No. Plays of Two 
 36 Characters 
 
 
 r 
 
 mi 
 
 EDG \R S WERNER. 
 
 '' NEW YORK ' 
 
 Oy 
 
 _ 1_I 
 
 668.8 
 no- 36 
 
 Published by 
 
 EDGAR S. WERNER &GQ. 
 NEW YORK 
 
 uon\'w. churchill; 
 
Library of the 
 University of iSorth Carolina 
 
 Endowed by the Dialectic ajf?T|*hilan- 
 thropic SacieMes^ 
 
 EXTENSION DIVISION 
 
 808.8 
 
 W4q -t-sh 
 
Werner's 
 eadings and Recitations 
 
 No. 36 
 
 ixteen 2-Character Plays, Also Encores 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised by 
 
 Pauline Phelps and Marion Short 
 
 mmi 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 EDGAR S. WERNER & COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1906, bj Edgar S. Werner 
 
AUTHORS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Anthony, Mary S 134 
 
 Cassilis, Ina Leon ................. ; .....:...-...._.» .'■■■■• 157 
 
 Chevalier, Albert '." '.'.." 44 
 
 Cone, Joe 134 
 
 Dance, Charles . . . . r 135 
 
 Dunbar, Paul Laurence 123, 156 
 
 Henry, Re 45 
 
 Johnson, Burges 91 
 
 Kiser, S. E 133 
 
 Merivale, H. C 17 
 
 Mitchell, Violet Etynge 101 
 
 Montague, Leopold 93 
 
 Moore, Bertha 53 
 
 Muskerry, William 125 
 
 Nesbit, Wilbur D 62 
 
 Pemberton, H. L. Childe 83 
 
 Rayne, Mrs. M. L 32 
 
 Seymour, Edward Martin , 63 
 
 Short, Marion ; 162, 175, 192 
 
 Thomas, Charles * 163 
 
 Walkes, W. R. . ... ....... ..... ....;... 33,73, 177 
 
 Warren, Ernest 109 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Backward Child. — H. L. Childe Pemberton. 
 
 Farce-Comedy. 2f 83 
 
 Bee's Mission. — Marion Short. 
 
 Recitation 175 
 
 Box of Powders. 
 
 Farcical Romance, im if ;, .;.,., ;• ••• 5 
 
 Breaking the Ice : or, A Piece of Holly. — Charles Thomas. 
 
 Romantic Comedy, im if... • •••• '• 163 
 
 Confederates. 
 
 Comedy Romance, im if 103 
 
 Cookin' Things. — Burges Johnson. 
 
 Recitation 91 
 
 Crystal Gazer. — Leopold Montague. 
 
 Fortune-telling Farce. 2f . ... 93 
 
 Earthquakes Preferred. — Mrs. M. L. Rayne. 
 
 Recitation 32 
 
 Fast Friends.— Re Henry. 
 
 Comedy. 2f 45 
 
 Frenchman on "Macbeth." 
 
 Recitation ! 52 
 
 Grandmama Will Settle. 
 
 Recitation 72 
 
 Happy Ending. — Bertha Moore. 
 
 Romantic Pathos. 2f S3 
 
 He, She and It.— William Muskerry. 
 
 Matrimonial Comedy (1 speaking and 1 pantomimic part), 
 im if 125 
 
 Hiawathian. 
 
 Recitation , 8i 
 
 Husband in Clover. — H. C. Merivale. 
 
 Matrimonial Comedy, im if 17 
 
 In Vain. — Marion Short. 
 
 Recitation „ 162 
 
 3 
 
 o 
 
 CO 
 
Page 
 
 Meditations of Johnny. — S. E. Kiser. 
 
 Recitation 133 
 
 Morning Call. — Charles Dance. 
 
 Romantic Comedy, im if 135 
 
 My Old Dutch.— Albert Chevalier. 
 
 Recitation 44 
 
 "Nettle, The."— Ernest Warren. 
 
 Romantic Comedy, im if 109 
 
 One Secret She Kept. — Mary S. Anthony. 
 
 Recitation 134 
 
 Pair of Lunatics. — W. R. Walkes. 
 
 Romantic Farce, im if 177 
 
 Photograph, The. — Paul Laurence Dunbar. 
 
 Recitation 156 
 
 Po' Little Lamb. — Paul Laurence Dunbar. 
 
 Recitation 123 
 
 Pore Aunt Dinah. — Violet Etynge Mitchell. 
 
 Recitation 101 
 
 Shadow Baby. 
 
 Recitation 82 
 
 She Kept the Glove. 
 
 Recitation 108 
 
 Show of Hands.— W. R. Walkes. 
 
 Romantic Comedy, im if 73 
 
 Tattered Battle-Flag. — Marion Short. 
 
 Recitation 192 
 
 Telephone Courtship. 
 
 Recitation 43- 
 
 Those Landladies. — Ina Leon Cassilis. 
 
 Boarding House Comedy. 2f 157 
 
 Twins. — Wilbur D. Nesbit. 
 
 Recitation 62 
 
 Two Jolly Girl Bachelors. — Edward Martin Seymour. 
 
 Romantic Farce. 2f.... 63 
 
 Villain and Victim. — W. R. Walkes. 
 
 Matrimonial Comedy, im if 33 
 
 Young Soubrette. — Joe Cone. 
 
 Recitation 134 
 
 4 
 
A BOX OF POWDERS. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Mrs. Nelly Wemyss, a young widow. 
 
 Colonel Jack Humphreys, a family friend. 
 Voice, in the hall. 
 
 SCENE : Handsomely furnished drawing-room. Door C. 
 in flat. Door at R., window at L., with long curtains reaching to 
 floor. Couch at L. with covers reaching to floor. Piano at R. 
 Near door R. a screen. Table near couch on which are em- 
 broidery skeins. Chairs, tables, bric-a-brac and other furnishings 
 ad lib. 
 
 [DISCOVERED : Nelly, entering door C. She speaks off as 
 
 she enters.] 
 
 Nelly. You understand, Mathilde? I am at hom^ to no 
 one but the Colonel. 
 
 Voice. Yes, madame. 
 
 Nel. What a frightful city this is for an unprotected 
 woman, young, rich, and a widow, to find herself alone in ! 
 Take a protector, get married, says the Colonel. Excellent 
 advice, Colonel, but my experience with the late Mr. Wemyss 
 warns me not to adopt it. But I must do something, as my 
 suitors are becoming more and more persistent and audacious. 
 Think of the temerity of my last and most ingenious admirer, 
 whom I met last week at the Charity Ball. I was foolish 
 enough to tell him that my husband was living, but old and 
 .infirm. On the strength of that valuable information, he has 
 
 3 play — s book 
 
4 A BOX OF POWDERS. 
 
 had the effrontery to rent an apartment directly opposite my 
 windows, and sits there all day watching my room. [Goes to 
 window.] There he is now. And now for my feeble husband. 
 [Buttons dressing-gown around chair, places nightcap on top of 
 feather-duster and puts it in collar of gown, and moves chair to 
 window.'] Now stare at him as long as you please. [Door- 
 bell rings.] Someone at the door! Who can it be? [Opens 
 door.] 
 
 Voice. A letter has just been handed in for Madame. 
 
 Nel. Let me have it. [Closes door, opens letter and reads:] 
 
 "Madam: — Your eyes are very beautiful, but they are not 
 as powerful as the lenses of my telescope, or they would have 
 pierced to the heart and there read my love for you. But my 
 lenses have enabled me to detect the fraud you have set up in 
 your window. If you do not open the door to me, I shall enter 
 through the window or down the chimney. 
 
 "C. H. Alliston, 
 "Ex-Amateur Champion Gymnast." 
 The villain ! , I will have to apply to the police for protection. 
 [Bell rings again.] Ah! there is the Colonel; I shall inform 
 him of that wretch's threat. No, he will only profit by the 
 occasion to offer me the services of his sword and the hand at 
 the hilt. But here he comes, and I am forgetting my husband. 
 [Carries chair into next room.] 
 
 Colonel Humphreys [outside]. Good morning, Mathilde. 
 Is your mistress in the drawing room? [Enters, with package 
 tinder arm.] Mrs. Wemyss, I have the honor — she is not here. 
 Well, I am not sorry, as I shall have time to take a little peep in 
 the mirror. [Looks at himself in glass.] Now, I don't think 
 that my face is too red this morning. Last night, she remarked : 
 "Colonel, you must know that I a lmire you very much ; you 
 are a handsome man ; but why will you always have such a high 
 color?" "A trifle," I replied; — "want of exercise and all that: 
 I will pick up in my riding, and you will see the result." This 
 morning I took a six-mile gallop, and when I returned I looked 
 
 (6) 
 
A BOX OF POWDERS. 5 
 
 like — a boiled lobster. Something had to be done, and for the first 
 time in my life I consulted a doctor. "Try a leech," said he. 
 "No use, I have used a whole pound of them." "Then use a 
 foot-bath." "But I can not go about in society lugging a foot- 
 bath and a kettle of hot water." "Then, as a final recourse, I 
 will prescribe another remedy. Here is a box containing twelve 
 powders. Take two, wet them and place one on each 
 ankle. It is sure relief." I have one on each ankle, and it is 
 about time for them to assert themselves. 
 
 Nel. [entering room']. Good morning, Colonel. [Motions 
 him to seat.] 
 
 Col. [bowing]. You are well this morning? Charmed to 
 hear it. You must excuse my appearance ; I came on horseback. 
 
 Nel. No apologies, Colonel. But, do you know that your 
 face is ruddier than usual this morning? And what news have 
 you come to tell me? I have been so occupied that I have not 
 had time even to glance at my papers. [Selects embroidery ma- 
 terial from table.] 
 
 Col. The Secretary of War has issued an order radically 
 changing the style of boots worn by the army. 
 
 Nel. [taking embroidery]. Indeed? 
 
 Col. In place of shoes they must now wear boots. [Opens 
 package and takes out pair of military boots.] Look at those 
 boots. During the war we considered ourselves fortunate to 
 have even shoes, and now they must have boots. A pack of 
 idiots! [Places boots on chair near piano.] 
 
 Nel. I would sympathize with you, but my skein is in a 
 frightful tangle, and I must beg a favor of you. 
 
 Col. Only too happy. [Aside.] Those powders tickle! 
 [Taps floor with right foot.] What shall it be? 
 
 Nel. Come, sit here — on that chair. [He taps floor with 
 left foot.] Take this basket of zephyr and sort it into colors. 
 [She sits on end of couch, he on chair facing her.] 
 
 Col. I will put the reds on my right knee and the blues on 
 my left. [Taps floor with both feet.] 
 
 CO 
 
£ A BOX OF POWDERS. 
 
 Nel. Place them where you please, only sort them correctly. 
 
 Col. Ah ! If it was as easy to disentangle [moves nerv- 
 ously] political complications. [Aside.] Great Caesar! how 
 those powders itch! [Aloud.'] Let us see — the reds here. 
 [Aside.] It is growing worse. [Aloud.] And the blues — and 
 — [aside] — there goes the other foot. [With a sudden jerk he 
 breaks several pieces of zephyr.] 
 
 Nel. There, you are breaking them ! Why, Colonel ! 
 
 Col. Pardon me, I will learn with a little practice. [Asi<t J 
 Holy canons ! how they sting ! [Breaks a whole skein of reds.] 
 
 Nel. Now I must stop you, or you will destroy my entire 
 stock of zephyr. To convince me that you are penitent, kneel 
 on this ottoman at my feet, hold up your hands, and I will wind 
 this skein on them. 
 
 Col. [hesitatingly]. Must I kneel? 
 
 Nel. Of course you must. Oh, these men ! Eight days 
 ago if I had permitted what I now command, you would have 
 been kneeling there ever since. 
 
 Col. I submit to the inevitable and here I am. [Kneels. 
 Aside.] Those powders are growing hotter every moment. 
 
 Nel. [winding the skein]. But what is the matter, Colo- 
 nel? — you are restless. Are you ill? 
 
 Col. While I am at your feet? Never! [Aside.] That 
 infernal doctor! [Aloud.] The position is a trifle unusual, Mrs. 
 Wemyss, that is all. 
 
 Nel. But your feet, Colonel. Why, you're beating a per- 
 fect tattoo with them. 
 
 Col. [trying to appear unconcerned]. Am I, indeed? 
 Well, I hope you won't mind. [Alternately strikes toes of boots 
 on floor zvhile he kneels.] I usually exercise at this time of day, 
 trot at double quick, you know; and my feet sort of get in the 
 habit [wiggles and taps feet violently]. Almost impossible to 
 stop them — unless I keep my mind on them [by strained effort 
 manages to keep feet still for a second] — and a man can't keep 
 his mind on his feet, you know, when — [moves feet up and down 
 
 (8) 
 
A BOX OF POWDERS. 7 
 
 violently again]. My Lord, I believe they're made of mustard! 
 [hastily attempts explanation to Nelly] — mustard color, I 
 mean. This skein [holds up skein, then sees that it is red], no, 
 red — red, ha, ha ! to match the color of my face. Thank you for 
 the compliment, dear lady. [Suddenly drops skein in her lap, 
 sits on stool, takes booted right foot in hand and rubs and wrig- 
 gles boot.] Excuse me, but I think there's a pebble in my boot. 
 [Same business with other foot.] Beg pardon, I meant this 
 foot, the other foot [sticks both legs out straight, rubbing feet 
 together] — both feet in fact. [Nelly stares at him in amaze- 
 ment and apprehension and moves a little. He approaches her 
 and takes skein over his hands, again moving from one foot to the 
 other with great restlessness all the time.] Wouldn't you like 
 to waltz with me a little, while I hold the skein? Such a grace- 
 ful dance, the waltz, don't you think? You can wind while 
 we're circling about — sort of unusual idea and all that, don't 
 you think? 
 
 Nel. [indignantly']. No, I don't. Give me that skein. [She 
 takes it from his hands and goes back to seat while he hums a 
 tune and zvaltzes crazily about, every once in awhile rubbing one 
 foot against the otlier.] 
 
 Nel. [offended]. I see you'd rather enjoy yourself in that 
 frivolous fashion than to render me a little assistance when I 
 ask it. 
 
 Col. [coming to a stop, but still continuing to spring up 
 and dozvn on toes, aside]. I've ruined myself forever with her. 
 She thinks me indifferent to her charms. My heart is broken, 
 but I can't stop to think of my heart now. My feet won't let me. 
 The one thing to do is to get away. [Aloud.] Six o'clock, 
 Mrs. Wemyss ! How rapidly time passes while enjoying your 
 society! I regret that I must go, but a prior engagement tears 
 me away. [Takes his hat.] 
 
 Nel. [aside]. Going — and the ex-gymnast may come at any 
 moment ! [Aloud.'] No, Colonel, you must dine with me. I 
 accept no refusal. 
 
 (9) 
 
8 A BOX OF POWDERS. 
 
 Col. [pacing up and down the room]. I shall be too 
 happy to accept, and only crave sufficient time to go to my club 
 and return. 
 
 Nel. No! no! [Seises his arm.] You must not leave 
 me for a second. Try a game of dominoes. [He breaks away 
 from her.] 
 
 Col. [aside]. I must keep moving or I will explode. 
 [Aloud.] Pray excuse me this evening, Mrs. Wemyss — I should 
 only bore you. [Aside.] If I could only change these riding 
 boots for those loose military boots. 
 
 Nel. Then open the piano, and I will play that reverie you 
 are so fond of. 
 
 Col. A charming idea, which I was just on the point of 
 proposing myself. [Aside.] I may get a chance to change my 
 boots behind the piano [opens piano]. 
 
 [Nelly goes to piano and plays. The Colonel stations him- 
 self behind piano.] 
 
 Nel. But you must not stand there. You're too close to 
 the piano. 
 
 Col. Yes, but I will have the sight of your charming face 
 to console me. Bravo ! Charming ! Ravishing ! 
 
 [Nelly plays dreamy melody while the Colonel backs sur- 
 reptitiously tozvard chair containing military boots. Nelly con- 
 tinues, while the Colonel obtains boots from chair.] 
 
 Nel. What a beautiful passage that is. I hope you up- 
 hold me in my preference for the minor keys? 
 
 Col. [approaching former position near piano, holding boots 
 behind him]. Yes, yes. The keys to the situation; I've got them 
 at last! 
 
 Nel. [as she plays]. But, Colonel, you are not listening. 
 
 Col. I beg your pardon, but I am. I was always fond of 
 martial music ; it sets my feet going. [Aside, as he marches 
 about restlessly.] That's the best excuse yet. 
 
 Nel. [indignantly]: I knew you weren't really listening. 
 You see it isn't martial music at all. 
 
 do) 
 
A BOX OF POWDERS. 9 
 
 Col. [more frantic with his feet than ever']. Oh, excuse me, 
 of course, not. Rag time. Makes one do the cake-walk and all 
 that. [Aside, as he begins grotesque cake-walk. .] Now, that is 
 an excuse. [Cake-walks, grinning idiotically at Nelly as if en- 
 joying it.] 
 
 Nel. I'll not play another note. [Brings down hands with 
 angry crash on keys.] What is the matter? Will you kindly be 
 quiet long enough to tell me ? [He slides behind screen, still con- 
 cealing boots in his hands.] 
 
 Col. [from behind screen]. My dear Mrs. Wemyss, you 
 have hit upon a very painful subject. Don't come behind the 
 screen, please. I'm screening something from you. I was pre- 
 tending to be gay [sound of boot dropping on floor behind screen], 
 but there was a dark secret concealed in my boots — heart, I mean 
 [sound of other boot dropping, Nelly appearing greatly mysti- 
 fied], which I dared not reveal. 
 
 [Nelly rises and comes down stage, frowning thoughtfully 
 as if pondering over his meaning. As she stands there, and while 
 she answers him, he cautiously peeps oiit and emerges from be- 
 hind screen. He wears military boots and cautiously tiptoes^ over 
 to window where he deposits riding-boots behind curtain.] 
 
 Nel. I suppose you mean that you had no right to make 
 those protestations of affection to me the other day — that you 
 were even then bound to another. 
 
 Col. Upon my word 
 
 Nel. [imperiously waving him to silence without looking at 
 him]. I never knew an attractive man yet that wasn't bound to 
 another. It seems to become a sort of habit. 
 
 Col. [standing back of her, but very near]. No, no, I am 
 not bound to another. I am free [waves right leg joyously]. Free 
 as air [waves left leg in triumph]. The airing was just what 
 they needed. 
 
 Nel. [facing him in astonishment]. Was — what — what^ — 
 needed? 
 
IO A BOX OF POWDERS. 
 
 Col. [approaching her gallantly and bowing, his hand over 
 his heart].' Permit me to renew my protestations of undying 
 affection. Hear me swear! 
 
 Nel. Oh, heavens ! don't ! It reminds me of my first hus- 
 band. 
 
 Col. Ah ! Nelly ! Nelly ! You know how I love you. 
 
 Nel. Yes, I know you love me, but have you carefully 
 weighed the responsibilities you would assume in taking me for 
 your wife? I love society, balls, theatres, races, and 
 
 Col. But, Nelly. [Aside.] The change of boots was useless 
 — the powders still are working! [Aloud.] I will love anything 
 you love. We will go to the theatre every day and the races 
 every night— no, on the contrary — [aside] those cursed powders! 
 
 Nel. I am passionately fond of new toilets, jewelry, old 
 lace; I am a coquette 
 
 Col. [suffering]. Heavens ! again ! [Wiggles feet.] 
 
 Nel. Ah, that word startles you ! 
 
 Col. Startled me? I assure you I leaped with joy. If there 
 is anything I adore, it is a coquette ; it is my ideal. [Aside.] Will 
 this torture never cease? [Paces nervously up and down the 
 room.] 
 
 Nel. And, Colonel — [Looks around after him.] Ah! there 
 you are. You know that the theatre, toilets, jewelry, and all that, 
 are very dear, very dear. 
 
 Col. I am rich. We will ruin ourselves, if necessary. 
 [Aside.] Since I can not get away, I must devise some plan to 
 get her out of the room. [Looks about and sniffs suspiciously.] 
 
 Nel. What are you looking for? 
 
 Col. I may be mistaken, but have you a fire anywhere in the 
 house ? 
 
 Nel. Yes, I think there is one in my room. 
 Col. Do you not detect an odor of smoke ? Permit me to go 
 and see if everything is all right — 
 
 (12) 
 
A BOX OF POWDERS. ji 
 
 Nel. No, no — everything is topsy-turvy there. I will go 
 myself. [She goes into her room. The Colonel stoops behind 
 sofa. Nelly returns immediately.} 
 
 Col. Foiled ! But I must pull them off. 
 
 Nel. You have been deceived, Colonel. Mathilda has put 
 my fire out. 
 
 Col. Are you sure ? 
 
 Nel. Certainly, the fire is completely extinguished. 
 
 Col. Was that the only fire in the house? [Aside.] Why 
 didn't I remove the powders when I took off the other boots ? 
 
 Nel. There may be one in the kitchen, but I think not. 
 
 Col. I do not wish to startle you, but I should not be sur- 
 prised if the smoke came from there. Do you not smell it? 
 
 Nel. No. ; 
 
 Col. Well, I do, and to be on the safe side, I will go and 
 look. [Starts away, she detains him.] 
 
 Nel. You go to the kitchen? What are you thinking of? 
 To satisfy you I will go myself. [She goes out.'] 
 
 Col. [alone — stoops behind sofa] . Sacred bayonets ! those 
 powders stick like pitch, and burning pitch at that. Ouch ! Ah ! At 
 last, they are off ! [Stooping behind couch he evidently removes 
 boots and takes out powders and puts on boots again. Takes a 
 box of powders also from his pocket.] And now where shall I 
 put them? I have it; the window. [Goes to window.] Impossi- 
 ble! There is a man across the way watching the window 
 through a telescope. Someone is coming. Into my boot, you tor- 
 ment, — and this infernal box — into the other boot, you miserable 
 accomplice. [Nelly enters.] Just in time ! [Sets boots inside 
 curtains again.] 
 
 Nel. Really, my poor Colonel, fate: is against you to-day. 
 The fire has not been lighted vet. But you look pale. Are you 
 ill ? 
 
 Col. Mrs. Wemyss, I will tell you all. [Aside.] No, I dare 
 not. She will laugh at me. I will be jealous of the man with 
 the telescope. 
 
 (13) 
 
12 A BOX OF POWDERS. 
 
 Nel. Well? 
 
 Col. Since you insist, I will tell you, I am jealous, yes, 
 jealous, for I love you with all the passion of an ardent heart; 
 and when I think of others who surround you, flatter you, and 
 lovingly gaze on you, as that young puppy with the telescope is 
 doing at this moment, I 
 
 Nel. What, you have seen him ? 
 
 Col. Have I seen him? Oh, woman, woman, we lay bare 
 our hearts to you only to be asked if we have seen him. [Aside.] 
 I have not the slightest idea what I am saying, but I must say 
 something. 
 
 Nel. Your reproach is unjust. You will apologize when 
 you learn to what extremities I have been reduced to rid myself 
 of that obnoxious person. For eight days have I arrayed a chair 
 in a dressing-gown, [brings chair and dummy from adjoining 
 room] hoping that he would take it for my husband. But, alas! 
 I did not count on his telescope. 
 pi'Cojl. He has discovered the trick?, , .., s 
 
 Nel. Yes, this morning. And now you owe. me reparation. 
 You must put on the dressing-gown, and, tenderly. leaning on my 
 shoulder, you must come to the window with me.. . Then you 
 will be punished and I be revenged at the same time. Will you 
 dojt?;, .-;-_, . i . , , 
 
 . Cql. Will I do it? My head reclining on your shoulder—- 
 [rushes into garments]. . . . 
 
 : Nel. [up stage at window]. Now, my gallant astronomer 
 of the wonderful telescope, we will test the boasted power of 
 your glasses. [Goes toward window and sees the Colonel's boots 
 projecting from underneath curtain.] Ah! too late, the wretch 
 has carried out his threat. What shall I do? If the Colonel 
 springs upon him he may be killed. I must gain time' -[turns- 
 toward Colonel] . Oh, Colonel, you look perfect in that dress- 
 ing-gown, so handsome you quite overcome me. I feel faint. 
 Would you mind going into the other room to get me a glass, of 
 crater? Take your time. I wish to recover my self-possession. 
 
 (14) 
 
A BOX OF POWDERS. 13 
 
 Col. [aside], I believe she loves me after all. [Turns 
 toward her.] By all means a glass of water, and I would it were 
 nectar, my dearest Mrs. Wemyss, my irresistible Nelly. [Bozvs 
 and exits.] - . 
 
 Nel. Thank heaven, that danger is past. Now, I will give 
 the villain one last chance to escape. [Addressing the boots.] 
 If you are fully alive to the danger of your situation, you will 
 escape at once. Go! [Opens the door.] He does not stir. [The 
 Colonel knocks at the other door.] You hear, sir, my husband 
 is coming. For the love of heaven go before he enters. [The 
 Colonel knocks again.] One moment, Colonel. You hear that, 
 sir? He is a colonel! Now, for the last time, will you go? No? 
 Then your blood be upon your own head. [Opens the door.'] 
 Enter, Colonel, and avenge the honor of your wife. 
 
 Col. [enters carrying glass of water]. What? 
 
 Nel. A man has dared to enter my window! 
 
 Col. Where is the wretch? 
 
 Nel. Hiding behind the curtains! Look! you can see his 
 feet ! 
 
 Col. [aside]. Caesar's ghost! She means my boots! 
 [Aloud.] Nelly, I beg of you to retire to your chamber. These 
 scenes of violence and bloodshed are unfit for the eyes of your 
 sex. 
 
 Nel. Colonel, let me remain; I am brave, and if y<v/ are 
 wounded — ■ 
 
 Col. If you love me, I entreat you to retire from thfs room 
 for but a single moment. [Drinks water himself.] 
 
 Nel. I obey, but be merciful. Colonel, promise me y#a will 
 avoid bloodshed. 
 
 Col. I solemnly swear it! 
 
 [Nelly goes out of room.] 
 
 Col. [goes to curtains and seises boots; the box of powders 
 falls unobserved by him to floor]. Now, you wretch, I could 
 kill you like a dog, but I prefer to send you where }na came 
 from. [Takes off military boots and puts on riding boot'/.] Un* 
 
 (IS) 
 
I 4 A BOX OF POWDERS. 
 
 der my feet, you scoundrel, and beg for mercy ! [Nelly gives 
 smothered shriek from other room as if listening to struggle.] 
 What, you dare to resist, — take that — and that. And now [opens 
 the window and throws boots out] out of the window, coward, 
 villain, thief— 
 
 Nel. [opens door and screams']. You have killed him! 
 
 Col. [barring view of window]. Madam, you are avenged! 
 
 Nel. Take the hand of the woman you have rescued, and 
 I shall have a husband to be proud of. [Stoops and picks up box 
 of powders.] But what is this? 
 
 Col. [aside] . Those diabolical powders ! 
 
 Nel. The unfortunate wretch must have dropped it in the 
 struggle. [Opens box.] Why, it is a box of powders ! 
 
 Col. [innocently]. Gunpowder? 
 
 Nel. No, just ordinary powders. 
 
 Col. Are they hot to the touch? 
 
 Nel. No, why do you ask? 
 
 Col. Merely curiosity. After we are married I may tell you 
 a story about them. [Kisses her hand.] 
 
 Nel. My hero! [He embraces her."] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 <if!\ 
 
A HUSBAND IN CLOVER 
 
 H. C. Merivale. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Mr. Horace Witherspoon. 
 Mrs. Lydia Witherspoon. 
 
 SCENE: Breakfast parlor handsomely furnished. Fire- 
 place and grate with lighted fire, L. U. E. ; breakfast table, hand- 
 somely appointed, L. ; lady's easy-chair and footstool, up L. ; 
 couch, up C, with foot toward the audience; small round table, 
 R. ; easy-chair and footstool L. of it ; desk with drawer against 
 flat, R. ; door, R. I. E. ; chairs ; pictures ; clock. 
 
 [Horace, dressed in morning-jacket and slippers, discovered 
 in easy-chair, R., reading newspaper.] 
 
