs in his hand and looks at her; puts down tongs.) Well, until you get something that suits you, I wish you would give me some sittings. I'll give you the regular model's wages—a shilling an hour—no, I'll give you two—two shillings an hour—there!

Mrs. Tremaine.

Thank you, it is a generous offer. I have sat before without the shillings, and will again with pleasure—if you will promise to talk to me?

Denham.

I won't promise, but I shall talk all the same. So you have sat before?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes, artists seem to like painting me; I don't know why. I don't profess to be a beauty.

Denham.

Of course no woman is beautiful; but some women have the art of persuading you that they are. You have this art.

Mrs. Tremaine.

(laughing) Really you are very polite. Am I to take that as a compliment?

Denham.

No, as sincere praise. I am never polite to people I like, and I like you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Thanks. I like to be liked; and I can forgive your want of politeness, if you are never more brutally rude than you have been. I suppose I am to take it as the rudeness of a man of genius?

Denham.

No—like all unsuccessful people who worry themselves over art—I am only a man of some genius—a very different thing, I assure you.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Are you unsuccessful?

Denham.

A man who paints pictures that please only his wife is surely unsuccessful? But I don't want to bore you with myself. It only means that I feel we are friends already.

Mrs. Tremaine.

You don't know how pleasant it is to be with people who don't look upon me as a dreadfully wicked woman.

Denham.

No doubt, like all persons of distinction, you belong to the criminal classes; but we are all emancipated here.

(Re-enter Mrs. Denham and Miss Macfarlane, who goes straight to the fire as she speaks.)

Mrs. Denham.

Oh, Arthur, that precious black cat of yours!

Miss Macfarlane.

We've settled the curtains, now for the cat.

Denham.

What has he been doing now?

Mrs. Denham.

In the larder again. Really that beast must be got rid of. I will not stand such abominations any longer.

Denham.

Well, don't ask me to be executioner, that's all.

Mrs. Tremaine.

But surely you're not going to kill a black cat? It is awfully unlucky.

(Miss Macfarlane keeps Mrs. Tremaine under observation.)

Denham.

Are you superstitious?

Mrs. Tremaine.

I suppose I am. Those peacock feathers made me shiver when I came in.

Mrs. Denham.

Are peacock's feathers unlucky?

Mrs. Tremaine.

Yes; didn't you know that?

Mrs. Denham.

No.

Denham.

Constance is not superstitious. It is her worst fault. A little superstition gives colour to life.

Mrs. Tremaine.

Do let me take the cat, Constance!

Mrs. Denham.

I am sure you are welcome to the beast.

Denham.

Thanks, Mrs. Tremaine.

Mrs. Denham.

Arthur, take Mrs. Tremaine down to have some tea.

Denham.

Will you come, Mrs. Tremaine?

(Exeunt Denham and Mrs. Tremaine.)

Miss Macfarlane.

(retaining Mrs. Denham) My dear, beware of that woman! (Crosses to Mrs. Denham.)

Mrs. Denham.

Of Blanche—why?

Miss Macfarlane.

Ye have a husband, that's all.

Mrs. Denham.

But you don't suppose—

Miss Macfarlane.

Eh, I suppose nothing. But that woman loves men. I can see it with half an eye.

Mrs. Denham.

If my husband does not love me, let him leave me. (Crosses c.)

Miss Macfarlane.

Fiddlesticks, my dear; don't go in for heroics. Of course he loves you. Does it follow he can't love another woman into the bargain? They think they can, at any rate.

Mrs. Denham.

I don't care for such love.

Miss Macfarlane.

Of course not. But in this world we must make sure of what we can grab; and then we can grab a bit more, and a bit more, maybe.

Mrs. Denham.

I can trust my husband.

Miss Macfarlane.

(coming to Mrs. Denham) Right; but don't trust him into temptation. Mind you, she's charming. Men haven't been flogged into constancy, as we have. Remember that. I'm not old-maidish, my dear, though I've escaped holy matrimony. I don't profess hatred of men, they're none so much worse than we are; but they're different, and—pardon my strong language—they're damnably brought up. (They go up stage towards door.) Beware of that woman, I tell ye. Don't let her get a footing here. And now, give me some tea.