 Horace. Eight o'clock ! This quiet life will be the death of 
 me, and it's all Bunbury's fault [folds newspaper and puts it aside 
 as he talks] . A few months ago I told him about Lydia. I dwelt 
 upon her eyelashes, her angelic disposition. "Go in and win, old 
 boy," said he. I went in and won ! [Sighs dolefully.] Ho, hum ! 
 When you are married where are you? Why, there you are! 
 Oh, this quiet life will be the death of me! There's about as 
 much variety in it as there is in a bread-crumb. Oh, for a row. 
 My kingdom for a row! [Rises, goes to desk, unlocks drawer 
 and gets out manuscript book which he begins to examine.] Sole 
 relic of my happy bachelor days, journal of my life, record of my 
 impressions. [Sits at desk and takes up pen.] This morning's 
 
 3 play— 17 book 
 
4 A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 
 
 impression [dips pen in ink and writes] : "Lydia vegetates as 
 usual. She cannot be said to live. She has no temper, no orig- 
 inality, she's as mild as a lamb without mint-sauce. I have 
 married a mint-sauceless lamb." [Looks up proudly, poising pen 
 in air.] "Mint-sauceless lamb" exactly expresses it, [tragically] 
 and I with a perfect passion for mint-sauce ! [Begins to turn over 
 leaves of book.] Ah, how many lovely ladies are buried in these 
 pages ! Buried, yet alive, divinely alive ! Alive and perfectly in- 
 dexed ! [Reads with enthusiasm.] "Maria Johnson — emaciated, 
 wistful, consumptive and interesting style." [Comments, looking 
 up.] Lydia's health is so continuous and commonplace. Ho, 
 hum! [Reads.] "Zenobia Masters — fashionable and masculine 
 style, sparkling and horsey." [Comments.] Lydia wouldn't 
 sparkle if you set a match to her. Ho, hum ! This quiet life will 
 be the death of me! [Reads.] "Adele Jones — passionate, pep- 
 pery, jealous style — savage as a tigress." [Comments.] What 
 rapture must it be to have a savage tigress for a wife ! [Reads.] 
 "Caroline Bunbury, poetic and sentimental style, languorous, 
 gushing and imaginative!" [Comments.] Lydia has no style at 
 all. Ha! Another entry, an inspiration! [Writes; reading his 
 entries aloud.] "My life is like a 'jke without a ripple, a sun 
 without a spot, a bed without a crease." [Looks up, listens, 
 hastily locks book in desk-drazver and comes down stage.] The 
 rustle of my wife's dress on the stairs, my wife inside the rustle. 
 Ho, hum ! [Imitates her.] "Ready for breakfast, Horry, my 
 love ?" What an existence ! "Isn't Horry going to give his Lydia 
 a kiss ?" Insufferable ! Ho, hum ! [Despairingly throws himself 
 into easy-chair, exaggerated sprawling attitude.] 
 
 [Enter Lydia, from door, R. She goes behind table round to L. 
 .Horace, leaning fondly over his chair.] 
 
 Lydia. Ready for breakfast, my love? 
 Hor. [aside], What did I say? 
 
 Lyd. [kneeling by his side, affectionately]. What a dear old 
 boy it is ! Isn't Horry going to give his Lydia a kiss ? 
 Hor. [aside], I knew it. 
 
 08) 
 
A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 5 
 
 Lyd. No ! Then his Lydia will give her Horry one. [Kisses 
 him. She then sits on stool at his feet in front of him, her back to 
 audience.] I've got a treat for you this morning if you're a good 
 boy. I'm going to wait on you myself. 
 
 Hor. Why? Where's the maid? 
 
 Lyd. I've given her leave for the day ; she's gone to see her 
 aunt at Aldershott. 
 
 Hor. I'd like to get shot for a change. 
 
 Lyd. Does that mean that you're afraid I shan't make you 
 comfortable? Don't. be alarmed! Mary got everything ready 
 before she started. You've got a good fire, you see. 
 
 Hor. [in a .melancholy tone]. I always have. 
 
 Lyd. And I hope your breakfast will be to your taste. 
 
 Hor., [still more melancholy]. It always is. 
 
 Lyd. There's a perfect mutton-chop for you — just as you 
 like it. [Rises.] It must be about ready. [Crosses to tire-place, 
 where the chop is on the, hob, covered in dish.] 
 
 ■ Hor. [in despair]. The old, old story! For three mdnths 
 I have been doing nothing else but eat mutton-chops'. If I don't 
 escape from this life of torture. [Rises, and crosses to'K. chair 
 at, breakfast table, yawning as he goes.~\ 
 
 . Lyd. Here it is, by the fire; and you never saw it, you blind 
 old darling! [Places it before him, removing cover.] Look— 
 under-done, just to the right turn ! 
 : , j.Hor. Under-done — I should think it was! [Aside.] I'll 
 
 try and get up a row 
 
 h Lyd. Isn't that as you like it? [Pouring out tea, etc.] 
 
 Hor... What! — raw? Do you take me for a "boating under- 
 graduate or a tiger from the Zoological Gardens? [Makes fero- 
 cious, argumentative gestures at her, his knife in one hand, his 
 fork, in .the other.] , , ■ . -• 
 
 . Lyd. Well, never mind, darling — I'll put it on the fire again, 
 and watch it myself [mes] while you go and dress ! 
 
 Hor. [sulkily]. I suppose I must dress? [Aside.] What 
 an existence! 
 
 ■ ht') ln.i .a:. :-. ... , (I9) 
 
6 A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 
 
 Lyd. If my boy doesn't dress, and pretty quickly, he'll be 
 late for his office. 
 
 Hor. As if anybody ever could be late for my office. They 
 say time was made for slaves — and government clerks are slaves. 
 There's no earthly use in my being at my office before ten. How- 
 ever, I may as well go and dress. [Rises and crosses to R.] 
 Fancy having to dress every morning all the rest of my life ! 
 
 Lyd. [L. C.]. That's right, darling; the chop shall be all 
 right, and I'll keep your tea warm for you. Now, don't be lazy, 
 but go along, and we'll have the coziest of tete-a-tete breakfasts ! 
 
 Hor. [aside]. Oh! I must escape from this life of torture. 
 [Exit Horace, door R.] 
 
 Lyd. [C.]. He's crosser than ever, this morning. Take care, 
 take care, Master Horace, my stock of patience is very nearly at 
 an end. [Takes key from pocket and unlocks drazver in desk.] 
 No secrets between husband and wife; I'll study the latest efforts 
 of your literary genius. [Produces his book and sits on chair, L. 
 of table, R., reading.'] "Damn Bunbury." [Stops suddenly as if 
 shocked, looks round.] Oh! [Reads.] "Lydia doesn't live, she 
 vegetates." Do I? [Reads.] "Sometimes I think she is like a 
 stuffed woman" — a stuffed woman ! [Reads.] "My life is like 
 a lake without a ripple, a sun without a spot, a bed without a 
 crease ; I feel like a bread-crumb." [Shuts book with a bang; 
 rises and locks it in drawer — speaks as she does so.] Well, he 
 shall see, he shall see. [As she crosses to table.] You want sen- 
 timent — temper — passion — jealousy, do you? You shall have it, 
 oh, you shall have it. Your chop not cooked enough, isn't it ; I'll 
 cook it for you. [Throws it on tire.] Ripples on your lake, spots 
 on your sun, creases on your bed, you shall have enough of them. 
 And if I am a stuffed woman, you shall see how the stuffing tastes. 
 Here he comes. [Sits L.] 
 
 [Enter Horace, door R., dressed in morning-dress.] 
 
 Hor. [aside, R.]. My shirt was clean, aired, and laid out; 
 there were buttons on both my wristbands ; my boots were blacked, 
 and my hot water was hot. What an existence! Now I begin 
 
 (20) 
 
A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 7 
 
 to understand what drives men to suicide. [Aloud, sniffing.'] 
 What an odd smell of burning. [Goes to table, L.] Now, 
 Lydia, as to that chop. 
 
 Lyd. [rises, takes chop from fire with tongs']. Here, dear 
 [extending it toward him]. 
 
 Hor. [amazed] . Eh ! What's the joke ? 
 
 Lyd. [at top of table]. There's no joke; I've cooked it a 
 little more ; that's all. [Holding it under his nose, then dropping 
 it on plate before him.] 
 
 Hor. You've cooked it a great deal more. I'm disgusted. 
 I don't want any breakfast. Why, it's a cinder ! 
 
 Lyd. [comes down, L., holding tongs in hand and assuming 
 sentimental tone and manner] . Cinder ! no doubt ! like the ashes 
 of a wasted life! [Crosses to C, tongs in hand.] For what is 
 life but a fire that burns out? [Aside.] Poetic and sentimental 
 style — Caroline Bunbury ! 
 
 Hor. [turning round on chair in amazement.] What in the 
 name of — ? 
 
 Lyd. [speaking in assumed tone as before], Horace, do you 
 believe in the immortality of the soul? 
 
 Hor. Of course! Put down the tongs. 
 
 Lyd. [dreamily, R. C.]. Oh! for the existence of a soul — 
 bodiless, infinite ! To be a passing cloud ! a puff of smoke ! To 
 have wings like a swallow ! 
 
 Hor. [rising]. What are you talking about? 
 
 Lyd. [still in her assumed tone]. To be above all earthly 
 needs. No butchers ! no bakers ! To be reckless of the price of 
 meat ! Indifferent to the exhaustion of coal. To be a soul, in 
 short, with wings, wings, wings ! [Extends arms in air, and goes 
 R. and back to C] 
 
 Hor. [aside]. The "mint-sauceless lamb" is sprouting wings 
 and wants to fly ! Well, anything for a change. 
 
 Lyd. [C, in* same tone]. Horace, what do you call the bird 
 with wings of heavenly blue? 
 
 Hor. Which?— a blue bottle? 
 
 (21) 
 
8 A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 
 
 Lyd. [contemptuously']. Man! I mean yon little flutterer, 
 that haunts the willows by the murmuring stream, that floats — 
 floats — floats ! 
 
 Hor. [aside']. Now, the "mint-sauceless lamb" wants to 
 float. Well, I'm beginning to want an egg. [Sits at table and 
 begins to break an egg.] 
 
 Lyd. I'm glad you don't want any breakfast. Eating is so 
 unsentimental. Let me sit at your feet and rest my head upon 
 your bosom [does so]. Darling, what did you say was the name 
 of those birds? 
 
 Hor. Oh, damn those birds ! Look here, Lydia, it's too 
 early in the morning for bills and coos. 
 
 Lyd. [_aside, starting away from him]. Tired of the senti- 
 mental and poetic, eh? Then here goes for the consumptive and 
 interesting. [Aloud.] Oh, this pain — this pain! [Places hand to 
 right side, and sinks on ground at end of couch, so that her head 
 rests on it.] 
 
 Hor. [concerned]. Are you in pain? 
 
 Lyd. No, the pain's in me. Ah, here, in my heart! [Her 
 hand on her right side.] 
 
 Hor. No, no ; excuse me. Anatomically speaking, that's 
 your liver. 
 
 Lyd. My liver ? How vulgar ! but no doubt you are a better 
 judge of the liver than of the heart. Ah!— I've broken some- 
 thing, I know — something internal. 
 
 Hor. See a doctor. 
 
 Lyd. [sadly] . A doctor. It's too late for that ; yesterday he 
 might have been in time, but now — [rises languidly, tvhile Horace 
 rises and sits on end of couch, as she goes to her own drawer in 
 desk, and produces an account-book]. But don't be uneasy, Hor- 
 ace, I have left my accounts in excellent order. Look at them. 
 [Extends book toward him.] 
 
 Hor. I don't want to look at them. 
 
 Lyd. [stamping foot] . I wish you to look at them — it is my 
 last dying request. 
 
 (22) 
 
A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. g 
 
 Hor. Oh, very well. [Takes book; aside, touching his fore- 
 head.] I begin to suspect where the something broken is. Let's 
 see. [Opens book and reads.] "Eighteenth, radishes, ten cents; 
 Twentieth, spring chickens, one dollar and thirteen cents ; Twen- 
 ty-first, a horse!" A horse? What, to eat? 
 
 Lyd. No, to ride. A capital bargain ; go on. [ Walking aside 
 with a swagger. ] Zenobia Masters — masculine style ! 
 
 Hor. "Twenty-third, pepper; Twenty- fourth, a saddle!" 
 What — of mutton ? 
 
 Lyd. No, leather. 
 
 Hor. Yes, but our butcher calls it mutton. 
 
 Lyd. Nonsense? Go on — a saddle — 
 
 Hor. "And harness !" What do you want with saddle and 
 harness ? 
 
 Lyd. For the horse, of course. You don't suppose I ride 
 barebacked? 
 
 Hor. [enraged — rises, and crosses, R.]. I've had enough of 
 this. I don't choose you to ride at all — barebacked or otherwise. 
 I can't afford it. 
 
 Lyd. [C.]. What a mean huckster is man ! But never mind 
 that. [Assuming a fast manner.] I'll afford it for you. [Sits 
 on corner of table as if on horseback.] On, there, Flossie. Don't 
 be afraid of the cops. They can't overtake us. And even if we 
 run over a baby or two, to say nothing of dogs, or lazy govern- 
 ment qlerks on their way to work — my old man will have to pay 
 the fine if the cops pull us in. On, there, girl ! [Turns to Horace, 
 slapping her knee as she addresses him.] .Shan't I look a cheese 
 -in the park, my pippin ? 
 
 Hor. [R., horrified]. Pippin! cheese! This is intolerable! 
 I must have changed my wife in the cloak-room last night! But 
 I'll command her to give up that horse. Listen, Lydia. You 
 have sworn to obey me ! 
 
 Lyd. When ? 
 
 Hor. At the hymeneal altar, of course. 
 
 (23) 
 
10 A HUSBAND IN CLOVER 
 
 Lyd. At the fiddlesticks ! I never swore to obey you in my 
 life. 
 
 Hor. Not to — "love, honor and obey?" 
 
 Lyd. Not I! The clergyman did mention something of the 
 kind, but my wreath was scratching me at the time, and I wasn't 
 attending. Obedience, indeed! Other women may obey, I shan't. 
 
 Hor. I tell you that you owe me obedience, and you owe 
 me honor! 
 
 Lyd. Very well. Then I'll do as you do when you owe 
 anything. 
 
 Hor. What's that? 
 
 Lyd. Shan't pay it ! 
 
 Hor. Then I shall exercise the rights of a husband, and 
 compel you. Where's your horse? 
 
 Lyd. Where should he be? In his stable, to be sure. 
 
 Hor. I shall dispose of him to the nearest cabman. 
 
 Lyd. You will ? 
 
 Hor. I will! 
 
 Lyd. Quite done — have you? [Horace nods — she snaps 
 her fingers.] There, that's my answer. I expect my horse here 
 directly. 
 
 Hor. I am glad of it ; for I shall tell him my mind. 
 
 Lyd. That won't take long! 
 
 Hor. [enraged] . You shan't ride — you'll ruin us both ! 
 
 Lyd. I shan't! I've got a capital seat. 
 
 Hor. Yes ; but you can't keep it. 
 
 Lyd. Bah ! 
 
 Hor. Booh! Look here — I can't afford a horse; and I 
 zvon't! 
 
 Lyd. How mean ! Your country pays you twelve hundred 
 dollars a year! 
 
 Hor. How far do you think we can go on' that? 
 Lyd. I don't want to go any further than the park. Then, 
 look at your private means. 
 
 (24) 
 
A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. II 
 
 Hor. Yes; exceedingly mean, and peculiarly private; so 
 private, that nobody knows anything of them ! 
 
 Lyd. Then, think of mamma's allowance to me. 
 
 Hor. Generous mamma! Three hundred dollars a year — 
 unpaid! 
 
 Lyd. And you talk of not having money! It's lucky for 
 you mamma's not here! 
 
 Hor. Well, it is — unusually lucky ! 
 
 Lyd. Don't abuse my mother. 
 
 Hor. I won't. 
 
 Lyd. And pay for my horse. [Aside.] Wonder how he 
 likes the masculine style now? 
 
 Hor. I shan't! Money or no money, I've none for you. 
 [Rises to R. C] 
 
 Lyd. [with a scream, advancing to L. C] . Ah ! he acknowl- 
 edges it ! 
 
 Hor. Acknowledges what? 
 
 Lyd. You've got some for somebody else. Horace, you're 
 in love with another woman ! . [Aside.] Adela Jones — passionate 
 and jealous style. 
 
 Hor. Stuff and nonsense, one is quite enough. 
 
 Lyd. You are ! you are ! a little bird told me that you were 
 deceiving me. 
 
 Hor. Heavens ! That blue bottle-bird again ? I'm going to 
 my office. [Crosses toward door R.] 
 
 Lyd. [running up to door, R., placing her back to it]. Not 
 yet. You shall hear me through. [Horace in despair crosses to 
 chair at breakfast-table, and drops into it — following him up, and 
 in a tone of great severity.'] You came home late last night, after 
 leaving me at Mrs. Glossop's. Where did you go? 
 
 Hor. [in chair, L.]. I went to the club. 
 
 Lyd. Easy to say that. We know what that means. What 
 things men are ! 
 
 Hor. I tell you I went to the club! I played a couple of 
 games at billiards with Bunbury. 
 
 (25) 
 
I2 A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 
 
 Lyd. Show me your purse. 
 
 Hor. What for? 
 
 Lyd. Show me your purse, and be quick about it. 
 
 Hor. Very well — there ! 
 
 Lyd. There were three dollars and seventy-five cents in it 
 last night. [Examines it.] Now — there are — only three dollars. 
 [With great solemnity.] What have you done with the seventy- 
 five cents? 
 
 Hor. Well— I— 
 
 Lyd. Don't descend to prevarication, and think before you 
 speak. 
 
 Hor. I tell you I played two games. 
 
 Lyd. And lost, of course. Well, two games, forty cents ! 
 Isn't that right ? What then ? 
 
 Hor. Then — 
 
 Lyd. [sharply']. Make haste! 
 
 Hor. Well — twenty-five cents for a brandy-and-soda. 
 
 Lyd. No doubt ; I know your partiality for intoxicating 
 drinks. 
 
 Hor. [indignantly]. Brandy and soda is not an intoxicating 
 drink, woman. 
 
 Lyd. Well ?— then— 
 
 Hor. Then — then — I — let me see. [Lydia stamps her foot 
 impatiently.] Then I gave five cents to a beggar as I left the 
 club. 
 
 Lyd. Five cents to a beggar, and grudges his own wife a 
 horse ! What things men are! 
 
 Hor. Well— 
 
 Lyd. [vehemently]. There is still five cents to account for. 
 What did you do with that? 
 
 Hor. Hang me if I remember.' 
 
 Lyd. You don't remember ? Horace ! you gave it to the 
 woman you love ! [Goes R.] 
 
 Hor. [rises]. Lydia. [Approaches her.] 
 
 (a6) 
 
A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 1 3 
 
 Lyd. Don't come near me, vile betrayer ! Is the creature 
 pretty ? 
 
 Hor. [goes up to fire']. There is no creature! 
 
 Lyd. And my life is given to this man ! What a piece of 
 work is man, as Hamlet says. He marries you against your will — 
 
 Hor. [suddenly approaching her, L. C.]. Come, I say — 
 
 Lyd. Don't interrupt me ; and ten months afterward he 
 wastes all the wealth which a liberal country pours into his lap, in 
 quarterly payments, in diamonds which shine — who knows where 
 — on satins which adorn — who knows whom? While to the wife 
 who sits at home to mend his shirts, and guard his honor — [goes 
 R., then turns quickly on him]. Horace, what have you done 
 with that five cents? 
 
 Hor. This is unendurable. [Crosses to L. corner, suddenly 
 making a bolt for door, R.] Good-morning! 
 
 Lyd. [rushes up behind table to R., and confronts him]. You 
 are going to see Aurelia! [Falls on her knees, clasping his 
 hands.] Do you love Aurelia well? 
 
 Hor. [walking backward to L. C, as Lydia follows still on 
 her knees]. I don't know anybody of the name. 
 
 Lyd. [still on her knees, imploringly]. What has she done 
 to make you worship her so? Tell me, tell me ! That I may turn 
 her own arms against her — that I may learn from my rival how 
 to win you back again. Never go to her any more, and I will 
 forgive you the past, and never ask her for that five cents ! Send 
 back her letters. Where are her letters ? [Puts her hands into 
 his breast coat pocket, takes one out, and crosses to L. corner.] 
 Ha, here is one! 
 
 Hor. [goes up to couch, and sits]. Read it, for goodness' 
 sake, and satisfy yourself. 
 
 Lyd. I will. [Opens letter and reads.] "Be a good fellow, 
 and lend me that blue frock coat of yours. — Yours, Roderick." 
 
 Hor. There, you see! 
 
 Lyd. [L.]. Roderick! nobody is called such a name now. 
 
 t27) 
 
I 4 A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 
 
 I see it all! she writes to you under an alias, to guard against 
 accidents, and disarm suspicion. 
 
 Hor. I assure you, Roderick is a fellow in our office. How 
 can he be a woman, and want a blue frock coat ? 
 
 Lyd. She means to follow you in the disguise of a man. 
 Perhaps she will try to enter this house as a butler! Oh, the 
 craft of that woman! [Sits, crying, R.] 
 
 Hor. [crosses to. her]. Now, look here, Lydia, as a gentle- 
 man, and a government clerk — I give you my word of honor — 
 [Lydia sobbing hysterically.] I repeat I give you my sacred 
 word. [Lydia crying.] Lydia — I — oh! confound it. [Crosses 
 in a passion to his chair at table, L.] If there is one thing I hate 
 more than another, it is a jealous woman! 
 
 Lydia [aside] . Good ! The stuffed woman may conquer 
 after all. [Sobbing.] Who — oo — oo — ever would have thought 
 this co — <:o — could happen when I married you. 
 
 Hor. [L.] Who — oo — oo, indeed? I wish somebody had 
 told us. Your parents said you were an angel ; and they may be 
 right, for I never saw one, only if they are, the idea of that article 
 in which I have been brought up is singularly imaginative, that's 
 all. It strikes me that your parents let me in for it. 
 
 Lyd. [behind him]. You are thinking of and wishing for 
 Aurelia ? 
 
 Hor. [turning around on her]. I am, there! 
 
 Lyd. He confesses and glories in his shame. [Fiercely — as 
 she seises tongs from table.] And shall I leave him to this 
 woman? Never! [Brandishes tongs above her head.] 
 
 Hor. [rises precipitately to R.]. Come, I say, no tongs — 
 unless you allow me the poker. 
 
 Lyd. [taking L. corner, nourishing tongs]. Ha, ha! coward! 
 He's afraid to die. 
 
 Hor. [R., shouting]. Put down the fire-irons! 
 
 Lyd. [throwing them down, up C.]. Ah, I am rightly pun- 
 ished ! 
 
 Hor. [uneasily, going toward her]. What for? 
 
A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 1 5 
 
 Lyd. [mysteriously]. Hush. [Embracing him, R. C] 
 Good-bye, Horace. Let us part friends. Good-bye, forever ! Let 
 me look my last upon those dear eyes — that open brow — that 
 shapeless nose. You see, I smile. Farewell, farewell ! [Exits 
 romantically, door, R.] 
 
 Hor. [advances, C, looking after her]. Well, this life of 
 excitement will be the death of me. Oh, Bunbury, Bunbury ! was 
 it for this I married?* I, who hoped to find in marriage a life of 
 calm and blissful monotony — a tranquil existence, without storm 
 or ripple. 
 
 [Enter Lydia, her hair hanging down, carrying cup in hand.] 
 
 Lyd. [aside]. Impassioned and romantic style. [Advances, 
 C.] If I don't give you passion and romance enough to last you 
 the rest of your life ! [Aloud, in tragic tone.] All this must end ! 
 Grant me courage, heaven! Where is the teaspoon? [Goes to 
 chair, R. of table, L.] 
 
 Hor. [rushing forward, C.]. Lydia, what are you doing? 
 
 Lyd. [coolly]. Still here? I hoped you had gone to there. 
 
 Hor. [C.]. What is the meaning of all this? Tell me ! 
 
 Lyd. [at table]. Certainly! [Stirring the liquid with spoon.] 
 I am going to poison myself — I love another! 
 
 Hor. [bewildered]. Yes, of course — I'm another. 
 
 Lyd. [dreamily]. You're another! No, no, I loved him be- 
 fore I married you — before ever I met you. 
 
 Hor. And you never told me. 
 
 Lyd. I forgot. [Puts cup and spoon on table."] There are 
 so many things to think of when you get married. [Rises.] 
 
 Hor. His name? 
 
 Lyd. [as she crosses in front to R. corner], Alphonso! 
 
 Hor. What a name ! His profession ? 
 
 Lyd. A professor of ordnance! 
 
 Hor. Of what? 
 
 Lyd. Ordnance ! Cannon ! He's a billiard-marker. He was 
 young, beautiful, and I loved him. [Crosses over to L.] He is 
 gone — gone to America, to make a name and cannons; while I 
 
1 6 A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 
 
 am bound to another. At this moment, perhaps, he lies lost, is 
 dying in the boundless desert, in the grip of the hyena, or the 
 mountain ape! 
 
 Hor. [R.]. I sincerely hope he does, 
 
 Lyd. My place is by his side. [Goes toward Horace, now 
 up R., behind table.] Give me gold that I may follow him. What 
 shall I do for gold? Ah! my jewels will give me the means. 
 [Going R.] 
 
 Hor. [intercepting her]. My presents to you! 
 
 Lyd. You taunt me with your paltry gifts. There is no 
 reasoning with passion, no meum and teum in love. Do you mean 
 to let me poison myself? 
 
 Hor. Never! [Grasps her arm.] You might die on the 
 premises. 
 
 Lyd. Monster! You won't let me poison myself? Then I 
 shall die of imagination, for my imagination has certainly become 
 terribly inflamed through your cruelty. Oh, my head, my head ! 
 My cranium, my cranium ! My brain, my brain ! [Gasps and 
 staggers about, Horace dodging her and watching her uneasily.] 
 Before -I go — give me — give me — Aurelia's address. I wish only 
 this simple thing — so I may haunt her and you forever. Ah! 
 [Throws herself into a chair, stamps her feet violently, sobs and 
 goes into hysterics generally.] 
 
 Hor. Lydia, try and compose yourself, and I'll do anything 
 you like. Lydia, do you want something to eat? Do you want 
 something to breathe — to smell — to drink ? Lydia ! [Despairing- 
 ly throws up his hands, as she continues to moan, and crosses to 
 other side of room.] Good heavens ! This life of excitement will 
 be the death of me. Oh, Bunbury, Bunbury, was it for this sort 
 of an existence I married? Ha, she's quiet! She must have 
 fainted. Well, it's just as well until I recover my bewildered 
 senses. [Sits at table.] Ah. Lydia. if I could only lead the quiet 
 and happy life I used to with you before this cruel change ; if I 
 could only have you back again — dear "mint-sauceless lamb" as 
 you were, if I could only hear you say as you used— 
 
 Oo) 
 
A HUSBAND IN CLOVER. 17 
 
 [Lydia rises and comes round to his side quietly as at com' 
 mencement.i 
 
 Lyd. Ready for breakfast, my love? 
 
 Hor. Eh? [Starts in astonishment.] 
 
 Lyd. {kneels as at first]. What a dear old boy it is. Isn't 
 Horry going to give his Lydia a kiss? No? Then I shall give 
 you one. Why, you haven't had a morsel to eat, and it's so late. 
 [Rises and goes up to chiffonier, R., as Horace rises, and crosses 
 to L,., rubbing his eyes, bewildered.] Have a glass of sherry and 
 a biscuit before you start for your office. You've been asleep and 
 I could not bear to wake you, but never mind the loss of a little 
 time. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go up the river and have 
 a little dinner at Claremont. 
 
 Hor. By Jove, I've been dreaming the oddest dream ! 
 
 Lyd. Haven't you money enough? Get it from your drawer, 
 there, and if you haven't got your key, take mine. [Showing it — 
 goes to drawer and holds up the MS. laughingly.] 
 
 Hor. Phew! — your key — my drawer — the journal of my 
 life ! Caroline ! — Maria ! — Zenobia ! I have not been dreaming. 
 But I have deserved the nightmare you gave me just the same. 
 My darling, my dearest, what can I do to show my penitence? 
 
 Lyd. [picks up tongs and hands them to him]. Here are the 
 tongs. Guess. 
 
 Hor. [taking manuscript in tongs and advancing toward fire]. 
 Zenobia, Maria, Caroline, you may go to — [drops book in fire] 
 forever! [Turns, and extends arms toward Lydia.] Lydia! 
 
 Lyd. Horace! [Rushes into his arms; he embraces her 
 fondly.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 (3rt 
 
EARTHQUAKES PREFERRED. 
 
 Mrs. M. L. Rayne. 
 
 He wrote a hurried letter home 
 
 From California's strand : 
 "Dear Sister : I am much alarmed 
 
 O'er earthquakes in the land, 
 
 "And so I send you by express, 
 
 To save from coming harm, 
 My treasures rare, my precious boys, 
 
 To visit the old farm." 
 
 The maiden aunt rejoiced to greet 
 
 Dear Brother Henry's boys; 
 They wakened up the dull old farm 
 
 With much tumultuous noise. 
 
 They broke the fences up to ride 
 
 To "Boston" on the rails, 
 Used Auntie's chopping trays for boats, 
 
 And tore up sheets for sails. 
 
 "Dear Brother," wrote their Auntie then, 
 
 "Your treasures safely came, 
 I went to the express, and there 
 
 Receipted for the same. 
 
 "But now in order to preserve 
 
 My mental equipoise, 
 I'll take the earthquakes in exchange, 
 
 And send you back your boys." 
 
 (32) 
 
VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 
 
 W. R. Walkes. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS: Adolphus (devoted to his wife, Millicent, 
 but temporarily a villain). 
 Millicent (fondly attached to her husband, 
 Adolphus, although for time being his 
 victim). 
 
 SCENE : Millicent' s drawing-room. Necessary furniture : 
 two chairs, R. C. and L. C, on one of which are a cushion and an 
 antimacassar. Adolphus and Millicent are discovered in op- 
 posite corners of room studying their parts in a forthcoming 
 amateur melodrama. With play-books in hand, and with com- 
 plete unconcern in each other's doings, they walk up and down 
 room, or kneel upon floor, waving arms and muttering, in all the 
 agonies of study. 
 
 Adolphus [suddenly ceasing for a moment to grind his 
 teeth and mutter] . Darling ! Amateur theatricals are a lot of 
 work. 
 
 Millicent [rising from hearthrug on which she has been 
 supplicating]. Yes, my love. I'm afraid I've strained my 
 memory trying to learn these lines. What do they prescribe for 
 a strained memory, Dolly? 
 
 Adol. A dose of forgettery, I should imagine. Will my sweet- 
 est be so very kind as to hear me my "exit speech" in the first act? 
 [Points to place in play-book, which he holds in his hand.] 
 
 3 play — 33 book 
 
4 VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 
 
 Mill. Of course, dear. 
 
 Adol. Let me see, now. "Smiles sardonically." {Contorts 
 features into feeble grin.'] Is that all right? 
 
 Mill, [admiringly]. Oh, it's blood-curdling! [Shudders.] 
 Boo! 
 
 Adol. [complacently]. Yes, I thought it would be. I prac- 
 tised it before the glass this morning while shaving. . You re- 
 member my shouts for sticking-plaster ! [His face is ornamented 
 with black patches.] But there, we must make some sacrifice in the 
 cause of Art, musn't we, darling? 
 
 Mill, [enthusiastically]. Dolly, you're a hero. Ornamented 
 with the scars of battle ! 
 
 Adol. [with mild deprecation]. No, my love, merely an 
 enthusiast. However, to resume ! "Walks to door with an air 
 of determination." [Moz/es to door in manner suggestive of Sir 
 Henry, and wags his head, also imitativcly.] How's that, dear? 
 I thought that just a slight suggestion of a great actor — eh, my 
 love, always goes. Eh? 
 
 Mill, [admiringly]. Splendid! Only if your knees crack 
 much louder the audience might hear them. 
 
 Adol. I then fold my arms. [Docs so.] I put that in. 1 
 thought it such a capital idea for the villain to fold his arms. 
 
 Mill, [enthusiastically]. Excellent, and so original, too! 
 
 Adol. [clears his throat]. Hum! hum! [Speaks in feeble, 
 monotonous manner suggestive of very mildest of amateur vill- 
 ains.] "Foiled, foiled for the moment, and by a stripling! But 
 the time will come when I will drink thy heart's blood drop by 
 drop, and sear thy puling, love-sick countenance with the hot 
 iron of my boiling vengeance. Remember, tremble and beware ! 
 Farewell! no, I will not say farewell, but an revoirT [Goes out.] 
 
 [Millicent, who during foregoing has expressed strong 
 emotion, sinks into chair, weeping.] 
 
 Adol. [re-enters and rushes to her]. Milly, my own little 
 kitten ! What's the matter ? 
 
 Mill. You — you frightened mt. Dolly, you were so real. 
 
 (34) 
 
VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 5 
 
 Oh, Dolly, dear! you couldn't be as wicked as that, could you, 
 darling, even if you tried? [Edges away from him.] 
 
 Adol. Wicked! I? [Reproachfully.] My darling! Do I 
 not carry round the plate at church every Sunday? 
 
 Mill. Of course you do. Then, Dolly, you are a genius*! 
 
 Adol. [with slight deprecation]. No, my love, no! 
 
 Mil. Ah, you can't deceive me, and, although this will be 
 your first appearance on any stage, I am convinced that ...you are 
 a born actor — and I must kiss you. [Does so,] And now, if my 
 popsey doesn't very much mind the trouble, I should so like to 
 run through my soliloquy in the snowstorm. 
 
 Adol. Delighted! [Turns to place.] 
 
 Mill. Let me see ! Ah, yes. "Steals from the cottage with 
 her infant in her arms." Oh, I want an infant and a shawl. Ah! 
 this will do ! [Seises sofa cushion and clasps it in arms.] and this ! 
 [Takes antimacassar from chair and places it on shoulders, then 
 goes out by door and instantly re-enters; speaks in tame, unin- 
 telligent monotone.] "What a cruel pitiless night ! How cold the 
 snow-flakes fall upon my cheeks ! How loud the tempest roars ! 
 How bitter blows the icy blast that chills my very bones !" How's 
 that? 
 
 Adol. [blozving his nose zuith emotion] . My darling, it is 
 too much ; I can't stand it. The bare idea of my precious little 
 wifey exposed to a downpour, and without even an umbrella, un- 
 mans me. Promise me, dearest, that if ever you are caught in 
 the rain when out shopping, you will always take a cab. 
 
 Mill, [very much touched]. But, dear, they don't allow a 
 cab in the shops. 'Twould take up too much room. Let me see, 
 where was I? [Picks up cushion; and Adolphus hands her her 
 book which she had dropped; she consults it.'] Oh, yes! 
 "Through the cruel machinations of a heartless scoundrel." Oh, 
 darling ! forgive me for referring to you in that way ! You know 
 I don't mean it. 
 
 Adol. [ruefully']. Well, I suppose it can't be helped, it's in 
 the part. 
 
 Mill, [sighs]. Ah! but it goes to my heart to say it 
 
 (35) 
 
6 VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 
 
 [Monotoning.] "Through the cruel machinations of a heartless 
 scoundrel" — [breaking off suddenly]. Darling old scoundrel! 
 [Kisses him.] "I am thrust forth into the bitter blast, helpless, 
 hopeless, homeless !" [Repeats the sentence, feeling for her 
 words.] "Helpless, hopeless, homeless." 
 
 Adol. [prompting]. "Staggers." 
 
 Mill. Ah, yes ! "Staggers." [Sways to and fro, awkward- 
 ly.] "My limbs are weary, I can no farther go. A strange faint- 
 ness is creeping over me ; the light grows dim. Help, help, I die." 
 [Sits down quietly on floor, and settles herself comfortably on 
 cushion, which she has been using as property baby.] 
 
 Adol. [affected]. It is too, too heartrending: but, oh! what 
 a superb impersonation! [With conviction.] There's no doubt 
 about it, Milly, you are a heaven-born actress. 
 
 Mill, [very pleased]. Do you really think so? 
 
 Adol. [with decision]. I am quite, quite certain. 
 
 Mill. You sweet old thing! [Holds out her arms, and he 
 sits by her side on floor; thoughtfully.] But what a strange 
 coincidence ! 
 
 Adol. What, darling? 
 
 Mill. That you and I who met, fell in love, and married in 
 quite the ordinary way, should both turn out to be great actors. 
 
 Adol. Ah, yes ; most remarkable ! 
 
 Mill. I suppose, Dolly, that if we were to go upon the stage 
 we should at once leap to the very front rank of the profession. 
 
 Adol. [with complete conviction]. Not a doubt of it, my 
 love, and land on the pinnacle of fame. 
 
 Mill. What's the pinnacle made of, Dolly? I hope it 
 doesn't hurt to land there. 
 
 Adol. And now -for our great scene together in the third 
 act. We haven't tried it yet. [They rise.] 
 
 Mill. Oh, yes ; that will be awfully jolly. 
 
 Adol. You remember, darling, that you are the heiress to 
 vast estates — a fact known only to myself — and that I would 
 make you mine. But, unfortunately, you already have a husband 
 
 (36) 
 
VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 7 
 
 — that ass, Septimus Jones ; he'll be awful in the part — so I, who 
 am absolutely unscrupulous, stabbed him to the heart, and left 
 him for dead in the last act, and am now persecuting you with my 
 odious addresses. 
 
 Mill, [laughing]. Oh, Dolly, fancy your addresses being 
 odious. You dear old ducky darling! 
 
 Adol. My sweetest precious ! [ They throw kisses to each 
 other.] But come, now! We both enter from the ruined abbey, 
 by moonlight, where you have already been spurning me. Come 
 along! [They both go out of door, but immediately re-enter.] 
 
 Mill, [in tone of voice she would use if asking him to button 
 her glove] . "Unhand me, sirrah !" Oh, Dolly, you haven't got 
 hold of me. And, besides — my foot's asleep. [Stamps.] 
 
 Adol. I beg your pardon, love. [Seises her azvkwardly.] 
 
 Mill. "Unhand me, sirrah !" My foot tickles like a sneeze. 
 [Adolphus lets his arm drop clumsily.] "Your shameless pro- 
 posal fills me with scorn and loathing. Miscreant, I hate you !" 
 [With effusion.] Oh, Dolly darling, you do know better than 
 that, don't you, dear? 
 
 Adol. My sweetest own! [Caresses her as she reclines in 
 his arms; speaks as though telling an interesting anecdote.] 
 "Proud lady, I care not one single jot for thy contumely." [Dis- 
 engages himself from her with a start.] Dear me! This is the 
 wrong position. I beg your pardon, my darling. "I care not 
 one single jot for thy contumely. That burning cheek, that 
 
 flashing eye " By the way, darling, could you manage to 
 
 flash your eye a little? No, don't look cross-eyed! Flash it! 
 
 Mill, [grimaces]. 
 
 Adol. Thank you, love. [As if continuing anecdote.] 
 "That burning cheek, that flashing eye, they do but kindle in my 
 heart the fire of a consuming passion. Thou must and shalt be 
 mine." [Seises her and drags her toward him; she nestles com- 
 fortably in his arms and strokes his face.] No, no, my love, you 
 must tear yourself away and — and — [consults his play-book] and 
 regard me with a look of unutterable loathing. 
 
 \- (37) 
 
8 VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 
 
 Mill, [piteously]. Oh, Dolly, I couldn't, I really couldn't. 
 
 Adol. [persuasively]. Try, darling, try! Think of some- 
 thing you dislike very much indeed — roast goose, for instance. 
 
 Mill. Very well, dear. [Withdraws from his embrace and 
 turns up her nose.] How's that? 
 
 Adol. Capital ! You looked not only like roast goose but 
 like a spoiled one. Now ! [Looks at book.] "Points his arm 
 at her threateningly." [Does so. ] Eh? [Again consults book.] 
 Oh, yes; "laughs sardonically." [Emits three gentle chuckles.] 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! "Snaps his fingers." [Does so feebly and inaudibly.] 
 "That for your scorn and loathing ! I hold them in contempt." 
 
 Mill. "In contempt," that's my cue. Oh, yes. "Throws 
 herself upon her knees before him." But, Dolly dear, I can't 
 possibly kneel in the frock I am going to wear on "the night"; 
 it'll crease it so. Does it matter? 
 
 Adol. [cheerfully]. Not a bit. So sit down, my love, and 
 make yourself comfortable. [Arranges cushions for her on 
 floor.'] 
 
 Mill, [sits; plaintively]. "Oh, sir, you have a mother" — 
 [cheerfully] , and what a dear old thing she is, Dolly, and so fond 
 of baby. I never imagined that a mother-in-law could be so 
 charming 
 
 Adol. [reproachfully] . My darling ! That's not in the play. 
 
 Mill. Oh, I beg your pardon, love, I was forgetting. "Oh, 
 sir, you have a mother — a fond, devoted mother — and in her 
 name, I entreat, I implore you to spare the hapless creature who 
 now kneels — I mean sits — before you. Be kind, be merciful !" 
 My, but I feel worked up ! 
 
 Adol. [mopping his eyes]. Upon my word, darling, this is 
 awfully trying to my feelings. It isn't acting at all ; it's down- 
 right nature. It has quite put me off. Where were we? [Con- 
 sults part.] Oh, yes! [Chuckles again.] "Ha! Ha! Ha!" I 
 think I shall put that laugh in often. 
 
 Mill. Do, dear. It's most effective — sounds like coughing 
 up a fish-Ktne. 
 
 (38) 
 
VILLAIN AND VICTIM. g 
 
 Adol. "Ha! Ha! Your tears, fair mistress— — " By the 
 way, darling, you forgot to weep. 
 
 Mill. Oh, yes ! how stupid of me ! [Blubbers loudly.'] 
 
 Adol. "Your tears, fair mistress, do but feed my passion. 
 Weep on, sweet dame ; but ere those eyes be dry, I'll bear thee 
 hence unto my mountain fastness." You now get up, give a 
 loud scream, cry out, "No, no," and we begin to struggle. 
 [Millicent rises and gives mild squeak and ladylike "No, no."\ 
 Now for the struggle. [He takes hold of her awkwardly., and 
 they begin to sway.] 
 
 Mill, [suddenly breaking away from him]. One moment, 
 dear, I think I hear baby. [Runs to door and listens.] No, it's 
 nothing, or else cats. I shall be so glad when that next tooth is 
 through. I'm ready for the struggle. 
 
 Adol. [sympathetically]. Yes, and it's such an exciting 
 tooth — his first double one. 
 
 Mill. Yes, dear; what do we do next? 
 
 Adol. [consults book]. I must seize you in my arms and 
 carry you off, whilst you hammer my upturned face with your 
 clenched fists. 
 
 Mill, [with an air of decision]. No, Dolly, I cannot. I 
 positively cannot. What! hit my darling in his dear face, and 
 possibly damage that nicest of noses. No, no, it is too much. 
 
 Adol. But it's only pretence, my dearest, and you can tap 
 me quite gently. Come now, be brave and do it. 
 
 Mill. Well, I'll try. 
 
 Adol. [tries unsuccessfully to lift her]. No, my darling,. I 
 can't manage it. Would you mind standing on something? 
 [She .gets on chair; he then takes her up in his arms awkwardly, 
 and staggers with her for a step or two; meanwhile she gently 
 strokes his head and finally kisses it; whereupon he deposits her 
 upon her feet again.] There, my love, I scarcely felt it. 
 
 Mill, [dolefully]. But it's horrid — even pretending to be 
 angry with my Ducky-wucky. I don't like it at all. 
 
 Adol. [mournfully]. And to tell you the truth, Milly dar- 
 ling, no more do I. For although the little fairy's taps wouldn't 
 
 (39) 
 
10 VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 
 
 harm a new-born beetle, yet the seemingly antagonistic attitude of 
 my own little lovey stabs me here — here. [Points to his heart and 
 sinks into chair.] 
 
 Mill, [runs to him and kneels beside him; consolingly]. 
 Dear little tender heart! and was it stabbed by the naughty wifey 
 who never meant it? [Rises and walks to and fro; indignantly.] 
 Oh, Dolly, Dolly, why should they have chosen you to act the 
 villain? Why aren't you playing the hero? 
 
 Adol. Why not, indeed ! Ah, you may well ask that. 
 [Rises; sarcastically.] Because it is Septimus Jones's Charity; 
 Septimus Jones is getting up the performance and Septimus 
 Jones thinks he can act. [Scornfully.] Act? Bah! Act? Pah! 
 But he'll find out his mistake before long. Do you imagine that 
 the public of an important suburb like Peckham are going to 
 put up with Septimus Joneses, when others who are immeasur- 
 ably his superiors — but no matter ! 
 
 Mill. [ sympathetically'] . It's a great shame; I am sure they 
 would much prefer to see you in the part — still, there's no doubt 
 that Mr. Jones is extremely good-looking, and that always goes a 
 long way. 
 
 Adol. Good-looking ! Jones ! a pasty-faced bean-pole, with 
 greasy curls and Chippendale legs ! Upon my word, Milly, you 
 certainly have the most extraordinary ideas of manly beauty. 
 
 Mill, [slightly annoyed] . Oh, have I ! Well, at any rate I 
 fell in love with you. 
 
 Adol. [slightly disconcerted]. Eh! Oh! [Recovers him- 
 self.] But that I flatter myself was due to the fact that there 
 were — ah — intellectual attractions that would well outweigh the 
 barber's block beauty of a Septimus Jones, to say nothing of 
 expression — charm. 
 
 Mill. But really, Dolly, Mr. Jones has a most pleasing ex- 
 pression. The Smithson girls rave about his smile. 
 
 Adol. [starts; then with loud cry of anguish] . Ah ! I knew 
 it! Jones has cast his glamor over you. [In accents of distress.] 
 Oh, Milly, Milly, has it come to this ? 
 
 Mill, [pleadingly]. Dolly, believe me 
 
 (40) 
 
VILLAIN AND VICTIM. II 
 
 Adol. [waving her off]. Oh, don't tell me. I've noticed 
 with what an appearance of comfort you repose in his arms at 
 rehearsal. You linger there as if you liked it. 
 
 Mill. Dolly, this is unjust. It musses me to keep bounding 
 away. 
 
 Adol. Then, confess — is it not a fact that Jones infuses a 
 fervor into his love-making that is alike insulting and — and — 
 inartistic? Why can't the man make love like a gentleman and 
 not like a mere play-actor? [Struts away in stagey fashion.'] 
 
 Mill, [whimpering]. Well, I'm sure I can't help it. I 
 always hold myself stiff, all the time like this [indicates her atti- 
 tude] and I've told him plainly that if he dares to kiss me on the 
 night, even on the ear, I shall scream. 
 
 Adol. [angrily]. And I shall — but no matter — let Jones 
 beware! [Walks up room, and then returns to her.] And you 
 openly, unblushingly admit that you have so far forgotten yourself 
 as to discuss with this Jones creature such a supremely delicate 
 subject as — ah — dalliance and caresses. Oh, it is horrible, hor- 
 rible! 
 
 Mill, [with rapidly rising temper]. Who's horrible? 
 Which ? Well, upon my word, Dolly, if it comes to caresses you 
 have no -right to complain. 
 
 Adol. [with virtuous indignation]. Millicent! 
 
 Mill. Oh, it's all very well to say "Millicent"; but what 
 about the kiss in the first act you give that dreadful professional 
 person, Miss Montmorency, who plays the adventuress? Didn't 
 you promise me to cut it, after that first dreadful smack? 
 
 Adol. And I loyally did my best. Did I not suggest that, 
 to spare her feelings, we should omit it ; and what was the result ? 
 She laughed, and replied that she hadn't the slightest objection to 
 stage-embraces; and that, if I didn't mind a mouthful of grease- 
 paint, I might kiss her as often as I pleased. 
 
 Mill, [angrily]. The bold, impudent creature! But it was 
 your duty to insist that you didn't like the taste. 
 
 Adol. How could I ? If a lady who has a right — an artistic 
 
 (41) 
 
12 VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 
 
 right to such — ah — privilege, insists that I shall kiss her — and, 
 [complacently] believe me, the circumstance is neither peculiar 
 nor unprecedented — common politeness forbids me to refuse. 
 
 Mill, [very angry]. So, you talked it over at length, did 
 you ? Adolphus, this is an outrage ! 
 
 Adol. [equally infuriated]. Millicent, your conduct with 
 Septimus Jones is worse, it is a prolonged atrocity. 
 
 Mill, [walks up and down room in passion of anger]. 
 Adolphus, you — you have gone too far, I will submit to insult 
 no longer. Withdraw your words instantly, or henceforth we 
 are as strangers. 
 
 Adol. [wildly]. I will withdraw not a syllable. On the 
 contrary I will speak volumes, every one of which I am prepared 
 to substantiate in a court of law- And I'm not acting now! 
 
 Mill, [walks to and fro]. Very well then. I have done 
 with you. Farewell, forever! [SVtt.] And I mean it. 
 
 Adol. Be it so! [Striding about room.] And if you, 
 who once loved such as I am, can stoop to a mere Jones, I will 
 leave you to your Septimus. [Sits. Short pause.] 
 
 Mill, [tearfully, without moving]. Good-bye, Dolly ! 
 
 Adol.' [mournfully]. Good-bye, Milly! [Another slight 
 pause, during which they steal glances at each other.] 
 
 Mill. When — when 1 am gone, Dolly — for ever, you won't 
 forget to tell Parker to see that your linen is well aired. 
 
 Adol. No, no, I will be reckless — wear a damp Jaeger and 
 die. 
 
 Mill. [sobs]. Oh, Dolly! 
 
 Adol. [expressing emotion by copious blowings of nose]. 
 Milly, when I am far away — and my bones are possibly bleach- 
 ing' on — on an a — arid desert 
 
 Mill, [with a cry of anguish]. Oh! It would kill you to 
 bleach. 
 
 Adol. [with tears in voice]. Tell baby that although I shaft 
 never see his approaching tooth, yet when the time comes for hirt 
 to cut it, a father's heart will throb in sympathy. 
 
 (42) 
 
VILLAIN AND VICTIM. 13 
 
 Mill, [sobbing^. I will, dear, I will ; your kind thought will 
 be such a comfort to him. [Slight pause.] 
 
 Adol. [starts up suddenly] . Milly ! 
 
 Mill, [also jumps to her feet]. Dolly! 
 
 Adol. I can't ! 
 
 Mill. Nor I ! 
 
 Adol. [gesticulating with his play-book in his hand]. Why 
 should we sacrifice our happiness merely to enrich the contem- 
 porary drama and delight a Peckham public? 
 
 Mill [with fervor]. Why, indeed? 
 
 Adol. [holding his book as though about to tear it]. Will 
 you? 
 
 Mill, [with decision]. I will. [They tear up their books 
 and trample them beneath their feet.] 
 
 Adol. [holding out his arms]. Milly! 
 
 Mill. Dolly! [Flies to him and they embrace fondly.] 
 Oh, Dolly, dear, let us go and see baby have his bath ! 
 
 Adol. [with sigh of anticipatory delight]. Ah! [They 
 leave room with arms entwined, and gazing lovingly into each 
 other's eyes.] 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 TELEPHONE COURTSHIP. 
 
 "Am dat you, Miss Lilywhite ?" 
 
 "Ah reckon it am." 
 
 "Could yo' love me ?" 
 
 "Ah reckon Ah could." 
 
 "Do yo' love me?" 
 
 "Ah reckon Ah do." 
 
 "Could yo' marry me?" 
 
 "Ah reckon Ah could." 
 
 "Will yo' marry me?" 
 
 "Ah reckon Ah will — who am dat callin , ? M j v 
 
 (43) 
 
MY OLD DUTCH. 
 
 Albert Chevalier. 
 
 I've got a pal, a reg'lar out an' outer, 
 
 She's a dear old gal, — 
 
 I'll tell yer all about 'er. 
 
 It's many years since fust we met, 
 
 'Er 'air was then as black as jet, 
 
 It's whiter now, but she don't fret, — 
 
 Not my old gal. 
 
 Chorus: 
 
 We've been together now for forty years, 
 
 An' it don't seem a day too much, — 
 
 There ain't a lady living in the land, 
 
 As I'd swop for my dear old Dutch. 
 
 I calls 'er Sal, 'er proper name is Sai-rer, 
 
 An' yer may find a gal as you'd consider fairer, 
 
 She ain't a angel, she can start 
 
 A-jawin' till it makes yer smart, 
 
 She's just a woman — bless 'er heart, — 
 
 Is my old gal. 
 
 Sweet, fine old gal, for worlds I wouldn't lose 'er, 
 
 She's a dear good old gal, an' that's what made me choose 'er; 
 
 She's stuck to me through thick and thin, 
 
 When luck was out, when luck was in, 
 
 Ah! wot a wife to me she's been, 
 
 An' wot a pal! 
 
 I sees yer, Sal, yer pretty ribbons sportin' ; 
 
 Many years now, old gal, since them young days of courtin', 
 
 I ain't a coward, still I trust 
 
 When we've to part, as part we must, 
 
 That death may come and take me fust, — 
 
 To wait my pal. 
 
 (44) 
 
FAST FRIENDS. 
 
 Re Henry. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Laura Latimer ) both young married 
 Mabel Hamilton^) women. 
 
 SCENE : Prettily furnished sitting-room in Mrs. Lati- 
 mer's house. Desk and chair R. Open piano with music on rack 
 L. Sofa C. 
 
 DISCOVERED : Laura sitting at desk, pen in hand and 
 writing-materials on desk in front of her. 
 
 Laura. Let me see, what shall be the subject of my new 
 poem? Love is old-fashioned. Babies are played out. Frien^ 
 ship ! That can never grow stale ; there can never be too 
 said in its praise. [Dips pen in ink and begins to write.\ 
 to Friendship," dedicated to my dearest friend, 
 [Gives disgusted exclamation.] O dear, there' 
 [ Writing. ] 
 
 "Let the world scoff, the nobler 
 That feeling whose existenc 
 Women's large souls — " 
 
 Oh, dear, that's so horribly 
 try again. 
 
 "Hail! holy Friendship \ 4 
 
 If thou wilt deign 
 And in a lower sphere} 
 
 Thou'lt find a hoi 
 
4 
 
 FAST FRIENDS. 
 
 Mabel [without] . Oh, at home to me, I know ! [Enters."] 
 My dear Laura ! [Rushes dozvn to Laura, kisses her on one 
 cheek, then on the other, then on mouth, closing zvith a rapturous 
 embrace.] 
 
 Lau. My sweetest Mabel ! If I were not so delighted to 
 see you, I should be annoyed at this interruption to my "Ode to 
 Friendship," dedicated to you, dearest. But what detained you 
 so long? [They sit on sofa C. facing each other.'} 
 
 Mab. Well, to be candid, it was my husband. You know, 
 Charlie does so hate to have me come to you. He almost flew in a 
 passion, and said he would put a stop to our friendship. 
 
 Lau. Put a stop to it? As if it were in the power of "man, 
 weak man, dressed in a little brief authority," to stop the com- 
 munion of two kindred souls. Well, how did you make him listen 
 to reason ? 
 
 Mab. By making him listen to music. You know, you ad- 
 vised me to take to some particular study as a resource when 
 things went wrong. 
 
 Lau. Yes, and as things invariably do go wrong, I suppose 
 you find it of service? 
 
 Mab. Well, on this occasion it certainly was. I threw open 
 
 le piano; the more Charlie talked [makes brief pause and goes 
 
 Though pantomime of pounding piano keys], the louder I played, 
 
 rt last he left the room silenced, if not convinced. [Laura 
 
 hands loudly to applaud conduct of friend.] 
 
 )ital ! See what an effective weapon I put into 
 
 I bade you study music. Oh ! there's nothing 
 
 If dinner is late and Reginald scolds or 
 
 my pen, and at once forget him. But 
 
 know how very unconscious I am of his 
 
 piano there can be no mistake. I'm 
 
 ^isic instead of poetry. 
 
 illy hard work. What I suffer at 
 avs, especially if there's nothing 
 
 HranB 
 
 Hp 38ii SBE ■ " V 
 
FAST FRIENDS. 5 
 
 Lau. My dear Mabel, if you talk like that, I shall btgkt to 
 think what my husband says of you is true — that you ate idle, 
 vain, and frivolous. 
 
 Mab. Not very polite of your husband, considering he 
 doesn't know me. But, to tell the truth, Mr. Hamilton is quite 
 as uncomplimentary to you, my love. If you only knew the things 
 he says of you ! 
 
 Lau. He can't say I'm ugly' because he never saw me. 
 
 Mab. Oh, worse than that, a thousand times he actually 
 said you were a woman with ideas. 
 
 Lau. Just like a man. 
 
 Mab. What, to have ideas? 
 
 Lau. Oh, no ! to sneer at a woman for having them. Well, 
 I hope after this you'll practise that music from early morn until 
 dewy eve and occasionally attack scales and arpeggios at mid- 
 night. Practise makes perfect, you know. 
 
 Mab. But Charlie does hate it so. 
 
 Lau. Of course, if he liked it I shouldn't advise you to do it. 
 
 Mab. But suppose he should cease to love me? 
 
 Lau. You little goose! The more independent we are of 
 them, the more they care for us. It's only jealousy that makes 
 them rail against our studies and against our love for each other. 
 But let them rail and sneer, the firmer friends we will be. Ha! 
 ha! it would take more than a couple of men to dissolve the bond 
 that links our souls together. 
 
 Mab. Oh, yes; it's so nice to have a friend, particularly 
 when one has a secret. 
 
 Lau. A secret ! Oh, delightful ! Come, let me hear all 
 about it. 
 
 Mab. Well, you must know last night I was at a concert. 
 
 Lau. Yes, a good one? 
 
 Mab. Good? — oh, you mean the music. Well, I hardly 
 know, but I sat next to one of the most charming men I have ever 
 seen. He had the loveliest eyes, so dark and melancholy ; and 
 in the course of the conversation 
 
 Lau, Conversation ! then you knew him? 
 
 (47) 
 
6 FAST FRIENDS. 
 
 Mab. No, not exactly, but he lent me his program, and 
 asked my opinion of one of the singers, and I don't know how it 
 was, I'm sure, but we grew quite friendly. 
 
 Lau. Did your husband approve of this sudden intimacy? 
 
 Mab. Well, of course, he would have done so, only he wasn't 
 there. [Rises and walks over to piano, takes piece of music and 
 crumples it nervously in her hands as she finishes speech.] He 
 said he had enough music at home without going out after it. So, 
 seeing I was alone, this gentleman called my carriage, squeezed 
 my hand tenderly as he passed me in — and — and — oh Laura, are 
 you dreadfully shocked, because, if so, I am sorry I've confided 
 in you. 
 
 Lau. My dear, ingenuo _. friend ! I should be intensely, 
 overwhelmingly shocked at this from you, but for one circum- 
 stance. 
 
 Mab. What's that? Your friendship for me? 
 
 Lau. No ; that I had a precisely similar adventure. [Rises 
 and walks proudly across room to desk, takes fan from shelf and 
 begins to wield it flippantly.] 
 
 Mab. Oh, Laura ! you so staid, so 
 
 Lau. Yes, I know, my dear, but what could I do? I was 
 at a literary lecture. Reginald would not accompany me, and I 
 found myself near a young man who interested me strangely. 
 His smile was a revelation. [Casts up eyes and folds closed fan 
 to bosom.] Oh, Mabel! [Crosses and stands by Mabel, her 
 hand on her shoulder.] He is so unhappy; his wife does not 
 understand, does not appreciate him. Can you blame me that I 
 listened to his confidence, that I sought to bind up his bruised and 
 wounded spirit? 
 
 Mab. What a strange fatality! It seems we are both des- 
 tined to console the unfortunate. [Still seated on piano-stool, she 
 reaches out both hands to her friend, who takes them sympatheti- 
 cally.] My friend with the haunting eyes was also married, and 
 has also been disappointed. But, Laura, there's something more. 
 It was not my fault, indeed it wasn't. Don't blame me too 
 
 m 
 
FAST FRIENDS. 7 
 
 severely; but this morning's post brought me — I blush to confess 
 it — ^brought me a letter. [Produces letter from .reticule.] 
 
 Lau. So it did to me. [Rushes over to desk and secures 
 similar letter which she holds up to display to Mabel.] 
 
 Mab. Ah ! but mine, alas ! was from my acquaintance of last 
 night. [Gives great, sentimental sigh.] 
 
 Lau. So, alas! was mine. [Gives similar sigh.] 
 
 Mab. Mine was signed with an initial. 
 
 Lau. So was mine. 
 
 Mab. What a mysterious destiny attends us. I owe it to 
 our friendship to let you read. 
 
 Lau. Between hearts such as ours there should be no con- 
 cealment. [Exchange letters; both scream.] It's Reginald's 
 caligraphy. 
 
 Mab. It's Charlie's handwriting. 
 
 Lau. I'd swear to those i's. 
 
 Mab. I'd stake my existence on the h's. 
 
 Lau. So, madam [zualks up to Mabel and shakes finger in 
 her face] , it was my husband who paid you such devoted attention 
 last evening. 
 
 Mab. Oh you're right to be indignant. [Shakes finger in 
 Laura's face.] I suppose you mean to ignore the flirtation you 
 carried on with my husband. 
 
 Lau. You're too young and foolish to be trusted out alone. 
 
 Mab. Well, you're not. At your time of life you ought to 
 know better how to behave yourself. 
 
 Lau. Of course, you must have coquetted and drawn hirri 
 on, for Reginald is the most reserved of men. [Sits on sofa, tap- 
 ping foot agitatedly on floor. Mabel sits on other end of sofa 
 and they turn their backs to each other, talking scornfully over 
 their shoulders.] 
 
 Mab. I should like to have heard you alluring poor Charlie, 
 for he's as modest and retiring as a woman. 
 
 Lau. As some women, I've no doubt. Admired his eyes, 
 did you? Oh, allow me to compliment you on your discrimina- 
 tion. 
 
 C49) 
 
8 FAST FRIENDS. 
 
 Mab. His smile was a revelation! It has been a revelation 
 to me. 
 
 Lau. Been disappointed in his marriage, has he? 
 
 Mab. His wife does -not understand him? [Turns facing 
 Laura, and tlicy glare at each other, their noses almost touching, 
 and shaking their heads indignantly as they talk.] 
 
 Lau. and Mab. [both speaking at the same time]. Let me 
 ask you whose fault it is if such is the case? 
 
 Lau. Go on, madam ; pretend to blame me so as to crush 
 my just indignation. In some matters you could have been the 
 teacher better than the pupil. 
 
 Mab. Oh, Charlie was right when he bade me have nothing 
 to do with such a woman. 
 
 Lau. Why did no one warn me I was nourishing a viper in 
 my bosom. [Laura starts up, comes down stage, and makes 
 gestures of repulsion, as if banishing friendship forever.] 
 Friendship, thou art an illusion, a snare, a will-o'-the-wisp. 
 
 "What is Friendship, but a name, 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep. 
 That deems itself secure from blame, 
 
 And leaves the wife to weep." 
 
 [Tears "Ode to Friendship." Mabel goes to piano and begins to 
 play any noisy popular melody.] Madam [goes up to Mabel 
 as she plays, snatches hat from her head and waves it aloft on the 
 word ''mine"], this house is mine. 
 
 Mab. Oh. I assure you. there is no danger of my forgetting 
 that in future. [Rises from stool, seizes pile of music and throws 
 it violently on floor.] I could not breathe beneath the same roof 
 as the destroyer of my peace. [Snatches hat from Laura's 
 hands and puts it on.] 
 
 Lau. Fool ! fool ! fool ! [Paces agitatedly up and down 
 ■floor.] 
 
 Mab. Are you addressing me, madam ? [Paces in similar 
 manner up and down.] 
 
 Lau. No, madam, but the wretched victim of your shame- 
 
 (50) 
 
FAST FRIENDS. 9 
 
 ful hypocrisy. Why did I ever suffer myself to be so deluded ! 
 Oh, Reginald! Oh, Mabel! [Falls into chair and weeps.] 
 
 Mab. That I should live to be abused by the woman I trust- 
 ed in spite of all. Oh, Laura ! Oh, Charlie ! [Falls into chair 
 and weeps. Pause.] Laura! 
 
 Lau. Madam. 
 
 Mab. [with sudden change to- commonplace manner]. Oh, 
 don't call me madam; it sounds so silly and melodramatic. Be- 
 sides, I've an idea. I think we're a couple of idiots. 
 
 Lau. With regard to one of us, I must be allowed to re- 
 mark- 
 
 Mab. Bosh ! I mean I believe we've been the victims of a 
 trick. 
 
 Lau. A trick ! 
 
 Mab. Yes; do you imagine such coincidences as those of 
 last night could happen by accident? 
 
 Lau. If you mean to insinuate that it was by arrangement — - 
 
 Mab. Of course, it was. [Rises and crosses to Laura 
 and sits on footstool by her knee.] Not yours or mine, but those 
 husbands of ours. I don't know Reginald and you don't know 
 Charlie, because they always refused to make our acquaintance; 
 but do you think they don't know us by sight well enough to carry 
 out such a plot? 
 
 Lau. Wait a moment. Do let me think. Why, Mabel — 
 
 Mab. Well ? 
 
 Lau. I do believe you're right— we're a couple of idiots. 
 But what object could they have had? 
 
 Mab. Why, to make us quarrel, of course ; to break off our 
 intimacy. 
 
 Lau. Pshaw! How absurd! Why, Mabel, as if We were 
 likely to quarrel. 
 
 Mab. ' Yes,' my dear, but do you know, I think we were 
 pretty near it at one time. I felt almost angry with you. 
 
 Lau. Well, I must own to having been a little put out my- 
 self. But what a scheme for them to concoct! 
 
 Mab. How shall we punish them, Laura? 
 
 (SD 
 
JO FAST FRIENDS. 
 Lau. Why, by being faster 
 
 Mab. Oh, no. By heaping coals of fire on their heads. 
 Laura, I mean to turn over a new leaf. I mean to be so good and 
 docile, in future, and I won't play a note of music unless Charlie 
 asks me. 
 
 Lau. Well, and I'll try to reform, too. I'll listen to Regi- 
 nald's lectures without writing a word of poetry. 
 
 Mab. That's a good girl ; and you won't say anything more 
 about being fast? [Rises to her feet. Laura rises also.] 
 
 Lau. Pshaw, my dear ! I only meant we'd be, as we've 
 ever been [reaches out both hands to Mabel, who takes them], 
 Fast Friends. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 FRENCHMAN ON "MACBETH." 
 
 Ah ! your Mossieu' Shak-es-pier, he is gr-r-aa-nd — mys- 
 terieuse — soo-blime! You 'ave reads ze Macabess? — ze scene of 
 Mossieu' Macabess viz ze Vitch — eh? Superb soo — blimitee! 
 W'en he say to ze Vitch, "Ar-r-roynt ze, Vitch!" she go away; 
 but what she say when she go away? She say she will do some- 
 sing dat 'aves got no naame ! "Ah, ha !" she say, "I go, like ze 
 r-r-aa-t vizout ze tail, but I'll do ! I'll do !" W'at she do? Ah, ha 
 — voila le graand mysterieuse Mossieu' Shak-es-pier. She not 
 say what she do ! By-by, Mossieu' Macabess, he fight wiz Mos- 
 sieu' Macduffs. He see him come, clos' by; he say (proud em- 
 pressement), "Come o-o-n, Mossieu' Macduffs, and damned be he 
 who first say, 'Enoffs.' " Zen zey fi-i-ght moche. Ah, ha! voila! 
 Mossieu' Macabess, vis his br-r-ight r-r-apier 'pink' him, vat you 
 call, in his body. He 'ave gots mal d'estomac ; he say "Enoffs !" 
 'cause he got enoffs — plaanty; and he expire r-right away, 
 'mediately, pretty quick! Ah, mes amis, Mossieu' Shak-es-pier 
 is rising man in la belle France. He is gr-r-aand, soo-blime! 
 
 (52) 
 
A HAPPY ENDING 
 
 Bertha Moore. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS: Mrs. Carzon, a lady of about thirty-eight, 
 good-looking, well-dressed, imperious in 
 bearing, a dissatisfied expression on her 
 face. 
 Ursula Vernon, a girl of eighteen, pretty, 
 graceful, plainly but well-dressed. 
 
 SCENE : A cosy sitting-room ; fire-place L., writing-table 
 R., grandfather's clock at back between two windows, in which 
 are lots of growing plants, easy chair by fire, cosy chairs scat- 
 tered about, piano at back partly behind easy chair. 
 
 [Mrs. Carzon discovered writing at table after sealing a 
 letter; she pauses and bites her pen.] 
 
 Mrs. Carzon. No, I can't stand it any longer. I am 
 bored, bored to extinction by my own society.. I can be brilliant 
 enough in the society of others, but at home alone I'm a dull 
 dog. I'm glad I determined to engage a young companion on 
 whom to sharpen my wits, and to break the deadly monotony of 
 my one-sided life [taking up letter and reading it], I like her 
 letter; straightforward, simple, and yet a touch of pride in it. 
 The week's trial was a good idea. If she's ugly she'll go in less 
 time. I never could stand anything unsightly about me [looking 
 at watch]. It's about time she — [knock]. Come in. 
 [Ursula enters.] 
 
 3 play — S3 book 
 
4 A HAPPY ENDING. 
 
 Ursula. Excuse me for coming in unannounced, but your 
 maid said you were expecting me. 
 
 Mrs. C. [who has risen]. Harriet always saves herself and 
 the stairs when she can. Won't you sit down ? [Crosses L. in- 
 dicating chair center.] 
 
 Urs. Thanks. [Seats herself, and Mrs. C. takes chair by 
 fire, rests her elbows on arms of chair, and joins her fingers 
 together, scrutinising her silently. Ursula becomes slightly em- 
 barrassed. ] 
 
 Mrs. C. Yes, you'll do; at least, I think so. One or two 
 questions first ; how old are you ? 
 
 Urs. Eighteen last May. 
 
 Mrs. C. You're not a prude, I hope. 
 , "Urs. [smiling], I think not. Though as I never met one 
 I can't be sure. 
 
 Mrs. C. Because I may as well tell you at once, I'm not 
 
 really a widow. I quarreled with my husband and left him a 
 
 . year after we were married, and have never seen him since. So, 
 
 if you have any scruples about living with me, say so at once, 
 
 and go. [Rises and folds her arms.] 
 
 Urs. [pleasantly]. I don't think your private affairs need 
 be any concern of mine. You required a cheerful companion, 
 your letter stated. I'm cheerful and will try to be companion- 
 able [smiling]. 
 
 Mrs. C. That's right. If you turn out as good as your 
 word. By the bye, why do you have to work for your living? 
 
 Urs. [slightly confused]. Oh, my father had to go out to 
 Australia about some business affairs, and so during his absence 
 I thought I — I — would try to earn a little money. 
 
 Mrs. C. [sharply]. Of course, you know I'm a very rich 
 woman. You have no idea of getting yourself into my good 
 graces and being left my fortune, I suppose, because that won't 
 pan out, I assure you. 
 
 Urs. [rising indignantly]. I came here to be your com- 
 panion, Mrs. Carzon. not to be insulted. 
 
 (54) 
 
! 
 
 A HAPPY ENDING. 
 
 Mrs. C. [smiling]. Bravo, I like your spirit, excellent, — 
 that might have been myself at your age. You remind me of 
 myself at your age somehow. Sit down, my dear. 
 
 Urs. You suggested, Mrs. Carzon, that I should come to 
 you for a week's trial. I am quite prepared to fall in with your 
 suggestion and have brought a small box with me. With your 
 permission I will go to my room and unpack. 
 
 Mrs. C. [rising]. Certainly, but don't trouble to unpack, 
 Harriet will do that for you. Let me show you your room 
 [Walking to door and opening it]. That is your room opposite, 
 and here's Harriet, [To Harriet.] Harriet, see that Miss 
 Vernon has all she wants, and unpack her things. [Ursula goes 
 out and Mrs. Carzon returns and sits by tire.] I like her, de- 
 i cidedly I like her, and she is pretty ; but I shall try her a bit to 
 see if she is genuine metal all through, or only veneer. [Leans 
 forward, resting chin in hands and staring into tire dreamily.] 
 I wonder if my daughter has grown up anything like this girl ! 
 What a fool I have been to throw away my happiness as I did. 
 . . . Poor old Harry, I was fond of .him once. . . . "Once!" 
 Great Heavens! I cannot even be honest with myself [moves]. 
 "Once," why, I am longing for him now ; I love him after all 
 
 these years. I would give my 
 
 [Enter Ursula, hat off, work-bag in hand.] 
 
 Urs. How cosy this room looks ! Makes me feel as if 
 I'd like to belong here. 
 
 , , Mrs. C. Come to the fire, you must be cold. 
 
 Urs. Thanks, may I sit on the rug? [Sitting down and 
 holding out hands to blase.] I always love "squatting." I think 
 there must be something of the toad in me. 
 
 Mrs. C. [grimly]. A pretty girl knows she looks well with 
 the firelight playing on her hair and her dainty fingers stretched 
 out to the blaze ; quite right, always make the best of yourself. 
 And forget there's anyone else in the world. That's the way to 
 be happy. 
 
 (55) 
 
6 A HAPPY ENDING. 
 
 Urs. [drawing back her hands hastily]. Oh! why do you 
 say such things ? I don't believe you mean them. 
 
 Mrs. C. Ah ! that depends. Now, tell me what you can do. 
 What are your accomplishments? 
 
 Urs. [smiling]. I can — er — read aloud. 
 
 Mrs. C. Thank you, my eyesight is still fairly good, and I 
 never could stand the monotonous drone of any one person's 
 voice. That's one reason why I never go to church. If it were 
 to be arranged that the prayers were read by the congregation 
 turn and turn about, I might venture. What else can you do? 
 
 Urs. Fancy-work [shows her work], but very badly. I 
 always think it such a waste of time, and would so much rather 
 be playing tennis or golf. 
 
 Mrs. C. Indeed, but as you can't play golf in my drawing- 
 room and I loathe the game, how do you propose to be of use to 
 me? To entertain me? 
 
 Urs. Well, I'm sort of company to have around, and I can 
 write your letters. 
 
 Mrs. C. You will have to improve your handwriting first ; 
 there were three words in your letter I could not read. 
 
 Urs. [rises and stands center, laughing]. Well, I'll tell you 
 what I'll do — I'll write six copies every day, proverbs and things, 
 something to improve my mind as well as my handwriting, things 
 like this, you know — 
 
 "Hypocrisy is the mother of invention." 
 "A stitch in nine saves time." 
 
 "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings you corrupt good 
 manners." 
 
 And by the time I've learned to write I'll know a whole book of 
 
 proverbs to recite to you, and you'll find you can't live without 
 
 me [laughs]. 
 
 Mrs. C. [laughing in spite of herself]. Well, if you can do 
 
 nothing else, you can talk nonsense, and that is something on a 
 
 dull day. [With return to unpleasant manner.] But that is not 
 
 saying you'll fill the bill. I don't believe in paying for anything 
 
 (56) 
 
A HAPPY ENDING. 7 
 
 but my money's worth, even though I have no lack of money. 
 [Impatiently.} Come, dance, play, sing. Prove your worth. I 
 am bored to death with living and I want to be distracted. I 
 want to laugh, laugh, laugh ! it is the only way to forget. Make 
 me laugh, and I'll begin to consider you valuable. . 
 
 Urs. [slowly and sympathetically']. But don't you think' 
 you would be happier — to cry a little? 
 
 Mrs. C. [staring at her in amazement] . What do you mean? 
 I want no sentimental suggestions, if you please. My heart has 
 hardened to all the world and I never cry. No, give me laughter 
 every time — sparkling, heartless, cruel laughter ! 
 
 Urs. You're not impressing me a bit. That's every whit 
 put on. 
 
 Mrs. C. [rising indignantly]. How dare you speak to me 
 like that ? You — a hired companion. 
 
 Urs. [sweetly and gently]. It is only that I want to help 
 you — though not to forget. 
 
 Mrs. C. [determinedly]. I must — I will forget. 
 
 Urs. No, for your real wish, your only wish, your one 
 pleasure is — to remember. I've discovered that about you al- 
 ready; so, as your companion, it is my duty, you see, to help you 
 remember those days gone by. 
 
 Mrs. C. [sarcastically]. And what leads you to imagine 
 you have been so brilliant as to penetrate to my inmost feelings? 
 How do you know that you aren't altogether mistaken about me? 
 
 Urs. You said you were very like me at my age. Well, I 
 can feel a sort of inner likeness now that makes me think I 
 understand you. Yes, I'll sing for you and perhaps begin in 
 that way to help you-^- 
 
 Mrs. C. [harshly]. To forget? 
 
 Urs. [gently]. No, to remember. [She walks to piano 
 and puts dozvn work-bag, then begins to play a little. The light 
 has faded and room is now lighted only by fire which plays on 
 
 (57) 
 
8 A HAPPY ENDING. 
 
 her face. Ursula begins to sing very sympathetically refrain of 
 song "Sojne Day. 'f\* 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 "Some day, some day, some day I shall meet you, 
 
 Love, I know not when or how; 
 
 Love, L know not when or how; 
 
 Only this, only this, this, that once you loved me, 
 
 Only this, I love you now, 
 
 I love you now, I love you now." 
 
 [Mrs. C. starts as she begins, then turns and watches her 
 intently, visibly agitated, and at end of verse speaks in choked 
 voice. ] 
 
 Mrs. C. [Ursula plays softly]. Where — where did you 
 learn that song? 
 
 Urs. [stopping and turning to her]. Oh, my father taught 
 it to me; it is a great favorite of his. 
 
 Mrs. C. [intensely, half to herself, carried away by Hood of 
 recollection]. It was my husband's favorite song years ago. 
 [She sits looking straight ahead of her and Ursula plays melody 
 of song softly while she talks.] After all these years to hear it 
 again! [She seems to forget Ursula's very presence.] I re- 
 member as if it were yesterday that last time I heard it. It was 
 the night I went away from home, from him, from my baby girl, 
 never to return. The snow was falling outside, and I shivered 
 ,and almost turned back as I opened the door — back into the 
 warmth and -brightness of my husband's heart and home. He 
 was in his room singing — singing that very song, as I passed, 
 and I think if he had kept on a moment longer I must have for- 
 gotten my mad jealousy, my discontent, and rushed back sobbing 
 into his arms. But some one called to him — he suddenly stopped 
 singing — my good angel left me and my bad one came instead 
 and led me out into the storm, out into these long dreary years 
 of loneliness and remorse. Ah, stop playing that melody! 
 [Rises, wringing her hands.] My husband, my baby! I cannot 
 bear it ! [Rushes sobbing from room.] 
 
 * "Some Day" (either for high voice in F, or medium voice in Eb.) 
 sent for 35c. 
 
 (58) 
 
A HAPPY ENDING. g 
 
 Urs. [who has been watching her intently all the time, rises 
 as she leaves and comes to front of stage with, clasped hands, 
 zvork-bag on her arm]. Qh! Mother, mother, have 1 so soon 
 touched your heart? Then, of course, you have loved him all the 
 time, — you love him still, and it is only pride that has kept you 
 from going back to him years ago. Under all your assumed hard 
 manner your heart is bursting with love for him, and I — I must 
 win your love, too, for myself, for I love you already. Now, 
 something cheerful to bring her back. [Plays on — sings lively 
 music] 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Carzon, who turns up light as she enters.] 
 
 Mrs. C. Well, I'm back again, and please don't think I am 
 a sentimental foolish woman, for such is not the case. Only — 
 music sometimes has a curious effect on me, that's all. 
 
 Urs. [rising and coming behind her chair and timidly putting 
 one hand on her arm]. May I tell you what I do think about you ? 
 
 Mrs C. [turning round, hard look on face, which softens as 
 she sees Ursula's expression]. Well? 
 
 Urs. [dreamily]. I think you're a very sweet woman, who 
 has let the deceitfulness of riches gradually sap your sweetness 
 away. A woman who, if surrounded by those she loved, would 
 I have been one of God's best handiworks, but who has shut herself 
 in herself, closing her heart to affection, yet longing, aching for it 
 all the while ; a woman for whom the touch of a child's hand 
 would open all the pent-up flood-gates of feeling and bring the 
 sunshine streaming into a life, clouded by pride and unspoken 
 ' remorse. 
 
 Mrs. C. [who has been watching her intently, puts out her 
 hand as if to draw her to her, and then pulls back and assumes 
 her hard, defiant look]. Oh! that's what you think, is it? I 
 must say you are a curious girl and have curious ideas. 
 
 Urs. [disappointed and . wistful]. Please forgive me. I 
 know I have no right to speak to you in that way ; but, somehow, 
 I could not help myself. I have got into the way of always 
 speaking my thoughts. Father has encouraged me to do so. 
 
 (59) 
 
IO A HAPPY ENDING. 
 
 [Sadly.] You see, I have had no mother to advise me. [Throw- 
 ing herself on her knees by Mrs. C.'s side and taking her hand.} 
 Do you know, I feel as if I had knovvrn you all my life, and that 
 you have satisfied a want that has always been throbbing in my 
 heart? [Kissing her hand.] Will you let me love you? 
 
 Mrs. C. [leans forward as if to kiss her, then draws back — 
 harshly]. Yes, if you like to do so. I can't help it, can I? Be- 
 sides, I have an idea you're only pretending. [Ursula, disap- 
 pointed, sighs and drops back from chair. Mrs. C. continues 
 bitterly.] There's not much in me to love, child; as you say, ail 
 the sweetness in me has gone and left only the bitter husk. If I 
 could have my time over again, perhaps I should act differently, 
 perhaps not! 
 
 Urs. [eagerly]. You would, I know you would. [Rises.] 
 Would you mind if I turned down the light? I want to tell you 
 a story, and I can do it better in the dark. [Ursula stands behind 
 chair, and, unfelt, kisses Mrs. Carzon's hair.] 
 
 Mrs. C. I don't mind. [Ursula turns out lights.] A 
 story! What a queer child you are. [Half to herself.] But 
 there is something winsome about you after all. 
 
 Urs. [sitting on rug again at Mrs. Carzon's feet] . Do you 
 like stories to have a sad or a happy ending? 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh ! well — happy, I suppose. 
 
 Urs. So do I, so do I ! But there is some sadness in this 
 story, but the end 
 
 Mrs. C. Well, well, get on with your story. 
 
 Urs. [putting hands round knees and staring at audience]. 
 Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who lived in the 
 loveliest castle and had more money than she knew what to do 
 with. Suitors came from far and near for her hand, but she 
 would have none of them ; she said she must be loved for herself 
 alone and not for her riches and po-^er. One day, when walking 
 in the woods, she got her foot caught in a trap. She was in 
 great pain and could not unfasten it. Suddenly a young knight 
 appeared and released her. He looked at her beautiful face and 
 
 (60) 
 
A HAPPY ENDING. II 
 
 his heart was hers. Day after day they met and he never knew 
 who she was. At last the princess felt she was loved for herself 
 alone, then she told him who she was and that she too loved him. 
 So they were married and for a time were very happy ; but unfor- 
 tunately this beautiful princess had some evil counselors who 
 whispered to her that her husband had only married her for her 
 money and not for herself, and that he really cared for someone 
 else. This made her very angry; she would not listen to what 
 he said, she believed her evil counselors, and one day in a fit of 
 jealousy she told him her. suspicions. He was proud, and said 
 if she believed that he only cared for her because of her riches, he 
 would go away and never come back till he was as rich as she was, 
 and so 
 
 Mrs. C. [who has gradually got more and more excited]. 
 Child — child, what is this you are telling me? Who told you? 
 Who are you, who are you? 
 
 Urs. [who has emptied her zvork-bag and taken out a little 
 baby's sock, takes no notice of the interruption but goes on]. 
 So he went away to a far country and tried to make his fortune. 
 It took him a long time, years and years ; but he had patience and 
 he was not all alone, he had his baby girl, while she — poor prin- 
 cess — only had one of the baby's socks which she had kicked off 
 in her cradle before she went away, the mate to this. [Ursula 
 turns and places sock on Mrs. Carzon's knee, who snatches it up 
 and kisses it passionately, taking a similar one from bosom of her 
 dress, fastened on to a chain with a miniature.'] 
 
 Mrs. C. My baby girl, my own ! 
 
 Urs. [rising to her knees and drawing the weeping woman to 
 her arms and kissing her] . Mother darling, mother, I have found 
 you at last and the story has a happy ending, for father is coming 
 to-morrow, — coming - home to you. 
 
 Mrs. C. Thank God! Thank God! 
 
 [Stands with arms about Ursula.] 
 Curtain. 
 
 (61) 
 
THE TWINS. 
 
 Wilbur D. Nesbit. 
 
 We're twins — an' my name's Lucy Brown 
 An' her name's Lulu; I'm called. "Lou," 
 An' ever'body in 'is town 
 
 'Ey call my sister 'at name, too. 
 Ah folks, 'ey come to see us here, 
 
 An' we ist have th' mostes' fun 
 'Cause ever'body say : "Oh, dear ! 
 
 W'y, 'is one is th' nuthcr one!" 
 
 My papa sometimes look at mc, 
 
 An' say, "Well, Lulu, how you grow !' : 
 An' nen I laugh, an' nen, w'y, he 
 
 Say goodness sakcs! he'll never know 
 Which one is which. An' nen I say 
 
 No one can tell us twins apart 
 'Cause we're together anyway. 
 
 An' nen he holler, "Bless your heart!'' 
 
 My mamma never gets us mixed ; 
 
 She always knows my twin fum me. 
 An' papa say she's got us fixed 
 
 Our clo'es, or hair, so's she can see. 
 But mamma hugs us bofe up tight 
 
 An' kisses us, an' pats our curls, 
 An' says a muvver's always wite 
 
 An' always knows her preshus girls. 
 
 But nuther folks 'ey ist can't tell — 
 
 An' oncet when Lulu dumb a tree 
 An' couldn't hold, w'y, when she fell 
 
 Th' doctor thought 'at she was me. 
 Nen we all laugh, an' he ist say . 
 
 It's all in how th' notions strike, 
 'At bofe o' us looks ist one way, 
 
 But 'at I look th' most alike! 
 (62) 
 
Two Jolly Girl Bachelors. 
 
 Edward Martin Seymour. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Sybil Heathcote. 
 Julia Mainwaring. 
 
 SCENE : The cosily-furnished parlor of a small flat. Table 
 C. with chairs either side of it. Down R. an arm-chair. Down L. 
 a sofa. Chairs, bric-a-brac, pots of flowers and other furnishings 
 ad lib. 
 
 DISCOVERED : Sybil, asleep in arm chair R. Julia, 
 asleep on sofa L. They wear becoming morning-gowns. Door- 
 bell rings repeatedly. At final peal, which is heard by neither 
 Sybil nor Julia, letters are thrust under door, presumably by 
 postman. 
 
 Sybil [sitting up languidly and rubbing her eyes]. Was 
 that the bell? 
 
 Julia [rousing up also]. I thought I heard something. 
 
 Syb. [smiling and yawning]. I do believe you were fast 
 asleep too. 
 
 Ju. It must have been the postman. Yes, there are sev- 
 eral letters under the door. [Starts toward door.] 
 
 Syb. Don't pick them up yet. [Julia turns back.] We 
 don't want the outside world to break in on us when we've hardly 
 
 3 play — 63 book 
 
4 TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. 
 
 been settled an hour in our haven of privacy — this blessed little 
 flat! 
 
 Ju. [hugging Sybil enthusiastically]. The two jolliest girl 
 bachelors in the world ! You are right. We can't be bothered 
 with letters quite yet. [They sit either side of table, resting 
 elbows as if for good comfortable chat.] 
 
 Syb. It is so comforting to know, Ju, that at last our plan 
 and purpose of life is settled and made perfect, and all through 
 the inspiration of that noble martyr to woman's cause, that hater 
 of mankind, — 
 
 Ju. That brave wearer of the Twentieth Century Divided 
 Skirt— 
 
 Syb. [with gesture of placing Mrs. Saltwire on a pedestal]. 
 Mrs. Harriet Annabel Saltwire ! 
 
 Ju. Through the discords of marriage [gesture as if ward- 
 ing off discords] she perceived the harmony of the single life 
 [clasps hands and raises eyes in ecstasy] ; the single life has be- 
 come her religion. 
 
 Syb. [hesitatingly]. But isn't marriage a religion also, Ju? 
 
 Ju. [with a superior air]. No, it is a heresy, an unpardon- 
 able heresy. [Sybil looks at her with questioning eyes, and she 
 continues in explanation.] The difference between Religion and 
 Heresy is easily explained, my dear. Religion is that form of 
 belief which we ourselves subscribe to. Heresy is the fallacy 
 adopted by those who differ from us. [Airily.] Quite simple, 
 you see. 
 
 Syb. [adopting the argument and shrugging shoulders]. 
 Ridiculously so! [Beaming admiration on her friend, as she 
 runs up to her.] Ju, you are frightfully clever! Councils and 
 convocations, inquisitions and impositions, after centuries of 
 quarreling, burning and fighting, have failed to settle a question 
 which you have answered right off the reel in a dozen words. 
 [Enthusiastically.] Ju, I can see a glorious future before you. 
 
 Ju. [sitting R. of table as she speaks with a kind of proud 
 
 (64) 
 
TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. 5 
 
 humility] . You see, dear, these foolish men never asked a woman 
 to help them out of their difficulty. 
 
 Syb. Pig-headed masses of arrogance and conceit! 
 [Changing her tone and sitting L. of table.] And now, dear, 
 having forsworn matrimony, having refused absolutely to waste 
 our talents — our intellects — 
 
 Ju. [chiming in and taking up the tale] . Our opportunities, 
 our aspirations, our ambitions — 
 
 Syb. [finishing in her own light-hearted way]. Our entire 
 sweetness on the desert air of man. 
 
 Ju. [breaking in severely]. Don't be frivolous, Sybil. 
 [Again referring to subject of immediate interest.] Having re- 
 fused to sacrifice ourselves to the caprices of so unobservant,, so 
 unappreciative, so unimaginative a creature, we are now at liberty 
 to pursue our inclinations and our professions — the healing of the 
 sick through the concords of music. For instance, the cure of 
 paralysis through sharps, and the cure of rheumatism through 
 flats. 
 
 Syb. And which Philip and Gregory described as subject- 
 ing vile bodies to villainous experiments, and turning melody into 
 madness. 
 
 Ju. [scarcely hearing Sybil's speech and continuing her ar- 
 gument]. Without fear of being disturbed by the frivolities of 
 love-making, or anxieties as to our future in a state of life 
 [scornfully] which we have repudiated as unworthy of in- 
 telligent and independent human beings [last words in "plat- 
 form" style]. 
 
 Syb. [starting up and speaking with enthusiasm]. Oh, Ju, 
 you remind me of Mrs. Saltwire when she gave that lecture on 
 "Man's Proper Place in the Universe," at the Excelsior. 
 
 Ju. [with studiously affected indifference to Sybil's appre- 
 ciation, speaking parenthetically]. Mrs. Saltwire was very sound 
 on the question, I remember. 
 
 Syb. Oh, I can hear her every word, as if she were before 
 me. I can repeat her inspired utterances and never lose an in- 
 
 (65) 
 
6 TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. 
 
 flection ! [Rising and coming down L. as she assumes Mrs. 
 Saltwire's best "platform" manner when giving the lecture in 
 question.] "Man's Proper Place in the Universe, his uses in 
 the scheme of creation is purely secondary and utilitarian. Pie is 
 by nature the carrier, the sweeper and the scavenger, and his 
 proper place on the social and intellectual plane is that of an in- 
 ferior to be tolerated, but by no means to be treated as an equal, 
 much less to be regarded with sentiments of respect and affection." 
 {Dropping "platform" style and speaking with involuntary im- 
 pulse.] Oh, it was grand to hear her! 
 
 Ju. [who has been sitting with her eyes fixed on Sybil, now 
 rises impulsively, as though fired with the recital of Mrs. Salt- 
 wire's arguments]. And you remember her discourse on "Man's 
 Proper Attitude in Art ?" [in her turn coming down and adopting 
 the Saltwire manner] : "Man's Proper Attitude in Art is both 
 subservient and subordinate! He is a proper subject for study, 
 but an improper object for association with that which is by nature 
 mentally, morally and physically perfect. Together with those 
 things which pertain to the lower [with a downward sweep of her 
 hand] and animal creation, he may exhibit and be exhibited, but 
 with that second and finest effort of creative power, namely 
 Woman [making gesture toward herself as an example, a ges- 
 ture which Sybil involuntarily imitates'] , he must not be brought 
 into contact." 
 
 Syb. [in an excess of admiration of Mrs. Saltwire's argu- 
 ment]. And to think that Gregory described her as an "old 
 mud-raker." 
 
 Ju. [chiming in]. And that Philip actually stigmatized her 
 as a "diseased imagination." 
 
 Syb. [carrying on the tale of their lovers' iniquities']. And 
 both compared the Excelsior to a depository for the antique, and 
 a refuge fOr destitute and disappointed old maids, [scornfully] 
 simply because we declined to introduce them to the social after- 
 noons. Heighho — what a lot of time we wasted in frivolous pur- 
 suits before we became members of the Excelsior. 
 
 (66) 
 
TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. 7 
 
 Ju. [seated]. Do not let us dwell upon the past, the unre- 
 flecting past, when we were as the blind seeking for light, when 
 [speaking retrospectively and in softer tone] Gregory used to 
 monopolize almost every hour of a life which will henceforward 
 be devoted to higher things, when he used to spend his days in 
 inventing ridiculous terms of so-called endearment, and his even- 
 ings [with slightly hysterical laugh, as she makes gesture toward 
 herself] in applying them to me! 
 
 Syb. [breaking in a little mischievously]. When he used to 
 call you his "pigeon," his "dove," his "humming-bird !" When 
 you are very far indeed from resembling a bird, my. love. , 
 
 Ju. [flaring up]. Perhaps you are not a judge of birds, my 
 dear. [Spitefully.] Your specialty has always been cats, I be- 
 lieve. I've even heard your enemies remark that you resembled 
 one. Still, I must confess that poor Gregory was very sentimental 
 and very foolish where I was concerned. 
 
 Syb. And so was my poor Phil. How he used to cram me 
 with sweets, smother me with flowers, and inundate me with 
 letters ! • 
 
 Ju. [recovering her spirit and speaking with scornful im- 
 patience]: And suffocated you with what Mrs. Saltwire very 
 aptly describes as degrading expressions of a debased and de- 
 basing passion. 
 
 Syb. [loftily and indignantly]. Excuse me, but Philip's love 
 was pure as snow, there was nothing degrading or debasing 
 about it.. But, I must confess, my sweetest, that there was en- 
 tirely too much of it. It inundated me like an avalanche. And 
 to think that but seven short days ago we were on the verge of 
 becoming the wives of— 
 
 Ju. [taking up the sentence as she seats herself on edge of 
 table R.]. These two unregenerate specimens of humanity. In- 
 stead of spending our days in administering to the graces and 
 necessities of life, and our evenings in conp-enial society at the 
 Excelsior, in all probability- we should each have become- mere 
 domestic machines, doomed to manage a household. 
 
 (67) 
 
8 TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. 
 
 Syb. [jumping up on table and sitting beside Julia as she 
 breaks in]. And a husband! 
 
 Ju. From what a fate have we been spared ! 
 
 Syb. I realize it, yet somehow in thinking it all over I feel 
 pensive. [Sighs.] 
 
 Ju. Now, that you mention it, Syb, so do I. [Sighs.] 
 But we must remember that dear Mrs. Saltwire told us to repeat 
 her name whenever we felt weak and womanly, and in so doing 
 our grand resolutions would be renewed. And, perhaps, when 
 we get to wearing those mannish boots and those new divided 
 skirts she advocates — 
 
 Syb. As badges of our bachelor independence — 
 -. J u - [relapsing into sadness again]. I wonder if Gregory 
 feels very lonely ! 
 
 Syb. [sighing heavily]. Poor foolish old Philip! [They 
 look at each other, then simidtaneously spring to their feet and 
 begin to pace floor, making emphatic gestures with upraised fists 
 at each mention of Mrs. Salt-wire's name.] 
 
 Ju. and Syb. [simultaneously]. Harriet Annabel Saltwire, 
 Saltwire, Saltwire, Saltwire. [They continue repeating name un- 
 til apparently out of breath.] 
 
 Syb. [sinking into chair]. I'm all right now. 
 
 Ju. [throwing herself on sofa]. So am I. 
 
 Syb. [still in recumbent attitude]. If you'll believe me, Ju, 
 when Phil was a curate, before he had the good luck to obtain his 
 present position, he had enough shoes, socks, slippers, and four- 
 in-hands, to stock a shop. For if you had ever been engaged to 
 a curate, you would know that by a polite fiction, invented by the 
 combined congregations of old maids, his clothes are supposed to 
 be in constant need of temporary repair, consequently they wear 
 their fingers to the bone in knitting [action] or embroidering re- 
 ceptacles for needles, [counting on fingers] cottons, buttons, and 
 scissors [hysterically sarcastic] supposed to be necessary compan- 
 ions to these poor tattered gentlemen. 
 
 Ju. With a view to — ? 
 
 (68) 
 
TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. 9 
 
 Syb. [nodding and taking up Julia's speech]. To being 
 asked to share the board and lodging of the unfortunate curates. 
 
 Ju. [indignantly] . Unfortunate, indeed ! [Referring to the 
 women.] The mean creatures ! I wonder they are not ashamed 
 to live! [Getting closer to Sybil and speaking somewhat hyster- 
 ically.] And lawyers have their trials, too, I can tell you, Syb. 
 When Greg was counsel to that Wilson girl in her breach-of- 
 promise case, she made eyes as big [stretching her hands] as 
 saucers at him all the while he was pleading on her behalf — [more 
 excitedly] and as for the women who want to get divorced from 
 their husbands — why they positively devour him ! 
 
 Syb. [looking very intently at Julia for a moment then sud- 
 denly bounding off table and violently exclaiming]. Saltwire! 
 Saltwire ! Saltwire ! 
 
 Ju. [for a moment looks at her friend in alarm, then, as if 
 appearing suddenly to remember, she too bounds off the table, ex- 
 claiming hysterically]. Saltwire! Saltwire! Saltwire! 
 
 [R. and L.] 
 
 [Both girls keep up the exclamation or invocation — with 
 rapidly increasing utterance until out of breath they each sink on 
 chairs R. and L., with a faint and last effort ejaculating.] 
 
 Ju. and Syb. Saltwire! 
 
 [Each girl then wipes her brow or otherwise makes attempts 
 at composure, afterward drawing a deep sigh of relief. Julia 
 speaks Urst.] 
 
 Ju. I feel stronger now. Isn't it wonderful? 
 
 Syb. [nodding]. To think there should be so much in the 
 mere mention of a name ! When dear Mrs. Saltwire told us to 
 repeat her name I never dreamed it would have such power. 
 
 [Both girls in nervous irritation and unrest now make one or 
 two strides about room. Suddenly Sybil stops short at table C. 
 and brings clenched fist down on table with emphatic bang.] 
 
 Ju. [starting forward and again looking anxiously at Sybil]. 
 You don't feel as if you must repeat—? 
 
 Syb. Ju, it has just dawned upon me that this wretched 
 bachelor business is neither more nor less than paying a compli- 
 ed) 
 
IO TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. 
 
 ment to Man. Why, [laughing hysterically] the very name is 
 a contemptible misnomer. How can a woman be a bachelor, and 
 why should she wish to affect the style and quality of that which 
 she abhors and despises? [With increased emphasis.] As 
 women of advanced ideas, I ask you why we should thus imitate 
 • a creature which is beneath contempt? I shall submit the ques- 
 tion to Mrs. Saltwire. 
 
 [Girls are now on opposite sides R. and L. of table, Sybil 
 looking scornful and defiant.] 
 
 Ju. You are right, Sybil. [With scornful wave of hand.] 
 From this moment I renounce a title and qualification which has 
 brought me neither profit nor pleasure. And I refuse to don those 
 horrid Twentieth-Century Divided Skirts even if Harriet Annabel 
 Saltwire did suggest them. I intend sending instead an order 
 at once to Madame Frou Frou for dozens and dozens of flouncy, 
 frilly, foamy, frothy — [lifts skirts slightly, disclosing ruffle of 
 petticoat]. 
 
 Syb. [same business]. Snowy, silly, swishy skirts. [Dances 
 across room.] So do I ! 
 
 [Both girls stop dancing and fall back on perceiving letters 
 lying beneath door.] 
 
 Syb. [clutching at letter]. A letter from Phil! 
 Ju. [ditto]. A letter from Greg! 
 
 [Both girls hold letters with outstretched hands, looking at 
 them defiantly, then letting their arms fall to their sides, they each 
 exclaim with half defiant, half exhausted accent.] 
 
 Ju. and Syb. Saltwire! 
 
 [Both girls now come right down C. and Julia uttering a 
 forced sigh of relief, meanwhile she half hysterically clutches at 
 her throat, exclaiming.] 
 
 Ju. Ah ! I feel strong, supernaturally strong ! 
 Syb. [with hysterical gulp]. So do I — now. 
 Ju. [sinking into seat and speaking with spasmodic heroism] . 
 Then let us open them. [Sybil, seated.] 
 
 [Both girls avert their heads from mutual observation, mean- 
 while they open letters. After reading the first sentence or two, 
 
 (70) 
 
TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. U 
 
 they each surreptitiously endeavor to fortify themselves by re- 
 peating in spasmodic gasps, and under their breaths, with occa- 
 sional hysterical heightening of tone.] 
 
 Ju. and Syb. Saltwire, Saltwire, Saltwire. 
 
 [Both girls also half turn their heads in order to see if their 
 actions are observed. Occasionally they catch each other's eyes, 
 then they immediately turn away and address themselves with in- 
 creased ardor to repetition of the magic name, but gradually adopt 
 diminuendo. At last Sybil edges her chair half round and ejacu- 
 lates impulsively.] 
 
 Syb. He says he can't live without me. 
 
 Ju. [also edging her chair round and quoting from letter]. 
 And Greg says he hasn't had a square meal for five days ! 
 
 Syb. [also quoting as she nea/ly faces Julia]. And he's so 
 kind, poor fellow [tearfully]. He says I may give all my mind 
 to music so long as I save my heart for him. 
 
 Ju. [ditto]. And he promises to let me prescribe sharps and 
 flats for the whole parish so long as I exhibit compassion to him. 
 [Both go on reading for a few seconds, then Sybil exclaims 
 in distress.] 
 
 Syb. Oh, he has an awful cough ! 
 
 Ju. [quoting from letter, as she ejaculates] . He's consumed 
 with fever, and can't stop drinking from morn till night. [Starts 
 up.] Oh, suppose it should fly to his brain ! 
 
 Syb. [starting up in her turn, and speaking in horrified 
 tones] . What, the drink ? 
 
 Ju. [irritably]. No, no. The fever. 
 
 [Both are now dozvn C] 
 
 [Sybil turns away ivith a moan and covers her eyes. Julia 
 remains standing for a moment, then appearing to come to a sud- 
 den resolution, she turns to Sybil appealingly.] 
 
 Ju. Let's say it, Syb. [Goes up to Sybil and taking her hand 
 drags her C. Sybil breaks down, and throwing her head on 
 Julia's shotJder exclaims tearfully.] 
 
 Syb. Oh, Ju, I can't say it any more ! 
 
 Ju. [raising her head, her face expressing expectant delight] . 
 Say what? 
 
 (71) 
 
£2 TWO JOLLY GIRL BACHELORS. 
 
 Syb. The name. 
 
 Ju. What name, dear? 
 
 Syb. That horrid old woman's. 
 
 Ju. [embracing Sybil, and hugging her hysterically]. No 
 more can I, Syb — the wicked old thing! 
 
 Syb. [wiping her eyes] . Trying to turn me against Phil. 
 
 Ju. And making me behave so cruelly to dear old Greg. 
 I can say it now. Down with Saitwire ! 
 
 Syb. And nearly driving poor dear Phil into a galloping 
 consumption. Saitwire, I renounce you ! 
 
 ■ Ju. [starting forward and assuming heroic and defiant atti- 
 tude]. But, thank Heaven, she hasn't succeeded! [Turning to 
 Sybil.] No, Syb, dear, like true-hearted women, we know how 
 to appreciate the faithful and manly hearts which are offered to 
 us, and I think — 
 
 Syb. [breaking in with coy smile]. I know what / think. 
 
 Ju. What, dear? 
 
 Syb. [slyly, as she places one arm affectionately round Julia's 
 neck]. That Philip and Gregory will very soon make two happy 
 little wives out of Two Jolly Girl-Bachelors. . 
 
 [Both embrace rapturously.] 
 Curtain. 
 
 GRANDMAMMA WILL SETTLE. 
 
 "How much is that silk a yard, sir?" a blushing maiden 
 asked of a gay and dashing salesman who admiring glances cast 
 
 "Only a kiss," he murmured with an audacious air as he 
 unfolded the fabric before the maiden fair. 
 
 "Then I'll take ten yards, if you please, sir." 
 
 The young man's heart stood still. But the cruel maiden 
 added: "And grandmamma will settle the bill!" 
 
 (72) 
 
A SHOW OF HANDS. 
 
 W. R. Walkes. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised. 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS: Edward. 
 Angela. 
 
 SCENE : Neatly furnished sitting-room. Table C, contain- 
 ing books and photograph album. Sofa R. Arm-chair L. 
 Door R. 
 
 DISCOVERED : Angela, kneeling at door R. listening at key- 
 hole. 
 
 Angela. He's coming. It's all over. Oh, how my heart 
 beats ! ■ [Sits back on feet awaiting Edward's entrance. Ed- 
 ward enters agitatedly; looks about for Angela, then turns back 
 toward door and sees her.] 
 
 Edward. "Praying? 
 
 Angela. Praying and listening both. I couldn't hear a 
 word, so I'm waiting for you to tell me whether my prayers were 
 answered or not. [Rises and approaches Edward, zvho looks 
 moodily at floor.] Edward, speak! Don't keep me in suspense. 
 Can't you see how dreadfully anxious I am ? 
 
 Edw It's all up with us; he declines absolutely. 
 
 Ang; Declines ! Oh, no, Edward, it can't be true ! There's 
 some mistake ; you have misunderstood him. 
 
 3 play— 7 $ book 
 
4 A SHOW OF HANDS. 
 
 Edw. Impossible ! His final words were, "Never will I 
 consent to your marrying my daughter ! Never ! Rather than 
 that she should become your wife, I would witness unmoved her 
 elopement in a butcher's cart with the man who comes for orders." 
 
 Ang. [distressed] . Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! What can have put 
 papa so much against you? Because you and I talked it all 
 over and agreed you were to agree with him in politics and reli- 
 gion, although we both agreed that you really disagreed and — 
 
 Edward [interrupting her with despairing gesture]. Agree- 
 ing didn't help matters at all. 
 
 Ang. And did you tell him how well you are getting along 
 in the world for such a young man ? 
 
 Edw. Oh, yes, as you suggested, I didn't hesitate to blow 
 my own horn so loud I almost deafened myself. 
 
 Ang. Did you mention that you had a thousand a year ? 
 
 Edw. Yes, and I'm afraid I made it fifteen hundred. 
 
 Ang. And that your elder brother was very delicate ? 
 
 Edw. Yes, and I rather think I led him to believe that the 
 poor old boy was gasping his last. Heaven forgive me ! 
 
 Ang. Oh, never mind, it's only diplomacy. And did you 
 say that your portrait had appeared in two evening papers? 
 
 Edw. Well, no, I didn't mention that. 
 
 Ang. [pouting] . There ! I knew you'd forget the portrait. 
 
 Edw. Of course, it's fame, but I thought I'd better not say 
 anything about it. You know it appeared in an article headed "A 
 Fool and His — " 
 
 Ang. [interrupting] . Oh, yes, of course ; but did you tell 
 him how clever you are — that a letter of yours has appeared in the 
 New York Sun, and that you can do heaps of tricks with cards ? 
 
 Edw. Yes, yes ; I said everything to my credit I could think - 
 of; and, more important than all, I told him how dearly I loved 
 my darling little Angy. [Placing arm around her waist.] 
 
 Ang. [removing his arm]. Ah, papa wouldn't be interested 
 in that. He calls love the "Attraction of the Sexes," with a cap- 
 ital A and a capital S, and makes theories about it. He's a phi- 
 losopher, you know [rather bitterly]. 
 
 (74) 
 
A SHOW OF HANDS. 5 
 
 Edw. He is, worse luck. I might as well say good-bye to 
 you. 
 
 Ang. What do you mean ? ' 
 
 Edw. Well, it's philosophy, or something like it, that has so 
 completely done for us. 
 
 Ang. Ah, I might have expected it. Papa's fads again ; but 
 go on, tell me all about it. 
 
 Edw. Well, after I had blushed through my catalogue of 
 virtues, and was anxiously awaiting his decision, your father 
 exclaimed quite suddenly, "Show me your hand." I put it out— 
 so. "Thumbs up," said he, "Wiggle waggle," said I. "I am not 
 conducting a game, you ninny," said he, "I'm conducting an in- 
 vestigation. Extend your hand thumb up." He glanced at it 
 for a moment, then smacked his forehead violently and groaned. 
 I was naturally rather alarmed at this, and inquired if he were 
 ill ; his reply was, "Fetch me, from the third bookshelf yonder, 
 volume 44 of 'Pettigrew's Palmistry for Beginners.' " 
 
 Ang. Palmistry ! Ah, to be sure ! It's his latest madness ! 
 
 Edw. I brought the book. He said, "Open at page 692." 
 I did so. "Turn to Diagram No. 35," he continued, "and tell me 
 what you think of the thumb there depicted." Well, I couldn't 
 for the life of me make out what he was driving at, so I smiled 
 feebly and said it was very pretty. "No, sir," he thundered out, 
 "it is not pretty, it is the thumb of avarice and cruelty, and let me 
 tell you, sir, it is an exact representation of your own. Be gone ! 
 Good evening!" 
 
 Ang. Oh, Edward! But you aren't avaricious and cruel, 
 are you? 
 
 Edw. I don't know ; I suppose I must be, it's in a book, I've 
 seen it in print. Oh ! [sighs] I wish I'd never had a thumb — nor 
 a hand — 
 
 Ang. Yes, it would have been much more convenient; only 
 then you couldn't have written me those darling love letters, thai: 
 is, unless you wrote them with your toes, like the man at Bar- 
 num's ; but no, no, I shouldn't have liked the sound of it. "Dar- 
 ling, I take my pen in my toes to write you a letter" — ugh! 
 
 (75) 
 
6 A SHOW OF HANDS. 
 
 [Shivers. Takes hold of Edward's thumb.] Ah! you naughty 
 thumb ! You little know how unhappy you've made us ! 
 
 Edw. I believe he does, the brute, and glories in it. You 
 beast ! I broke you once, years ago, and if there was only a crow- 
 bar handy, by Jove, I'd do it again. 
 
 Ang. [quickly']. No, no, don't break it again. [Suddenly.] 
 Oh, I wonder if that has anything to do with its shape. Perhaps 
 it became cruel and avaricious quite by accident. 
 
 Edw. By Jove ! most likely. I never thought of that. It may 
 account for everything. Shall I have another try— explain the 
 breakage to your father? 
 
 Ang. Do, dear, do. It may change his . views entirely. 
 [Pushing him off.] Run away at once; and mind you tell him the 
 whole truth. Stay! [Stopping him.] Mightn't you mention 
 that it has never been itself since it was broken ; more wobbly- 
 like; altogether different from your father's thumb — and your 
 brother's thumb — and the family's thumbs generally — 
 
 Edw. Don't be afraid, I'll spin him a yarn ! 
 
 Ang. [calling after him]. Don't forget — more wobbly-like. 
 Dear Edward ! I hope you'll be careful ; of course, one ought 
 always to speak the truth, especially to one's parents ; but I know 
 dear papa's ways so very well, and have noticed that he takes 
 facts so much better after they have been touched up a little. 
 [Exit Edward R.] Dear father! [Rather angrily.] I wonder 
 if all philosophers are as tiresome as he is ! He'll never let me 
 get married. [Sits by table C] This is the third time his fads 
 have come between me and my suitors and I'm desperate this 
 time, for I care for Edward, really and truly — a thousand times 
 more than I did for the others. The others? Ah, yes! [Opens 
 photograph album.] Here you are, Tom Pontifex. What a dear 
 little man you were ! Hair a trifle carroty, perhaps, but such a 
 kind heart ! Such delicious chocolate creams as you used to 
 bring me ! Papa was deep in Phrenology when you proposed, 
 and insisted on feeling your bumps. He ruffled up your head till 
 it looked like a carpet broom, and then declared that it had the 
 
 (76) 
 
A SHOW OF HANDS. J 
 
 bump of wife-beating abnormally developed — and so, Tom, you 
 was sent about your business. It turned out afterward that the 
 bump was merely the result of incautiously taking the air in Union 
 Square during the progress of a Socialist demonstration. [Turns 
 over leaves of album again.] • Fred Stokes was the next disap- 
 pointment. That was in papa's Spiritualistic days. Fred was 
 sent off into a trance and made to declare that he was a blood- 
 stained bandit. [Gases at a certain picture.] Ah, here you are, 
 Fred. You have made a fortune on the stock exchange since 
 then, but, alas ! I shall never have the spending of it. Edward's a 
 very long time ; I wonder what they're talking about ! Ah ! [Rises 
 on seeing Edward, hand to her heart.] 
 
 [Edward enters rapidly with air of suppressed agitation and 
 excitement.] 
 
 Ang. [eagerly] . Well, well ? Did he swallow your broken 
 thumb? 
 
 Edw. No, and he's worse than ever. [Throws himself on 
 sofa. Angela sits beside him.] 
 
 Ang. Worse than ever! How? [Claps hands agitatedly.] 
 
 Edw. He admitted there might be something in my story, 
 but went on to say that to test the matter thoroughly he must 
 make a careful examination of the lines of my hand. He got 
 down another volume of the Palmistry book, opened at another 
 diagram, compared it with my hand — and, oh [groans], his dis- 
 coveries were simply appalling; in fact, I feel it is quite impossi- 
 ble you can ever marry the crushed and battered wretch that now 
 crouches before you. [Buries head in hands.] 
 
 Ang. I expected it; that's just how Tom went on after his 
 bumps were felt; but I didn't love then as I do now. I can't give 
 you up, and, what's more, I won't. Look up, dear ! 
 
 Edw. [groans] . Oh ! I can't look a chicken in the face. 
 
 Ang. Well, I'm no chicken. I'm twenty-two. Do look up 
 and tell me, tell me, what was this dreadful discovery? 
 
 Edw. [speaking solemnly]. Can you bear to hear it? It's 
 awful! 
 
 Ang. Yes. I'll nerve myself. 
 
 (77) 
 
8 A SHOW OF HANDS. 
 
 Edw. Good. I'll wait a moment while you do it. [Pauses, 
 during which Angela clenches hands and makes slight contor- 
 tions of face indicating her mental struggle.] Are you nerved? 
 
 .Ang. Yes, I'm nerved. 
 
 Edw. [rises and shows hand]. Well, do you see that line? 
 That is the line of burglary. [Angela gasps.] That one run- 
 ning across — so — is the line of arson! [Angela gives smothered 
 cry.] And that — oh, nerve yourself as much as ever you can, 
 my Angy — that is the line of murder! [Angela screams.] In 
 short, that is the sort of man I am. 
 
 Ang. [rises and staggers away, covering face and shudder- 
 ing.] It is too, too dreadful. I'll not believe it. 
 
 Edw. Alas ! there is no mistake about it. Thumbs you may 
 explain away, but lines are realities. 
 
 Ang. But you never guessed you were this sort of man, did 
 you, . Eddie ? You never really arsoned, murdered or burglared, 
 did you ? 
 
 Edw. No, but your father says that these eVil passions are 
 just- now lying dormant; but they may break out at any moment, 
 and before Tknow where I am I may find myself burglaring and 
 murdering and arsoning all over the. place. [Takes stage R.] 
 
 Ang. I see, and when they break out you'll break in with 
 a dagger in one hand and a box of lucifers in the other ! It's very, 
 very awful ! And you looked so harmless ! 
 
 Edw. I suppose that nOw we must say farewell for ever? 
 [Takes her hand.] 
 
 Ang. Yes, I suppose so. [Looks at his thumb.] Oh, you 
 wicked, cruel, poor, dear thumb ; you naughty five-in-a-row ! 
 [Strokes his fingers, then slaps them.] 
 
 Edw. [holding up his hand] . To think that this about-to-be- 
 blood-stained monster has ever dared to clasp your innocent little 
 palm ! Look at the grinning lines of vice, there, and there, and 
 there — in fact — everywhere ! I feel as if I ought to start out 
 looking for victims. 
 
 (78) 
 
A SHOW OF HANDS. 9 
 
 Ang. How mournfully interesting! [Compares hand with 
 hers, and then starts violently and exclaims:] Oh! 
 
 Edw. What is it ? 
 
 Ang. Look, look! Catch me, I am fainting— I— I've got 
 'them, too ! Grinnier than yours ! 
 
 Edw. Got what? [Catching her.] 
 
 Ang. The same lines. 
 
 Edw. Impossible ! 
 
 Ang. See, see! 
 
 "Edw. [compares hands]. Good heavens! It is true. [Stag- 
 gers, holding her.] My brain reels — take hold of me — oh, no, of 
 course, you can't. Let us stagger to a chair. [They stagger to 
 chair. ] 
 
 Ang. [weeping] . Oh, how wicked we are ! [Both groan, 
 "Oh!"] What will become of us! Do you think we shall live 
 to be hanged? 
 
 Edw. [moodily]. Yes, we're young. I suppose we'll live 
 to be hanged. 
 
 Ang. Oh, but I'd rather be hanged first and die afterward. 
 But now I'm going to do my melancholy duty — warn papa to lock 
 up all the razors, put burglar-alarms on his study windows, and 
 order a portable fire-engine. Wretched old man ; won't he be sorry 
 now that he ever meddled with palmistry! My first arson shall 
 be the burning of those books. [Exits.] 
 
 Edw. And my first murder, the man who wrote them ! Ah, 
 me! How little we know our own characters! [Studies his 
 palm.] Who would have thought that such terrible potentialities 
 could lie hidden in one's hand? But I'll cheat them yet. Yes, 
 one way remains. Immediate death. I wonder what is the 
 pleasantest mode of suicide? Razors? — no, I could never shave 
 with them afterward. Drowning? — impossible, I can't swim. I 
 must think it over. I wonder if there is a handbook on the sub- 
 ject? I'll look it up. Yes, the only career open to me now is to 
 commit suicide as frequently as possible and each time in a man- 
 ner more atrocious than the last. 
 
 m 
 
IO A SHOW OF HANDS. 
 
 Ang. [rushes in]. Oh, Edward, Edward! 
 
 Edw. Have you told your father? 
 
 Ang. Yes, and oh — poor papa! poor papa! [Begins to 
 weep.] 
 
 Edw. [gravely]. Poor papa! Angy, you haven't made a 
 start, have you [indicating severing of wind-pipe] ? 
 
 Ang. No — not yet. 
 
 Edw. Ah ! I could have forgiven you. 
 
 Ang. But poor papa ! 
 
 Edw. Well, well ! Is it arson ? Did you set a match to him ? 
 
 Ang. I showed him my hand, and bursting into tears he ex- 
 amined his own — and, oh, Edward — what do you think? He's 
 worse than we are ; the blow has almost killed him ; oh, what a 
 criminal family we are ! He says there is no telling how soon 
 we may begin. Fly from us while there is yet time. Fly ! 
 
 Edw. What's the use of my flying? I am just as likely to 
 make a start as you are. 
 
 Ang. Then come with us. 
 
 Edw. Where ? 
 
 Ang. To the nearest police-station — to give ourselves into 
 custody on suspicion. It would be such a comfort, dear, to be 
 chained in the same dungeon with you. 
 
 Edw. Good! And your father across the corridor! Then 
 let us to our doom. But hark, who's that calling? 
 
 Ang. It's papa's voice. [Runs to door.] 
 
 Edw. Perhaps the old boy is starting on the murderous war- 
 path. I must be prepared. [Takes up chair.] 
 
 Ang. Hush! Papa is speaking. [Calling off.] What did 
 you say? [Listens at door R. — a pause.] No? [Pause.] 
 Really ! [Listens with growing pleasure.] Oh, how delightful — 
 what a relief — how happy I. [Runs up to Edward.] Did you 
 hear that, dearest? It's all a mistake. 
 
 Edw. A mistake! 
 
 Ang. Yes, papa has been looking at the wrong diagram. 
 
 Edw. Wrong diagram? 
 
 (80) 
 
A SHOW OF HANDS. II 
 
 Ang. Yes, Diagram No. 220 instead of No. 230, and all our 
 lines, instead of being vicious are those of morality, long life, and 
 boundless wealth. 
 
 Edw. Angy ! 
 
 Ang. Eddie! [Fall into each other's arms limply.'] 
 
 Edw. What a relief ! But we've had an awful fright, I shall 
 remember it to my dying day. However, it's all right now, I sup- 
 pose, so we'll go at once and get his formal consent to our engage- 
 ment. [Walking together to door.] 
 
 Ang. Yes, he'll have to give it now. 
 
 Edw. Rather ! 
 
 Ang. Because you know we've carried it by [holding up 
 hands as if in the act of voting]. 
 
 Both. A Show of Hands. 
 
 Curtain, 
 
 HIAWATHIAN. 
 
 He killed the noble Mudjokivis, 
 With the skin he made him mittens, 
 Made them with the fur side inside ; 
 Made them with the skin side outside; 
 He, to get the warm side inside, 
 Put the inside skin side outside; 
 He, to get the cold side outside, 
 Put the warm side fur side mside ; 
 That's why he put the fur side inside, 
 Why he put the skin side outside, 
 Why he turned them inside outside. 
 
 (81) 
 
THE SHADOW BABY. 
 
 An Irish Dance and Pantomime. 
 
 What is it, baby Kathie, wid yer eyes o' Irish blue? 
 
 Tuggin' away at me hand to tag along o' you ? 
 Somethin' follows you roun' — oh, yes ! there it is, I see, — 
 
 A black, black shadow baby, cunnin', as cunnin' can be I 
 Come, we will catch it. [Introduce a pantomime.] 
 
 'Tis runnin' away again. 
 Now, we have got it, and here it shall stay. 
 
 Sure, it is lost now, or hidin' somewhere. 
 There I just see it behind that old chair. 
 
 Come, we will catch it — 'tis gone through the door. 
 'Tis here on the wall, 'tis here on the floor. 
 
 What is it, baby Kathie, wid your eyes o' Irish blue? 
 
 Cryin', baby Kathie ? Sure the shadow's cryin' too ! 
 Poor shadow baby, without any name; 
 
 Hoo ! wipe your eyes ; see ! 'tis doin' the same. 
 Dance away, Kathie, on heel an' on toe, 
 
 Whirl on your twinkle feet, faster and slow. [Introduce a 
 dance.] 
 Gay little shadow as gay as can be, 
 Gay little shadow, dancin' wid thee. 
 
 [Pantomime of taking hold of the baby's hands and dancing with 
 her.] 
 
 What is it, baby Kathie, wid your eyes of Irish blue? 
 
 Laughin', baby Kathie? Sure, the shadow's laughin' too. 
 [Catch up baby and run off stage.] 
 
 (82) 
 
A BACKWARD CHILD. 
 
 H. L. Childe Pemberton. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS: Miss Milliken, governess. 
 
 Florence^ aged twelve. • -. 
 
 SCENE: Private school-room. Map on wall. Platform and 
 teacher's desk, R. Small desk and chair for child, L. Globe or 
 other school-furnishings on teacher's table. Door C. in flat. 
 
 DISCOVERED : Miss Milliken at her desk: 
 
 Miss Milliken [solus]. My first morning with Florence, 
 my new pupil. A most pert, disagreeable child, I saw that at 
 once. All children are more or less pert and disagreeable, how- 
 ever. It is my belief that a kind Providence should have arranged 
 for them on a separate planet, developed, in, incubators, until 
 maturity. Her mother says Florence is extremely backward, and 
 that her father allows her to do anything she pleases. .Well, if I 
 can only keep my temper during the first morning, so that I get 
 my salary in advance, I shall not worry about keeping it in 
 future. [Enter Florence, skips behind Miss M., and nearly tilts 
 her backward on her chair.] 
 
 Florence. Morning, MHliken. 
 
 Miss M. [shrieks]. Heavens! [Recovers herself and draws 
 away chair.] Good morning, my little dear! [Aside.] Imper- 
 
 3 play — 83 book 
 
4 A BACKWARD CHILD. 
 
 tinent brat! [Direct.] What an engaging smile you're wearing 
 this morning! 
 
 F. Huh ! I'd catch cold if that's all I wore. 
 
 Miss M. Now, my little dear, if you'll kindly be seated — 
 
 F. That's the second time you've sprung "little dear" on 
 me already. I don't approve of familiarity on short acquaintance, 
 as the old maid said when the pug dog flew at her and tore her 
 petticoats. 
 
 Miss M. [shocked]. My dear child, err — Florence — 
 
 F. What's the matter ? Got a pain ? 
 
 Miss M. [aside] . Pained to think I didn't ask more salary. 
 [Direct.] You're such a bright little snake — child, I mean, — that 
 I shall have to work very hard to keep up with you. Now, if you 
 will kindly sit down in that chair — no sit down in the chair, don't 
 kneel on it — and don't stare at me over the back of it. Why, 
 child, what are you looking at? 
 
 F. [still kneeling and staring at Miss M. over back of chair]. 
 I thought sO at first, and now I'm sure of it. You've got a dab of 
 whitewash right on the end of your nose. [As. Miss M. applies 
 handkerchief hastily.] Oh, what made you take it off? You 
 looked awfully funny. Even funnier than you do without it. 
 
 Miss M. Is that a respectful way to address your governess, 
 Florence? Think for a moment. 
 
 F. [sinking sulkily into chair]. Mamma don't want me to 
 think. Thinking starts headaches and headaches fade your hair, 
 and when a girl's hair fades she's a dead one. [Jumps up and 
 looks closely at Miss M.'s hair.] You're sort of half dead your- 
 self, ain't you? 
 
 Miss M. [indignantly]. Sit down this instant or I'll — 
 [Florence skips back and jumps into chair]. We will commence 
 with a few general geographical questions, to find out where you 
 are. 
 
 F. I know where I are. Second story front. 
 
 Miss M. [rings bell for order*]. What is a promontory? 
 
 F. I know that. It's where you climb up and up winding 
 stairs in a tower to look at scenery, and then when you get there 
 
 (84) 
 
A BACKWARD CHILD. 5 
 
 you don't look at it, you just hold hands with a young man. I 
 know, 'cause I've seen sister, and I'm going to when I grow up. 
 And Cousin Lucy says — 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what your Cousin Lucy says. Don't 
 tilt your chair. 
 
 F. Why not? 
 
 Miss M. Why not? Because you'll be over backward di- 
 rectly. 
 
 F. Well, father says I'm backward, anyhow. 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what your father says, but attend to 
 me. [Questions at random from book.] On what seacoast is the 
 town of Joppa situated ? 
 
 F. [vaguely]. I don't know. [Chants.] "There was a 
 young lady of Joppa, who came a society cropper — " 
 
 Miss M. A what? 
 
 F. Don't you know what a society cropper is ? Oh ! you 
 are behind the times ! I say, Miss Milliken, do tell me what you 
 think. When a person's in society, like my mamma, and when a 
 person, who's her friend, becomes a society cropper, you know, 
 like Mrs. Ponsonby Masher, do you think it's fair to chuck her 
 over? 
 
 Miss M. My dear, these are not questions I can discuss with 
 a child like you. 
 
 F. That's because you're not in society, you know ; but I've 
 heard my mamma and my aunt say — 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what your mamma and your aunt say. 
 Attend to me. [Questions from book.] Attend to me, I say. 
 (What is a tidal wave ? 
 
 F. [enthusiastically] . I know. You get it at the hair- 
 dresser's. Did yours grow on your head, or is it a false front? 
 
 Miss M. Incorrect. We will commence at the beginning of 
 geography in our next lesson. 
 
 F. [complainingly]. But I don't want to know geography 
 until I start on a wedding tower. When I marry my first hus- 
 band I'm going to Niagara, and when I marry the second one I'm 
 going to see an earthquake, and when I tie up with number three 
 
 (85) 
 
6 A BACKWARD CHILD. 
 
 I'm going to a tropical country where there's fire and brimstone 
 volcanoes all the time. Say, you look tired. 
 
 Miss M. [gaspingly], I am — recovering. We will drop 
 geography for the present. How far did you get in arithmetic? 
 
 F. Page two — and then the puppy chewed v.p the hook. 
 And after that he could bark your age. No, I don't mean your 
 age, because he might die before he got through, but folks that's 
 yourig— 
 
 ,, Miss M. [very indignantly]. Silence. No more digressions, 
 if you please. Do you know anything whatever of arithmetic? 
 R F, Q^ you bet [stands up and recites parrot fashion]\ Mul- 
 tiplication is vexation, division is as bad, subtraction is what 
 puzzles me and addition makes me mad. 
 
 Miss M. Very well, then, I think we might take up vulgar 
 fractions. . | . 
 
 F. Not much you won't. You'll get discharged. Ma's try- 
 ing to break into society now, and she says anything vulgar gives 
 her a cat-fit. Why, one day when pa went around in his shirt 
 sleeves — 
 
 Miss M. I'm not interested in your pa. This lesson is— 
 
 F. [much surprised]. Oh, ain't you? Why, ma said you 
 looked like the kind of desperate old maid that would be just 
 crazy after any man — 
 
 ,-. Miss M. [furiously] . Silence. Let us change the subject. 
 
 F. I'd rather you changed your dress. That one looks just 
 like cold gingerbread, and I always hated cold gingerbread. 
 
 Miss M. [aside]. Oh, I'm rapidly approaching the end of 
 the string. [To Florence.] We will have an. exercise in mental 
 .Arithmetic. Suppose there were three apples on one table—*- 
 
 F. Ripe ones? 
 
 Miss M. [continuing example]. Two on another — 
 
 F. Specked ones or just as good? 
 
 Miss M. [continuing]. And one on the mantel-piece. What 
 would they make? 
 
 F. Stomach-ache, if you eat 'em all, and apple pie if you 
 didn't. 
 
 (86) 
 
A BACKWARD CHILD. J 
 
 Miss M. Don't take me up like that [shoves Florence vio- 
 lently into chair]. 
 
 \F. Then don't you put me down like that. 
 
 Miss M. [screaming]. Silence! [More gently.] Now, 
 about your grammar. I suppose you've been grounded in gram- 
 mar? 
 
 F. Oh ! you don't mean grounded ; you mean floored. I've 
 been floored in grammar heaps and heaps of times ! 
 
 Miss M. I mean grounded. 
 
 F. No, you don't. 
 
 Miss M. Yes, I do, I tell you. Don't answer me. [Pause.] 
 How many parts of speech are there? [Silence on the part of 
 Florence.] How many parts of speech are there? [Continued 
 silence on the part of Florence.] How many parts of speech 
 are there? [Angrily.] Why don't you answer { 
 
 F. You told me not to answer, so I shan't. 
 
 Miss M. I did not mean you were not to answer my ques- 
 tions. • 
 
 F. Then why don't you say what you mean ? 
 
 Miss M. The fact is, you can't answer! You are without 
 exception the most backward child- — [Florence grabs book out 
 of Miss Milliken's hand]. Give me back that book. 
 
 F. Not if I know it ! 
 
 Miss M. But you don't know it — that's just it. Give it me 
 back this minute. Give it back this minute. [Chases Florence 
 about room trying to recover book. Aside.] Oh, I can never catch 
 her, the little eel. [Florence hides under teacher's desk.] But 
 I must not let her know she has defeated me. [Very mildly.] 
 Come out, dear. I was simply chasing you for the sake of ex- 
 ercise. [As Florence emerges.] Keep the book, I had quite 
 finished with it. Now, stand still, and let me hear you recite some 
 poetry. 
 
 F. [skips to the front]. Oh! I can do lots of that. I'm 
 awfully clever — real jam, my papa says — and he knows! 
 
 Miss M. Stop a minute. Put your hands behind you 
 [Florence reluctantly does so.] Feet together — first position. 
 
 (87) 
 
8 A BACKWARD CHILD. 
 
 F. [sulkily]. It gives me a crick in my conscience to stand 
 like that. 
 
 i Miss M. I've no doubt you think your own way is best, but 
 you must learn to do as you are told. Now, go on and say: 
 "How doth the little busy bee—" 
 
 F. "How doth the little busy bee 
 
 Delight to bark and bite, 
 And gather honey every day 
 To eat it up at night." 
 
 Miss M. Stop ! stop ! stop ! That's not right. 
 
 F. Yes, it is. 
 
 Miss M. No, it is not. 
 
 F. Indeed and indeed, Miss Milliken, I can show it you in 
 the book, "Alice in Wonderland." 
 
 Miss M. Dr. Watts didn't write "Alice in Wonderland," 
 you little goose. 
 
 F. [beginning to cry]. Oh, w-well — if you — d-dont — b-be- 
 lieve what I say — I shall g-go and t-tell my p-papa ! 
 
 Miss M. [aside]., Now she's going to cry ! This will never 
 do my first morning. [Aloud. ] Well, go on, my dear child, and 
 say whatever you like. 
 
 F. May I say "The D-Duck and the K-Kangaroo?" 
 
 Miss M. The Duck and the what? 
 
 F. "The Duck and the Kangaroo." 
 
 Miss M. I haven't the least idea who wrote it, but you may, 
 if you like. 
 
 F. Don't you know "The Duck and the Kangaroo?" Oh! 
 you are behind the times ! 
 
 Miss M. [severely]. Well, go on. Hands behind you — 
 [Florence puts her hands behind her] — feet together — first posi- 
 tion, 
 
 F. [showing signs of crying again]. But I can't say "The 
 Duck and Kangaroo" like that, nobody could, because you have 
 to make a lot of gestures with your feet. 
 
 Miss M. Well, say it anyhow you like — only say it. 
 
 (88) 
 
A BACKWARD CHILD. 9 
 
 F. [recites, hopping violently about room as she does so]. 
 
 "Said the Duck to the Kangaroo, 
 
 Good gracious! how you hop! 
 Over the land and water too, 
 
 As if you never would stop." 
 Said the Kangaroo: "I'm ready, 
 
 All in the moonlight pale; 
 But to keep me straight, dear Duck sit steady, 
 
 And quite at the end of my tail." 
 So away they went with a hop and a bound, 
 And they hopped the whole world three times round; 
 
 And who so happy, oh, who, 
 
 As the Duck and the Kangaroo?" 
 
 [Florence imitates hopping of a kangaroo. Bumps into 
 Miss M. and knocks her into a chair, where she sits gasping.] 
 
 F. [after a pause] . Don't you like it ? 
 
 Miss M. Like it ? Who would like being knocked off their 
 feet? How dare you! Apologize this very minute! Say, I am 
 very sorry ; I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Milliken. 
 
 F. I am very sorry ; I beg your pardon — - 
 
 Miss M. [prompting]. My dear — 
 
 F. Miss Milliken, how long do you think it would take a 
 kangaroo to hop round the world? 
 
 Miss M. It couldn't be done — so don't ask silly questions. 
 
 F. Why couldn't it be done ? 
 
 Miss M. Could a kangaroo hop over the sea? No. So 
 there's an end of it. 
 
 F. No, his tail is the end of it! 
 
 Miss M. Sit down and don't speak another word till I tell 
 you, or I'll keep you after school. I am going to set you a copy. 
 
 [Begins to write, bending her head very low like a near- 
 sighted person. Florence examines Miss M.'s hair with interest 
 across table.] 
 
 Miss M. [looking up suddenly]. What do you want? 
 
 F. I was only looking at the color of your hair. It's so 
 funny. 
 
 Miss M. Funny! funny! I have had my hair called many 
 things, — yes, many things — golden tresses — raven locks — but 
 
 (89) 
 
I0 A BACKWARD CHILD. 
 
 never, no, never, did I hear it stigmatized as funny! What do 
 you mean, Miss? 
 
 F. It's all sorts of colors. Red, white and blue in spots, you 
 know. 
 
 Miss M. [furiously]. Silence, and attend to your own af- 
 fairs. 
 
 F. [aside]. Now she's mad. I'll have to get her over it. 
 [Wheedlingly.] Oh, Miss Milliken. [Miss M. slams books 
 about on desk in a rage.] Miss Milliken, dear Miss Milliken. 
 My ma said something awful nice about you. 
 
 Miss M. [somewhat mollified]. Indeed! Nice, you say? 
 
 F. Yes, about your looks. Awful nice. 
 
 Miss M. [smirking]. Indeed? I recognized at once that 
 your mother had excellent taste. [After a slight pause.] Well? 
 
 F. [stupidly]. Yes, I'm well. 
 
 Miss M. But aren't you going to tell me what the some- 
 thing nice is your mother said, child? 
 
 F. Yes, it sounded just like a circus. Ma said your nose 
 had started out to be a camel's hump, and then changed its mind 
 and turned into a parachute ; and Aunt Lou said she guessed you 
 was one governess ma wouldn't be jealous of, and pa said after 
 he'd once looked at your face that he didn't blame you for bein' 
 an old maid, for goodness knows it wasn't your fault. There, 
 ain't that nice? 
 
 Miss M. [hysterically]. Unspeakable! atrocious! insulting! 
 Go, tell your father I want to see him at once. [Aside.] I shall 
 tell him I'm in need of money, request as a favor a month's wages 
 in advance', and then leave on the first train. [Direct. ] Send 
 your father to me, I say. 
 
 F. All right, but I hope you're not going to ask him for 
 any money, because if you do, you won't get it. 
 
 Miss M. And how do you know I wouldn't get an advance, 
 if I asked it? 
 
 F. Because pa said you'd be glad of a job for six months 
 just for the sake of hangin' on anywhere, he guessed, and when 
 you got anxious for your pay he could hire someone else. 
 
 (90) 
 
A BACKWARD CHILD. II 
 
 Miss M. Oh, where is he? Let me set eyes on him just 
 mce. and — 
 
 F. He's in the garden squirting the flowers, uut don't come 
 it him too sudden, because he'll turn the hose on you if you do — 
 [Miss Milliken smites door violently with palm and exits]. 
 She's gone. Goody, and now I'll get another one. I just love to 
 change governesses. 'Cause changing governesses is fun, and the 
 best way for pa and ma to bring a backward child forward. 
 [Violent shrieks heard outside.] Oh, she came on him and the 
 hose sudden, and got squirted. Oh, and I missed it! Oh! oh! 
 [Runs off hastily as curtain falls."] 
 
 COOKIN' THINGS. 
 
 Burges Johnson. 
 
 When my mother's cookin' things 
 
 You bet I never wait 
 To put away my ball er gun, — 
 I drop 'em where they are an' run 
 
 Fer fear I'll be too late. 
 The most exciting kind o' game 
 
 Er toy, er story-book, 
 I let 'em go, an' never mind, 
 The very minute that I find 
 
 My mother's goin' to cook. 
 
 When my mother's cookin' things, 
 
 Then you jus' oughter smell 
 
 The spices an' sweets an' such, — 
 
 <9l) 
 
12 A BACKWARD CHILD. 
 
 My mouth gets waterin' so much 
 
 I almost have to yell ! 
 She opens up the oven door 
 
 Sometimes, to take a look, 
 An' then I jab 'em while they're hot 
 To see if they are done er not, — 
 
 When mother lets me cook. 
 
 When my mother's cookin' things, 
 
 P'r'aps it's pies to bake, 
 Er doughnuts bobbin' up an' down 
 In boilin' grease till they are brown, 
 
 Er p'r'aps it's johny-cake. 
 Whatever kind of thing it is, 
 
 I always like to hook 
 The biggest piece of dough I can 
 An' bake it in a patty-pan, 
 
 When me an' mother Cook. 
 
 When my mother's cookin' things, 
 
 It pays you if you wait 
 An' eat 'em hot, right off the tin„-=> 
 It's twice as good as anythin' 
 
 Could be, et off the plate ! 
 An' I guess you'd find out fer sure 
 
 That I was not mistook 
 In any single thin' Fvt said, 
 If you could taste the gingerbread 
 
 I've helped my mother cook. 
 
 T2 
 

 THE CRYSTAL-GAZER 
 
 Leopold Montague. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS :— Madame La Sorciere. 
 Miss Bessie Blank. 
 
 NOTE. — If necessary, the part of the clairvoyante can be 
 taken by a man calling himself "The Red Magician," and merely 
 adapting text to suit change of sex. 
 
 SCENE : Drawing-room. Entrances R. and L. Table R. C. 
 Arm-chair R. of table. Sofa down L. On table some unopened 
 letters and a glass bowl containing water. Enter Madame La 
 Sorciere, in teagown, R. 
 
 LA Sorciere. How many letters there are this morning! 
 Good, very good ! Everybody wants to know the future. Rich 
 and poof, they are all the same. [Sits in armchair by table.] 
 That is why I have set up as a soothsayer. It pays well, and I 
 may honestly say that I know as much of the future as anybody 
 else. [Opens letter — reads.] "Madame, I wish to consult you 
 on a matter greatly affecting my happiness. I have been in the 
 West Indies, where I made the acquaintance of a charming young 
 lady." [Spoken.] Ah, a woman at the bottom of it as usual. 
 [Reads.] "We traveled to England on board the same steamer, 
 and on the way became engaged." [Spoken.] Of course, the 
 usual consequence. [Reads.] "She left me at Gravesend." I 
 see — as soon as she could get away from him. [Reads.] "To 
 
 3 play— 93 book 
 
4 THE CRYSTAL-GAZER. 
 
 join her aunt, who had come down from town to meet her," 
 [Spoken.] Oh, only her aunt! [Reads.] "with the understand- 
 ing that I was to call upon her next day. Imagine my dismay on 
 finding that I had lost the address she gave me, having written it 
 on my cuff, which I inadvertently sent to the wash. All efforts to 
 trace her having proved futile, I am now at my wits' end, so I 
 come to you, having heard of your marvelous powers as a clair- 
 voyante. I trust you may be able to assist me, and accordingly 
 purpose calling on you at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. I 
 remain, Madam, yours faithfully, Kenneth Frazer, 43 Regent 
 Row." Three o'clock this afternoon. H'm, that's rather short 
 notice, Mr. Kenneth Frazer, I always like plenty of notice. It is 
 surprising how much one can tell about a person's past if one only 
 has time to make a few judicious inquiries beforehand. Why, I 
 can even tell people what they have come to consult me about — 
 when I have previously found out. Ha, ha, ha ! What gulls 
 people are ! Now, there's the young lady who is to call upon me 
 this morning. She has lost her poodle and wants me to find it. 
 First I shall describe the poodle. She will think that supernatural, 
 but my maid has found out all about him from her cook. Then 
 she will want to know where he is, and as I have already traced 
 him to the Dogs' Home, the oracle will speak. Ha, ha! It may 
 mean a five-pound note. [Bell off L.] There she is. [Rises.] 
 My maid will show her in here where I will keep her waiting a 
 few minutes to impress her — and prepare her for my mysterious 
 costume and foreign accent. Oh, what a deceitful world this is ! 
 [Takes up letters and exits, R.] 
 
 [Enter Bessie Blank, L.] 
 Bessie. So this is the room of the mysterious Madame La 
 Sorciere ! I declare I feel quite creepy ! Yet I don't see any 
 retorts or alembics about. No, not even a stuffed crocodile. 
 [Sits on sofa.] I hope — I hope it isn't under the sofa! [Rises, 
 business.] No, it's only a stool. [Sees bowl on table.] What's 
 this? Oh, I know. It's for divination. You look into the water 
 and you see [business] nothing but the bottom! Well, I hope 
 Madame will be able to see Kenneth. Where can he be? What 
 
 (94) 
 
THE CRYSTAL-GAZER. ' 5 
 
 can have become of him ? [Sits on sofa.]- It's enough to make 
 one cry — just when one has got engaged, to go and lose one's 
 lover like a needle in a haystack. But I won't give way. Perhaps 
 Madame can tell me where he is. They say she is simply wonder- 
 ful. If Kenneth is on earth she'll see him in the water. 
 [Enter Madame La Sorciere, R., wearing magician's robes.] 
 
 Bess. The clairvoyante herself! 
 
 La S. [with foreign accent] . Welcome. Do not rise. 
 
 Bess. I have come — [half ■ rises] . 
 
 La S. I know why you have come [taps her forehead sig- 
 nificantly]. 
 
 Bess. No? Really? How wonderful! [Site.] 
 
 La S. You would have news of your faithful companion. 
 Am I not right? [Bends and strokes imaginary dog's back.] 
 
 Bess. Yes, yes. How clever you are ! [Aside.] She's 
 making magic passes. And you think he is faithful? 
 
 La S. I know he is. [Pats imaginary dog's head.] 
 
 Bess. Oh, you have already removed a load from my mind ! 
 
 La S. [aside]: She'll find those loads are expensive. But 
 he has been led astray. 
 
 Bess. Astray? Tell me no more! Well, why don't you 
 go on? 
 
 La S. [sitting by her]. One moment. For describing the 
 object of your thoughts by thought-transference or animal mag- 
 netism my charge is one guinea. Should you want to know more, 
 there is the crystal bowl in which I can invariably see and describe 
 what is passing or has recently occurred in any part of the globe. 
 Divination by means of crystal bowl, five guineas. I wish to avoid 
 any possible misunderstanding. 
 
 Bess. Yes — exactly— but I think I'll begin with the animal 
 magnetism. I like magnetism, and it's cheaper. 
 
 La S. Certainly, my dear. There is nothing to prevent our 
 adopting the more expensive methods later on. Your hand, child. 
 [Business.] Kindly remove your glove. [Business.] Nov; 
 think of the lost one. 
 
 Bess. Heigh-ho ! When don't I think of him ! 
 
 (95) 
 
6 THE CRYSTAL-GAZER. 
 
 La S. [scans Bessie's palm closely]. He is dark. 
 
 Bess. He is. Looks like a Spanish Grandee. [Sighs.] 
 
 La S. With curly hair. 
 
 Bess. Quite right. Each curl the snare for a heart. 
 [Sighs.] 
 
 La S. And beautiful brown eyes. 
 
 Bess. Yes — dear fellow ! One of them turns in a little. 
 
 La S. Though his ears are perhaps a trifle long. 
 
 Bess. Strange, but I never noticed his ears. [Reflectively.] 
 Well, perhaps they are. 
 
 La S. He has been recently shaved. 
 
 Bess. Why, of course, he's always well groomed. 
 
 La S. And was washed last Saturday. 
 
 Bess. Really ! What intimate details ! 
 
 La S. Ah, you see I know all about him. 
 
 Bess. So it seems. How does he spend his time? 
 
 La S. He once followed you into church. 
 
 Bess. He did. 
 
 La S. And had to be removed by the pew-opener. 
 
 Bess. No, no ! 
 
 La S. Yes — because he persisted in getting on your lap. 
 
 Bess, [indignantly]. I assure you such a thing never oc- 
 curred. 
 
 La S. You must have forgotten it. At least, that's what 
 he wanted to do. Animal magnetism cannot lie. It tells me he 
 is intelligent and affectionate. 
 
 Bess. There you are right. You have told me his virtues — 
 now tell me his faults. 
 
 La S. Well, he is rather given to overeating. 
 
 Bess. I've never noticed it. The between-meals habit per- 
 haps. 
 
 La S. Yes, he would eat all day long if he had the oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 Bess. How horrid ! So unromantic ! 
 
 La S. Then he spends too much of his time in the kitchen 
 with the maids. 
 
 (96) 
 
THE CRYSTAL-GAZER. 7 
 
 Bess. With the maids? That's too romantic. 
 
 La S. Yes — he is particularly fond of the cook. 
 
 Bess. Oh, the wretch ! Go on ! Go on ! 
 
 La S. [dropping hand]. That is all I can sec. I can tell you 
 no more without resorting to the crystal globe. [Crossing R.] 
 If you would like me to use it I can tell you why he left home and 
 what he is doing at this moment. But as I told you, the fee is— 
 [walks toward bowl]. 
 
 Bess. [Aside]. She described Kenneth, when I never even 
 told her what I came for ; then that cook ! Oh, I'd give my last 
 penny to find out all • about that cook ! [ Taking out purse. To 
 La S.] Five pounds? [Rises.] 
 
 La S. Guineas, my dear. 
 
 Bess. Of course. [Giving money]. I think you will find 
 that is right. Not that one could be jealous of a cook, but, — 
 
 La S. [R. C.]. A thousand thanks. But I may say at 
 once that if I am the means of restoring your lost darling, I shall 
 expect — 
 
 Bess. Go on. When I know all, I may not want my lost 
 darling. 
 
 [La S. walks round table, making passes over bowl, then sits 
 on chair by table, gazing into bowl. Bessie stands L. C. Slow 
 music.] 
 
 La S. Ah, the water turns milky. Now it clears, and I see a 
 street. The lamps are lit, so it is evening. A stout woman is 
 walking on the side-way. 
 
 Bess. It's that cook ! 
 
 La S. And he is following her. 
 
 Bess. I knew it ! My idol walks on feet of clay ! 
 
 La S. But see ! He in turn is followed by a rough-looking 
 man in moleskin breeches. 
 
 Bess. The cook's young man. Well, it serves him right. 
 
 La S. He lingers at a corner. Oh, he is in great danger! 
 Hie ruffian deftly throws a noose round his neck and — 
 
 (97) 
 
8 THE CRYSTAL-GAZER. 
 
 Bess. Good Heavens ! When perhaps he only meant to ask 
 the cook for a tart. Go on — I can bear it. What do you see? 
 Does he escape? 
 
 La S. I see the interior of a miserably furnished garret. 
 There is a sort of cage, and he is within. 
 
 Bess. Oh, my poor darling ! Yet he lives — he lives ! 
 
 La S. Yes. Ha! He is tearing" out one of the bars with 
 his teeth. 
 
 Bess. His teeth! 
 
 La S. They; give way! 
 
 Bess. What, his teeth? 
 
 La S. No, the bars. He rushes out of the house. He is 
 free. 
 
 Bess. Saved ! Ah, I breathe again. 
 
 La S. No. He is wandering about the slums. He is lost. 
 
 Bess. Lost — lost in London ! But he ought to know his 
 way about. 
 
 La S. He is half-starved. His tongue is hanging out. 
 
 Bess. Oh, it is too horrible! If he should catch cold and 
 become speechless ! 
 
 La S. He shivers! 
 
 Bess. Tell me — how is he dressed? 
 
 La S. Dressed ? He has nothing on but his collar. 
 
 Bess. Oh I I can't imagine it ! 
 
 La S. In vain he begs to the passers-by for a bone. 
 
 Bess. Hard-hearted brutes ! Do they refuse him ? 
 
 La S. He sees the remains of a bologna in the gutter. 
 
 Bess. Don't say he eats it. I could never forgive that. 
 
 La S. No — tie is rolling upon the — 
 
 Bess. The ground !. I see. His strength has given way. 
 He is dying ! Deserted ! starved ! friendless ! alone ! 
 
 La S. No. I see the figure of a policeman bending over him. 
 
 Bess. Then he is rescued? Tell me he is rescued. 
 
 La S. The picture fades and reforms itself. I see the in- 
 terior of a cell. He is chained to the wall. 
 
 (98) 
 
THE CRYSTAL-GAZER. 9 
 
 Bess. What? Arrested for being lost? And this is law — 
 justice! Yet we live in an enlightened age! 
 
 La S. Next I see him in a van. 
 
 Bess. Black Maria ! His proud head bowed in shame ! 
 
 La S. Which conveys him to a building surrounded by a 
 high railing. Ah, I recognize the place. I see no more. He must 
 be in that building now. 
 
 Bess. What building? Where? How? 
 
 La S. Stop. A scene from the future discloses itself. His 
 troubles are at an end. You have come to his rescue. The barred 
 gate is thrown open and he rushes forth joyfully wagging his tail. 
 
 Bess. Wagging his what? 
 
 La S. [rising] . Yes — found — safe and sound — at the Home 
 for Lost Dogs ! 
 
 Bess. What on earth are you talking about? 
 
 La S. Why, your poor lost poodle dog, Zou-Zou. 
 
 Bess. I don't understand. I never had a poodle dog. 
 
 La S. Eh? [Aside.] Can I have made a mistake? [To 
 Bess.] You are surely the lady who made an appointment for 
 eleven this morning? 
 
 Bess. I made no appointment. 
 
 La S. Then what in the world have you come about? 
 
 Bess. You told me you knew what I came about. Imposter ! 
 
 La S. [aside]. This is awkward. [Aloud.] The fact is I 
 mistook you for another person. If you insist on calling on me 
 without making a proper appointment, it is no fault of mine if you 
 have to put up with a vision intended for somebody else. 
 
 Bess. That's all very fine, but what about my feelings? 
 Here I've been working myself up and upsetting my nerves about 
 the adventures of some miserable mongrel, thinking all the time 
 it was my — my — oh, it's too outrageous ! 
 
 La S. [pointing to bowl]. Perhaps you would like me to 
 try again. 
 
 (99) 
 
IO THE CRYSTAL-GAZER, 
 
 Bess. Certainly not. 
 
 La S. As you please. You have had a very good vision be- 
 longing to some one else, and you must make the best of it. 
 
 Bess. I want my money back. 
 
 La S. I make it a rule never to return fees. 
 
 Bess. Then I'll tell the world what you are. You are a 
 cheat — a trickster — a charlatan ! 
 
 La S. Softly, softly ! They won't believe you. 
 
 Bess. Yes, I'll show you up. I can do it, too. My pa's a 
 magistrate and I've an uncle on the County Council. 
 
 La S. [aside]. That is serious. I abominate pas and uncles. 
 
 Bess. If you want to know what I came for — I came to 
 ask you for the present address of the gentleman to whom I am 
 engaged. I shall find him, never fear, without your assistance, 
 and it may interest you to know that he writes for all the society 
 papers. 
 
 La S. [aside]. Good gracious! 
 
 Bess. He'll advertise your show for you. [At door L.] 
 Good morning. [Goes out.] 
 
 La S. She'll ruin me ! 
 
 Bess, [re-ap fearing]. You may perhaps know his name. 
 It is Kenneth Fraser. 
 
 La S. Eh? [Aside.] Where have I seen that name? I 
 know! [Aloud.] Stop! Stop! I've another vision ! 
 
 Bess. What is it now? 
 
 La S. I can find him for you. I swear it! 
 
 Bess, [sarcastically]. Oh, yes — following the cook or at the 
 Dogs' Home. 
 
 La S. No. Turn your back so as not to break the new spell 
 I shall weave. I will tell you something about this man which 
 you will at once recognize as true. 
 
 Bess, [doubtfully as she turns her back]. Well, I'll give you 
 one more trial. 
 
 (ioo) 
 
THE CRYSTAL-GAZER.- ...... II 
 
 La S. 'Tis all I ask. [Hastily snatches up the Fraser letter 
 and reads from it surreptitiously.] You became engaged to him 
 on shipboard. 
 
 Bess. True, true ! We were both so much in love that we 
 entirely forgot to be seasick. 
 
 La S. He left you at Gravesend. 
 
 Bess. You've hit that nail on the head. Go on. 
 
 La S. [scanning letter carefully]. And the crystal bowl tells 
 me he is searching madly for yoU and may himself be found at 
 No. 43 Regent Row [hastily conceals letter and' peers into bowl]. 
 There ! 
 
 Bess, [turning enthusiastically]. Yes, that is his address. 
 Now you mention it, it comes back to me. Kenneth Frazer, 43 
 Regent Row, and searching madly for me! Oh, bliss! I'll send 
 him a telegram at once. Oh, madam, you are wonderful ! I'll 
 recommend you to all my friends. I forgive you the cook, the 
 Black Maria, and the dog.- ■■■ -- c 
 
 La S. [bowing graciously].- Thank you. I always do my 
 best to satisfy my patrons, though sometimes, as in your case, it 
 requires the empleyment of a little doggerel to do it. Call again. 
 "{Makes deep- curtsy as Bessie bows herself out.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 PORE AUNT DINAH. 
 
 Violet Etynge Mitchell. 
 
 Pore Aunt Dinah ! she's a-settin' all erlone 
 
 Like a June bug a-roostin' on a tree; . 
 
 She 's a-singin' to herself de songs ob long ergo 
 
 In de days 'fore de niggars was set free. 
 
 ''Hi! dar! Ho, dar!" (Watch her feet a-tappin'. 
 
 (101) 
 
WERNER'S READINGS 
 
 A-keepin* time to music long gone by; 
 
 She's a-listenin' to de fiddle 
 
 While de folks come up de middlt, 
 And yo' mos' can see de couples passin' nigh.) 
 
 Pore Aunt Dinah ! she's a-gettin' ole, 
 
 'Pears like she mus' be nigh on eighty-fo, 
 But when de dew am drappin' 
 
 Yo' can hear dose feet a-tappin', 
 While she makes believe she's young agin, once mo\| 
 "Hi! dar! Ho! dar!" (Hear her voice a-calli* 1 ' 
 A-callin' to de folks she used ter know :) 
 
 "Nancy, don' yo' shilly shally; 
 Watch dose pumpkin pies, yo' Sally. 
 While yo' elders an' yo' batters grease do fk>\" 
 
 "Say, Aunt Dinah!" (de little darkies ask her) 
 
 "We don' hear no scrapin' ob no bow ; 
 
 Whar am de pone cake an' pumpkin-pie yo're smellin'? 
 
 What fo' yo' cry an' holler so ?" 
 "Oh, my! Oh, my!" (see her tears a-fallin'; 
 
 But she smile, an' she answer, berry low,) 
 "Don' yo' hear dat banjo ringin', an' Marm Juley*6 voice a* 
 
 singin' ?" 
 Den de little darkies listen — an' say, "No." 
 
 Some night, I t'ink, when de yaller moon's a-shinin', 
 
 An' de fire-flies a-dancin' to an' fro, 
 Pore Aunt Dinah eill walk out among de shadders, 
 An' meet dose she loved, so long ago. 
 
 "Hi! dar! Ho! dar!" (we'll hear her voice a-callin' 
 While de tree-branch throw ghosties on de flo'). 
 
 "I'se a-comin', Nancy, — Sally — 
 
 An' it's dark aong de valley, 
 But I see de bright lights all erlong de sho\" 
 
 (102) 
 
THE CONFEDERATES. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Mr. John Wardale, aged twenty-six. 
 
 Miss Valentia Mannington, aged eighteen. 
 
 SCENE : A garden lighted by Chinese lanterns. Enter from 
 the house John and Valentia. 
 
 John [motioning Valentia to rustic seat]. I say, the eve- 
 ning begins well. That was a splendid waltz. Perfect floor, per- 
 fect music, perfect partner, eh, Valentia ? You will have to dance 
 with me all night. [Sits beside her.] 
 
 Valentia. I shouldn't mind, but what would mamma say? 
 
 John. Has a modern mother any control Over her daughters ? 
 
 Val. Not exactly, but she can say things, you know [un- 
 furls fan]. 
 
 John. I don't fancy she dislikes me, at any rate. 
 
 Val. No — but she doesn't like me to waste my time — and 
 [hesitating] she knows — [opens and shuts fan nervously]. 
 
 John. That I am not a marrying man. I should think not, 
 indeed. [Laughing.] 
 
 Val. Ha ! ha ! Fancy you being married ! 
 
 John [doubtfully]. Um — err — is that complimentary? 
 
 Val. It would be too funny, ha, ha! 
 
 John. You can't imagine me married, can you? 
 
 Val. No, indeed. But — Jack — you — you might be engaged. 
 
 3 play — 103 book 
 
4 THE CONFEDERATES. 
 
 John. Being engaged is apt to lead to being married. 
 
 Val. It needn't. 
 
 John. Breach of promise. [Facetiously moves away, ward- 
 ing her off with both hands.] 
 
 Val. Oh ! No nice girl — ■ 
 
 John [lazily]. You are the only nice girl I know, and — 
 [sits close to her again], 
 
 Val. [desperately]. Well, then, Jack, would you mind be- 
 ing engaged to me just for five hours? 
 
 John. Val — my dear girl — [rises and walks away a few 
 steps, then laughs nervously and returns to back of bench, leaning 
 over to talk with her], 
 
 Val. [speaking very fast] . Jack, you once taught me a slang 
 word — we "always said we were "pals," didn't we? 
 
 John. Yes, and always shall be. 
 
 Val. I want you to be a real "pal" and help me. {Lays 
 hand on his arm.] 
 
 John. Yes, what is it?' Want me to ''take you to supper, 
 or get you tickets for — 
 
 Val. Oh, none of that nonsense ! [Moves fan impatiently.] 
 Listen — I am bothered out of my life by mamma and Lord Slur- 
 ley; you know him? 
 
 John. He is a very good parti — not so good as I am 
 [laughing], but — 
 
 Val. But old ! [Makes wry face.] " y \ 
 
 John. Make you a widow the sooner! ; . < 
 
 Val. Don't say that, Jack. But, isn't he hideous ?■" 
 
 John. Diamonds! 
 
 Val. It wouldn't improve his nose if it were set with dia- 
 monds. [Plaintively.] Oh, Jack, I didn't think you would take 
 mamma's part against me. I think he is simply hateful. 1 - ' 
 
 John. Well, then, don't marry him; 'it's quite easy. Be- 
 sides, that man's sailing for Gibraltar, isn't he, to-morrow? 
 
 U - (104) . . ! 
 
THE CONFEDERATES. 5 
 
 Val. Yes; that's just it; and he means to propose to me 
 before he goes. Mamma wishes it, Aunt Margaret wishes it, 
 Frank wishes it, they all — 
 
 John. And they all — mother, aunt and brother — bully you? 
 It's a shame ; I'll do anything I can for you — come now ! [He 
 comes dozvn to front of bench again. She rises to meet him and 
 they shake hands enthusiastically ;" then they promenade up and 
 down as they talk.] 
 
 Val. Jack, you are a good "pal." Well, then, if you really 
 think you can bear it — it's not for long — would you mind being 
 engaged to me, Jack, till the end of this ball, and I'll do as much 
 for you another day, I promise you. 
 
 John. No fear. Once engaged, twice shy. But, look here ; 
 this must be properly managed if I am to have a share in it. I 
 don't think — excuse me — you have not had much experience— nor 
 have I for that matter. But we'll pull it through somehow. 
 Now we shall have to be rather distant. 
 
 Val. Distant ? 
 
 John. Almost as distant as if we were married. People 
 might talk — 
 
 Val. But I want them to ! 
 
 John. Ah ! but disagreeably. They would say, "Poor 
 things, they've got it badly!" or "They are very far gone." 
 You wouldn't like that, would you? And there's another thing 
 to think of. Which of us is to be jilted? 
 
 Val. Oh, me, of course. [She comes to an abrupt stop. 
 He faces her squarely.] 
 
 John. Generous girl! I couldn't think of allowing it, 
 though. No, you shall jilt me — no one ever did before. It will 
 do me good. 
 
 "Val. Really and truly, Jack, I think you can stand it better 
 than I can. I am sure it would do you no harm to be thrown 
 over by such an eccentric girl. 
 
 John. By such a beautiful girl ! All right. Now we must 
 
 (105) 
 
6 THE CONFEDERATES. 
 
 go and tell your mother; everybody in the room will know in a 
 quarter of an hour. Are you aware of that? 
 
 Val. [laughing hysterically']. Of course, including — Lord 
 Sturley. 
 
 John [admiringly]. You have plenty of pluck, more than 
 I have. Come along, then. [Aside.] How the fellows will 
 laugh! I shall be chaffed unmercifully. They're playing a 
 waltz. We might dance in together to start the scandal properly. 
 [They waits off R. to music heard off.] 
 
 [Curtain drops a moment to indicate brief lapse of time be- 
 tween scenes. 
 
 * * * * * * * * 
 
 [It is last dance of evening. Enter John and Valentia to 
 same seat in garden.] 
 
 John. Well, I've been patted on the back, and exhorted to 
 be cheerful, and bidden to make you a good husband, and chaffed 
 almost beyond the brink of endurance. [Gives sigh of utter ex- 
 haustion.] 
 
 Val. And I've been told you were a good sort, and envied 
 by my girl friends and congratulated to distraction. [Falls into 
 seat.] 
 
 John. Thank goodness, it's over. I had no idea it was 
 like that. I wouldn't go through it again for worlds. [Sits at 
 her side.] 
 
 Val. So you'll never be married? 
 
 John. No, I suppose not — now. 
 
 Val. Everybody has been very kind. I confess I rather 
 liked it. And oh, Jack, what do you think? Lord Sturley has 
 proposed to Ethel Strangeways, and she has accepted him. 
 
 John. So you've lost that! 
 
 Val. Do you think I care? 
 
 John. One never knows — women are so funny, when once 
 another girl has accepted him. And, oh, I say, Ottoline Beaude- 
 sart would hardly speak to me all the evening. 
 
 (106) 
 
THE CONFEDERATES. 7 
 
 Val. I'm sorry for that. But never mind ; you'll meet her 
 again in the autumn. Where do you go? 
 
 John {wearily], I shall shoot a bit at Marchmont's, I sup- 
 pose, and fool about at one or two of the meetings, but, really, I'm 
 pretty indifferent. And you? 
 
 Val. {drearily]. Homburg, I suppose, at first, and then 
 Scotland; but, really, I take no interest. 
 
 John. Poor little girl. 
 
 Val. [quickly]. I pity you just as much. 
 
 John. Why? 
 
 Val. Oh, it's a stupid sort of existence we lead, isn't it? 
 
 John [gloomily] . . There isn't any other. 
 
 Val. I don't know about that. At any rate there might 
 have been an abominable kind of existence for me, if it were not 
 for you, Jack. But now Lord StUrley is off my hands per- 
 manently, and it will take mamma some time to find a new 
 match for me. Even old and fat like that, they are not so com- 
 mon. 
 
 John. There will be an awful row when they find I'm a 
 hoax. 
 
 Val. Yes, there will. It's worse for you. It will give me 
 a certain consequence to have jilted you, which will perhaps 
 compensate in mamma's eyes. 
 
 John. I can't say I quite like being jilted, Val. [Puts 
 arm across back of seat.] 
 
 Val. I knew you wouldn't. Let me be jilted — do ! [Faces 
 him suddenly.] 
 
 John. Na, no; I know of a better way. I have been 
 thinking. Look here, Val, I talk a lot of nonsense, and I let 
 people talk a great deal of nonsense about me. I pose — heaven 
 only knows why — as a selfish, vain, heartless, cynical man. But 
 I hope 1 am not such a bad sort after all. I can appreciate a 
 swept, natural, honest girl like you when I see her, and I think 
 I can endure — by Jove, I should enjoy — the thought of domes- 
 
 (107) 
 
8 THE CONFEDERATES. 
 
 ticity with you ! Don't call me conceited, Valentia, but listen 
 to what I propose — 
 
 Val. [softly]. What do you propose? 
 
 John [laughing] . I see I am being too deadly serious. 
 Well, dear, I propose that, as we are engaged, we stay engaged 
 and save trouble. Should you mind very much? 
 
 Val. Mind ! No, indeed, Jack ! [Archly.] I was hoping 
 you might take the hint. 
 
 John. Valentia! [Embraces her.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 SHE KEPT THE GLOVE. 
 
 He saw her drop her glove, 
 
 And watched it where it lay; 
 He rushed to pick it up 
 
 When she had turned away; 
 He kissed and hid it in 
 
 A pocket near his heart, 
 Not knowing that the girl 
 
 But played a little part. . < • 
 
 The preacher said the words 
 
 That made her his for life ; > 
 "Now give me back my glove," ., . j 
 
 Implored his loving wife; 
 "I have the one that goes 
 
 With that I dropped for vou — 
 I never wore them, and 
 
 'They're still as good as new. f . 
 
 (108) -'" ™* ' i;: ' 
 
 i' z '' 
 
"THE NETTLE." 
 
 Ernest Warren. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Guy Charlton. : 
 Dulcie Meredith. 
 
 SCENE : A poorly-furnished room. Sewing-table and chair 
 L. Chair C. facing toward sewing-table. Table R. with chairs 
 either side of it. On table R. are piled in disorder newspapers, 
 magazines, manuscript, writing-materials, etc. Dish cupboard L. 
 against flat. Door C. in flat. Door R. 
 
 [N. B. — The part of Guy should be played by a tall muscu- 
 larly built man.] 
 
 DISCOVERED : Empty stage. Shrill female voice is heard 
 in distance, outside room. 
 
 Voice [screaming] . Top o' the house — door on yer left ! 
 Guy [without]. Thanks. Door on the left. [Tapping.] 
 Any one in? 
 
 [Renewed tapping. Then open door and enter Guy Charl- 
 ton — young, fashionably dressed, and carries a heavy hunting 
 whip.] 
 
 Guy [looks around]. Top of the house, door on the left. 
 This must be the place. [Turns to table, takes up paper R.] 
 Ah! Here is the libelous sheet itself! The very number! [Opens 
 and reads.] "Notable Noodles" — that's me! "Notable Noodles. 
 —New Series, No. I." "A Fool and His Money"— I know he 
 
 •$ play— 109 book. - 
 
4 "THE NETTLE." 
 
 means me ! Just because I gave a diamond bracelet to — . But, 
 if I am a noodle, that's no reason why I should be told so in 
 print. I'll horsewhip the fellow. That's what I'm here for. I'll 
 beat him within an inch of his miserable life [gives ferocious cut 
 with whip. Looking at note-book, reading card.] Mr. Tom 
 Meredith! A — ah!! Very well, Mr. Meredith, here am I in- 
 stalled in your fourth-story castle, and when it pleases you to put in 
 an appearance, I'll prove to you that if Notable Noodles have no 
 brains, they have plenty of muscle. [Business with whip; tucking 
 up sleeves.] Ah! there's a step on the stair! [Opens door and 
 listens. ] Past the first landing ! Past the second ! ! Past the 
 third ! ! Oho ! He's coming to his sky parlor, is Mr. Tom Mere- 
 dith. He'll meet with a warm deception. [Business. Closes 
 door and stands by it with half -raised horsewhip; door opens and 
 enter Dulcie, singing to herself; Dulcie takes his hat from table 
 and looks at it; he hides zvhip behind him and comes forward* 
 bowing.] Beg pardon, thought it was somebody else, didn't 
 know it was you— how d'ye do? 
 
 Dulcie [looking him up and down and mimicking]. Beg 
 pardon — didn't know you were here— who are you ? 
 
 Guy. I— -I — -was waiting — to — to see Mr. — Mr. [referring 
 to note-book] — Mr. Meredith. 
 
 Dul. He's not at home. [Takes off gloves.] Is it busi- 
 ness? Perhaps I shall do as well. 
 
 Guy [hiding whip]. Oh, no! oh, dear no! Not at all! 
 Dul. Is it anything about "The Nettle"? [Crosses to 
 table R. and takes up copy of paper.] 
 
 Guy. "The Nettle?" Well— er — ah— yes. It is more or 
 less connected with "The Nettle." The sting part of it at least. 
 
 Dul. Oh, I am so glad ! What a pity Tom is out ! You've 
 read it ! I know you've read it. I told Tom it was sure to make 
 its mark. [Waves folded paper over her head.] 
 ,*,., Guy. , I can answer for the mark. I'm acauainted with him. 
 But — but I- won't intrude. upon vou. Mv visit was to Mr. Mere- 
 dith. It can wait. Good morning. [Aside.] What a pretty 
 
 (no) 
 
"THE NETTLE." 5 
 
 girl she is! I suppose she's his wife! [Aloud, backing to door.] 
 ;No — no message, thank you. The communication I have to make 
 is private and confidential. [Business with whip.] My business 
 is personal, I assure you. Good morning. [Bows and exit:] 
 
 Dul. Good day. Who can he be? A nice young fellow 
 and not bad looking. [Takes off hat; begins to arrange sewing- 
 material on table L.] And he reads "The Nettle"!! Oh, I am 
 so glad to have actually seen somebody who really reads "The 
 Nettle." [Sitting at table.] What a pity Tom was out ! How 
 pleased they would have been to meet. And I never thought to 
 ask him his name ! How silly ! Who can he be ? Oh ! ooh ! ooh ! 
 SHow foolish of me! [Jumps tip, clasping hands agitatedly.] I 
 I know ! Why, of course, he is the capitalist Tom is always talking 
 ; about, the gentleman worth thousands who is going to find Tom 
 tthe money to start a newspaper! Oh, what an idiot I have been! 
 I have let him go when all our future depends upon him. [Going 
 \up to door; opens door and calls.] Sir, Sirr, Sirrr! I forgot 
 something ! 
 
 Guy [distant voice]. Hullo! Are you calling me? 
 
 Dul. Please, sir, would you mind coming back? 
 
 Guy [still distant]. Certainly not, if you wish it. 
 
 Dul. // I wish it! We don't get capitalists up four pair 
 1 of stairs every day. [Crossing, putting paper on table.] Why, 
 he can make Tom's fortune and I was almost rude to him ! What 
 a nice fellow he is ; — and clever, too, I should think. I will be 
 just as agreeable as I possibly can, and keep him here till Tom 
 returns. [R. to L. Re-enter Guy.] Oh, sir! I hope you don't 
 mind my having called you back. [Smiles ingratiatingly at him.] 
 
 Guy. Oh, no ! Oh, dear, no — not at all, I assure you. 
 
 Dul. I'm so very sorry Tom is out. . He would be horribly 
 disappointed to miss you. In fact, he has been expecting to hear 
 from you. 
 
 Guy. Oh, he has, has he? Well, what was it you forgot? 
 
 Dul. [confused]. Why, I — I — I forget what I forgot, but 
 
 never mind. Do take a seat! [He sits a little awkwardly, and 
 
 Cm) 
 
6 . f : . "THE NETTLE." 
 
 tries to hide whip; Guy, L. C; Dulcie, R. C] Let me take your 
 umbrella. Oh, it isn't an umbrella ! What do you carry this for in 
 London ? Isn't it what people go hunting with ? You've not been 
 hunting to-day, have you? 
 
 Guy. No — that is — well — er — a sort of hunting, you know 
 — 'er — er — a paper-chase! [Puts down whip on chair C] 
 
 Dul. Have you killed anything? 
 
 Guy [airily]. No — no — no. [Aside, savagely.] Not yet! 
 
 Dul. [sitting at table and taking up work]. I am so pleased 
 you like "The Nettle." Isn't it clever? 
 
 'Guy. Oh, yes — yes — of course — awfully ! 
 
 Dul. And "Notable Noodles." Aren't they delicious? 
 
 Guy [R.]. Well — er — you know to me they seem to be 
 rather personal. [Aside.] I mustn't lose sight of that whip. 
 
 Dul. Personal ? Of course, they are ! That's the beauty 
 of them. But then, you know, they're so true! 
 
 Guy [laughing hollowly]. Ha, ha! Oh, yes — naturally — 
 that is a merit — [crossing] they are so true — [aside] so damned 
 true! When I was once on the other side of that door what ill- 
 fortune ever induced me to return ! [Rises and begins to pace 
 floor.] 
 
 Dul. I am sure Tom only wants a little encouragement. 
 
 Guy. Yes — that's what Tom wants ; I came here on pur- 
 pose to give it him. [Unobserved by her he shakes fist at im- 
 aginary Tom.] 
 
 Dul. You did? Oh, how kind and good you are! Now, 
 if some capitalist with literary tastes were to start a paper, and 
 make Tom editor, at a good salary, don't you think — now truly — 
 don't you think he would startle the world? 
 
 Guy [sitting L. C.]. Paralyze it — I should say. 
 
 Dul. Tom's so modest. That article you admire so much, 
 "A Fool and His Money," do you know, he didn't think much 
 of it. 
 
 Guy. Then, that's not one of Tom's supreme efforts? 
 
 Dul. Oh, no. He said he had done the best he could with 
 a poor subject. 
 
 (112) 
 
"THE NETTLE." 7 
 
 Guy [aside}. I wish I could change the subject. [Aloud.] 
 I am sure he is very fortunate in having so able an assistant as 
 yourself. Of course, you help him in his literary work? 
 
 Dul. I? Oh, no, I am not clever enough for that. I just 
 pick out funny names for Noodles like ninnis and mutton-head, 
 you know. 
 
 Guy. Quite a model wife for Noodles' traducer. 
 
 Dul. [rising]-. Sir! 
 
 Guy. Beg pardon, I'm sure. I thought you were married ! 
 
 Dul. I am his sister. 
 
 Guy [jumping tip]. His sister? Accept my congratula- 
 tions. 
 
 Dul. Why? 
 
 Guy. Well — er — [confused]. Why — don't you see — if 
 you're not his wife, you can be some other fellow's wife? 
 
 Dul. [reflectively]. Ye-e-s, that is an advantage. But no — 
 no — I can't marry — I shall never marry — unless — until — [puts 
 down work, sitting], 
 
 Guy. Yes? Unless? Until? 
 
 Dul. I can never leave Tom, never. 
 
 Guy [kneeling on chair, L.]. Is he such a terrible ogre? 
 Does he keep you chained, his prisoner and his slave? 
 
 Dul. [indignantly; rising]. Tom is everything that is nice, 
 and good, and honorable, and kind, and affectionate, and there's 
 not another man in the whole wide world to compare with him, 
 and anyone who says a word against him is wicked, and cruel 
 and malicious — and — and — I don't like him. 
 
 Guy [goes to her]. There, there! Don't be angry. I'm 
 sure he's everything you say — but he does write spitefully, you 
 know, even granting that Noodle is a noodle. 
 
 Dul. That's his profession — to be good and tender is his 
 nature. 
 
 Guy. Then why does he outrage nature ! [Pause.] 
 
 Dul. [lays down work]. I want you to have a good opinion 
 of Tom. You would if you only knew of what sacrifices he is 
 
 ("3) 
 
8 "THE NETTLE." 
 
 capable. When our father died, we found ourselves, my brother 
 and I, almost penniless, we who had been brought up to play — 
 not to work — and [mysteriously] Tom was in love!! Terribly, 
 awfully, desperately in love ! I suppose you don't know what 
 that means? 
 
 Guy. I should like to be taught. [Leans over table towards 
 her.] 
 
 Dul. But the lady he loved was poor. 
 
 Guy. The ladies we love always are. 
 
 Dul. So Tom went to her and told her his first duty was 
 to his sister, and that, dearly as he loved her, their marriage must 
 be postponed for a time. But I did not know he had done this 
 till long afterward. Then he brought me with him to the city, 
 and he worked, worked, worked, never resting. He set himself 
 the task to make a home for me before he offered one to her who 
 was dearer to him even than I. 
 
 Guy. Then he's not such a bad sort. 
 
 Dul. [rises]. There isn't another man like him. Ah! you 
 don't know how hard the struggle was at first, how unceasing 
 his effort, how unvarying the disappointment. Brains are not in 
 demand in the London market. [Taking paper.] We were 
 almost despairing when "The Nettle" started and Tom was fortu- 
 nate enough to obtain an engagement on the staff. Tom hit 
 upon his idea of — 
 
 Guy. Yes, yes, I know. Newspaper soup made of noodles. 
 
 Dul. And the proprietor raised his salary. Oh, those dear, 
 dear Noodles ! I don't know what we should have done but for 
 them. You see we are able to live quite grandly now ! and — oh, 
 I beg your pardon for being so inhospitable — may I offer you a 
 cup of tea? Tom is sure to be in directly. Do have a cup of 
 tea. 
 
 Guy. Thanks. I will take a cup of Tom ! I mean — tea. 
 
 Dul. Excuse me a minute. The cups are in the kitchen. 
 We call it the kitchen, but it's only a cupboard and a spirit-lamp ! 
 When Tom has a paper of his own, I shall be able to entertain 
 
 (114) 
 
"THE nettle:' 9 
 
 you better. [At door R.] I shan't be long. You can amuse 
 yourself with the back numbers of 
 
 Guy. Stale noodles, as it were. Thanks, I know. 
 
 Dul. I shan't be long. [Exit.] 
 
 Guy. A nice mess I've got myself into ! Coming here to 
 horsewhip a man and half falling in love with his pretty sister. 
 What a jolly little girl she is ! and to think that she and her brother 
 — oh, confound her brother, the pen-and-ink assassin— the — but 
 after all he is her brother — she can't help that! How deuced 
 awkward it will be if he comes in while I am drinking tea with 
 her. I can't put down the cup and take up the whip. No — 
 there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the whip. But if I don't 
 chastise him, what is my business in this room? Unless I im- 
 mediately proceed to castigate him, I am an unwarrantable in- 
 truder on his domestic peace! Oh, I must thrash him or he'll 
 turn me out of doors as an interloper! But it's awkward — 
 deuced awkward! [Re-enter Dulcie with cups, etc., on tray.] 
 Permit me to assist you, Miss Meredith. [Goes to meet her and 
 takes hold of one side of tray.] 
 
 Dul. Oh, no ! I couldn't think of troubling you ! [ They 
 stand holding tray betiveen them and looking at each other senti- 
 mentally.] Please let me put it down, Mr. — Mr. — oh vou never 
 told me your name! 
 
 Guy. My friends — call me — Guy! 
 
 Dul. Oh! I couldn't do that! Mr. — Mr. — You — 
 
 Guy. No — no — of course, not — not all at once — but when 
 you know me better — in a quarter of an hour — or ten minutes — 
 or five — eh? What do your friends call you? 
 
 Dul. Tom calls me — Dulcie. 
 
 Guy [moves hands round tray till they touch hers]. Dulcie! 
 What a sweet name ! 
 
 Dul. Oh, take care ! See, you have upset the sugar ! [She 
 takes tray, puts it on table R., pours out tea.] 
 
 Guy. Tom is a lucky fellow to have such a jolly little house- 
 keeper. I haven't got a sister. [Sighing.] 
 
 (US) 
 
IO "THE NETTLE." 
 
 Dul. [sighing]. Haven't you? And yet they are awfully 
 numerous. I'm too numerous for Tom's good. 
 
 Guy [at table, sitting]. I think Tom's in luck. 
 
 Dul. Let me give you some tea [hands cup]. 
 
 Guy. Ah! [Sipping tea.] This is very sweet! 
 
 Dul. Too sweet? [Leans forward anxiously.] 
 
 Guy [meeting her eyes]. How blue your eyes are — like 
 bits of June sky! [Nervously tastes tea.] No, no — not at all 
 too sweet. I hope Tom won't hurry home on my account. 
 
 Dul. Oh, no — I hope not — that is, I mean — I hope. he won't 
 neglect his business to get back. 
 
 Guy [sentimentally]. And you say he was desperately in 
 love? [Abstractly helps his cup to sugar repeatedly.] 
 
 Dul. Awfully. [Confusedly puts- sugar into his cup as 
 she talks.] Oh, but she is so nice, and so devoted to him. But, 
 then, of course, everybody likes Tom. Do you know, I think the 
 reason . you and I get on so well together, is because we are 
 both so fond of Tom. [Sips her tea:] 
 
 Guy [puts- dovon teacup]. Eh?— ^1? — oh, yes— yes — of 
 course — capital fellow, I daresay, when you know him. I say, 
 Dulcie, there's nobody, is there? — that you like as he likes — 
 somebody? 
 
 Dul. Oh, no ! 
 
 Guy. Nobody who's very fond of you? [Extends cup.] 
 More sugar, please. 
 
 Dul. [helping his cup to sugar again]. Oh, no! At 
 least I — I think not — unless it is the curate. 
 
 Guy. There always is a curate. 
 
 Dul. But that was a year ago. 
 
 Guy [gloomily, leaning over table]. Supposing he were 
 here, now, as I am, sitting in this very chair, as I am, looking at 
 you, as I do — supposing he were to say — 
 
 Dul. [rising, interrupting]. I must put away the tea-things 
 before Tom comes home. [Jumps up and clatters cups and 
 saucers. 1 
 
 (116) 
 
"THE NETTLE." II 
 
 Guy [jumping up]. And I must help you. I feel so jolly 
 lomestic helping you. Where do they go? [He takes a saucer, 
 he a cup. They cross to cupboard.] 
 
 Dul. There's another cup and saucer, will you fetch them, 
 >lease? [She puts up cup and saucer — Guy crosses to table.] 
 
 Guy. Certainly, with pleasure. Oh, what a never-ending 
 Irearn of bliss this life would be, could one but go on fetching 
 :ups and saucers till the end of time. How charming she is! 
 How delicious! What hair! What eyes! What lips! If I 
 )nly had the courage ! [Flourishes cup and saucer all through 
 •peech.] 
 
 Dul. When you've quite done with that cup and saucer ! 
 Guy. Beg pardon. [Recovering himself ', hands it to , her.] 
 Dul. f Why do you look at me so? 
 
 Guy, O, Dulcie! [Suddenly and impulsively kisses her 
 cheek.] t ■ .-,-•• , ,. . 
 
 Dul. How dare you! How dare you! [Crosses to ex-. 
 treme R.] I thought you were a friend of Tom's — and a gentle- 
 man! ,,.-■..<,...,, . • 
 
 Guy [at extreme, t,]- I — I really couldn't help it. I am 
 very sorry if I have offended you. 
 
 . Dul. What's the good of being sorry when you've done it? 
 [Folds arms, taps foot angrily.] 
 
 , Guy. . It's more satisfactory than being sorry that you 
 haven't done it. After all, what is a. kiss? It's not an uncom- 
 mon thing, t .'.,•.. ! . ' ; 
 
 Dul. : No, I daresay you bestow one, on every girl you 
 meet. , 
 
 Guy. Oh, no— no-— I assure you. Indeed, I do not. They 
 won't let me. 
 I . Dul. I think you've taken an unwarrantable liberty. 
 
 Guy. J think you've taken unnecessary offence. 
 
 Dul. This is my room, and I shall take what I like in it 
 , Guy. Then/take me! 
 
 Dul. I do take you-^for a noodle. 
 
 Guy. Why are you rude? [Approaches C] 
 
12 "THE NETTLE." 
 
 Dul. I'm not. You've no right to say so. I hate people 
 who quarrel. [Approaches C] 
 
 Guy. You began it. [Faces her.] 
 
 Dul. That's right! Say it was my fault. [Faces him 
 saucily. ] 
 
 Guy. So it was. 
 
 Dul. It wasn't — it wasn't — it wasn't! [Bobs head vigor- 
 ously.] 
 
 Guy. Well, then — it wasn't — it wasn't — it wasn't! [Bobs 
 also.] 
 
 Dul. You shan't say what I say — you know you don't mean 
 it, and you only agree with me to tease me. I wish I had never 
 made tea for you, I wish you had never come here, I wish I had 
 never seen you — there! [Goes up to cupboard, turning back on 
 him.] 
 
 Guy. I am sorry to have offended you — very sorry. [At 
 door.] Good afternoon, Miss Meredith. [Louder.] Good after- 
 noon, Miss Meredith. [Aside.] She looks prettier than ever 
 with that pout upon her lips. [Aloud, savagely.] Good day! 
 [Exit, slamming door.] 
 
 Dul. [starting and looking round]. Has he gone? Really, 
 really gone? [Whimpering.] I hate men. They're horrid! 
 What right had he to kiss me and make me cross? I — I — didn't 
 mean to be cross — and — and, after all — he didn't kiss me much. 
 I shall never see him again, never! [Sitting on chair.] And he 
 was so nice and pleasant, till he was so bold and disagreeable! 
 Perhaps he'll come back. I'm sure he wants to see — Tom. Oh, 
 dear, oh, dear! What have I done? [Springs up excitedly.] 
 Perhaps ruined Tom's prospects for -"e ! I've driven away The 
 Capitalist. I forgot all about his being a capitalist. I wonder if 
 he has really gone. [Runs to door and looks out.] Oh, what 
 shall I do? What shall I do? [Sitting at table, R.] I — I — think 
 I could almost have forgiven him if I had stopped to think it 
 over. It wasn't a full grown kiss, anvhow — just a sort of three- 
 quarter one. And now Tom will have to go on drudging - , drudg- 
 ing — and it is all my fault. I am the most miserable girl in all the 
 
"THE NETTLE." 1.3 
 
 r oild, and — and I wish — I wish I were dead. [Sobbing.] He'll 
 ever come back. Oh, how I wish he would come back — because 
 f Tom — only for Tom's sake. [Hides her face in her hands. 
 )oor slowly opens and re-enter Guy, humble and submissive ; she 
 ret ends not to see him.] Only for Tom's sake. 
 
 Guy [apologetically]. I beg your pardon. 
 
 Dul. [with a cry of pleasure]. Oh! [Rising and crossing, 
 ,., is going toward him, then suddenly remembers, and becomes 
 rim and starched.] My brother has not yet returned, sir. 
 
 Guy. Very sorry to interrupt again, but — but — the fact is, it 
 5 raining — raining fast — so — so — I 'ought I would come back 
 or — for — my whip. Don't like to g^t wet, you know. 
 
 Dul. [eagerly]. Let me look for it. [Business; both pretend 
 
 look for whip.] I'm so sorry I mislaid it. How silly not to 
 remember where I put it ! I'll find it directly. I won't keep you 
 
 1 minute. 
 
 Guy. Don't trouble yourself, Miss Meredith. It's of no con- 
 sequence! [Aside.] She hasn't forgiven me. I hoped she might. 
 
 [Both pretend looking for whip on opposite sides of room, 
 but gradually approach each other.] 
 
 Dul. [aside]. How cold and distant he is! I think I liked 
 ihim the other way best. [When close side by side both stoop 
 simultaneously and pick up whip between them.] Oh ! Here it is ! 
 [ They drop it again.] 
 
 Guy [nervous laugh]. Yes, there it is! 
 
 Dul. It fell down ! 
 
 Guy. Yes. It toppled over ! 
 
 Both. I'll get it. [They stoop and bump heads.] 
 
 Both. I beg your pardon. [They pick up whip between 
 them, she takes it and dusts it with her skirt.] 
 
 Guy. If you forgive me, shake hands. 
 
 Dul. Hm ? [ Turns away head and holds whip toward him. 
 He shakes it vigorously , then discovers mistake and grabs her 
 hand instead, Hinging whip across room.] 
 
 Guy. I could not be content till I heard from your own lips 
 that I was forgiven. 
 
 (IIQ 
 
I 4 "THE NETTLE." 
 
 Dul. I — I — am afraid I was rather hasty. Fancy my quar- 
 reling with Tom's best friend ! 
 
 Guy. Eh ? 
 
 Dul. When I ought to like you so very much for all your 
 kind intentions to him. 
 
 Guy. Eh? My kind intentions to Tom! Oh, ves ! — yes — of 
 course — but — er — are you sure you don't mistake my intentions? 
 
 Dul. [cheerfully]. Oh, no ! You're The Capitalist! 
 
 Guy. The — I beg your pardon — the what? 
 
 Dul. The Capitalist, the gentleman who is going to find the 
 money for Tom to start a paper of his own. He has often talked 
 to me about you, and you don't know how kind I think it of you 
 to help him. You are a true friend to us both, and — 
 
 Guy [interrupting]. Yes — yes — I am delighted to be your 
 friend — proud, ■■ I assure you— but — but I fear there is a mistake 
 somewhere. 
 
 Dul. A mistake? 
 
 Guy. Well, you see you give me credit for what I don't quite 
 deserve. You — you — slightly overestimate the good nature of mv 
 visit — [Sits L.] 
 
 Dul. You are not a capitalist ? [Sits R.] 
 
 Guy. Well, I — I — don't know. I've plenty of money — but I 
 certainly did not come here with the intention of sharing it with 
 your brother ! My errand was of quite a different nature. 
 
 Dul. [groaning]. Oooh! 
 
 Guy [sighing]. Aaah! 
 
 Dul. Then — then, sir — if — if you are not The Capitalist, 
 who are you? [Both rise.] 
 
 Guy. I'll explain later. [Backing to door.] I'll call again — 
 to-morrow — or next day — or next year. [Goes to door.] 
 
 Dul. But, at least, let me know who it is that has called to 
 see — my brother. 
 
 Guy [aside]. There's no escape for me! [Aloud.] Of 
 course, you read "Notable Noodles!" 
 
 Dul. Of course, I love Notable Noodles ! 
 
 dao) 
 
"THE NETTLE." 15 
 
 Guy [aside]. Is that a compliment, or is it not? f Aloud.] 
 And you are doubtless in your brother's confidence? 
 
 Dul. He keeps nothing secret from me. v ?T . 
 
 Guy [amte]. It w«i/ come out ! [Aloud.] You know, then, 
 the real name of those— Noodles — whom he scorches, flays, and 
 withers with his scathing sarcasm? You know the hero referred 
 to in No. 1 of the New Series? .j.< 
 
 Dul. Of course, I do and I abominate him. 
 
 Guy [aside]. Of course, she does ! And she abominates me. 
 [Drops into chair, groaning.] ■- ■ 
 
 Dul. Yes, there can be no ' doubt about that. Every one 
 Must see it is Sir Bilberry Boodle ! 
 
 Guy [rising]. Eh? What? I beg pardon. Who ? 
 
 Dul. Sir Bilberry Boodle! Why, didn't you know that? 
 
 Guy [crosses R., laughing' wildly]. Of course, of course, 
 of course! How stupid of me! Fits him to a T. Uncommonly 
 clever! Ha, ha, ha! Notable Noodle, Sir Bilberry Boodle — Sir 
 Bilberry Boodle, Notable Noodle ! Quite a poem, isn't it ? "A 
 Fool and His Money" — First-rate! Capital! Why that's Boodle 
 all over. Do you know I thought it was meant for — for some- 
 body else? Poor old Boodle ! but he deserves it. Miss Meredith, 
 yqu did me the honor to ask me my name; Guy Charlton, Miss 
 Meredith, Guy Charlton. [Anxiously.] You never heard your 
 brother mention me, did you? 
 ••'.,.. Dul. Never! 
 
 Guy [aside]. What a relief! [Aloud.] Yes, Miss Mere- 
 dith, Guy Charlton, very much at your service, very much at 
 your brother's service. Um — err — [picks up whip], present him 
 this whip with my compliments. Might come in handy in case 
 of a call from a stray noodle; you know. Is there anything I can 
 do for you, Miss Meredith? Will you allow me to help you? 
 
 Dul.' [bustling about]. No, thank you, Mr. Charlton. I 
 have ; nothing to do now but look over this manuscript for Tom. 
 
 Guy. Allow me to look over it with you. 
 ^ (121) 
 
l6 "THE NETTLE." 
 
 [They sit side by side at table, manuscript spread out before 
 them. ] 
 
 Guy. This is jolly, isn't it. [They move chairs close to- 
 gether.] 
 
 Dul. Two people can look so much better than one — can't 
 they? 
 
 Guy [sentimentally]. Two people can do no end of things 
 better than one, can't they? Waltz — or quarrel — or — or — or — or 
 — make love — well, of course, no fellow can make love by himself 
 —or — of- — marry — there must be two people to marry, you know. 
 
 Dul. I believe two is the proper number. 
 
 Guy. I say, Miss Meredith — Dulcie — were you really — I 
 mean — really and truly — very angry when I — you know — [touches 
 her cheek gingerly with one finger] . 
 
 Dul. It is not what I have been accustomed to, Mr. Charl- 
 ton. 
 
 Guy. Glad to hear that. I — I — suppose if I were to do it 
 again we shouldn't be friends any more? [He takes up several 
 sheets of manuscript and tears them up absently.] 
 
 Dul. People don't do that sort of thing unless they are 
 related, or are very fond of each other [she tears up remaining 
 sheets] or— or engaged — or something. 
 
 Guy [putting his arm round her]. But, Dulcie, I am very 
 fond of you — I love you with all my heart — and as for being en- 
 gaged, that rests with you. You don't know very much about 
 me, but then I don't know very much about you — so that makes 
 it equal. I only know I have never met a girl whom I would 
 sooner call my wife, so if you will promise — 
 
 Dul. [interrupting him]. No, no, no. It is impossible! 
 How could I leave Tom to fight his battles unaided — and alone ? 
 
 Guy. Dulcie, if your only scruples are for your brothei's 
 sake, I will find Tom the capital to start a paper. 
 
 Dul. Oh, then, you did come here to do something for 
 him? 
 
 (122) 
 
"THE NETTLE." IJ 
 
 Guy. Yes — that is — yes, I did call to give him something. 
 But never mind that. Tom shall have a paper of his own. I 
 shouldn't wonder if it made a hit. The way he gave it to poor 
 old Boodle was capital — splendid ! Tom's a clever fellow. Then, 
 you see, he can marry — you know men are so selfish — then he 
 won't want you — and / shall. He can do without you — and / 
 can't. 
 
 Dul. Oh, Guy! And will you do all this for Tom? 
 Guy. No, Dulcie, not for Tom — for you, my darling. 
 Dul. You may kiss me again, Guy — a full-grown one. 
 
 [Sitting side by side they embrace and he kisses her re- 
 peatedly.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 PO' LITTLE LAMB 
 
 Paul Laurence Dunbar. 
 
 Bedtime's come fu' little boys, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 Too tiahed out to make a noise, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'? 
 Yes, you tole me dat befo', 
 Don't you fool me, chile, no mo', 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 
 You been bad de livelong day, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 
 (123) 
 
18 "THE NETTLE." '- 
 
 My, but you's a-runnin' wild, 
 Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile; 
 Mam'.gwine whup you atter while, 
 Po' little lamb. 
 
 Come hyeah ! you mos r tiahed to def, 
 
 Pd' little lamb. 
 Played yo'se'f elean out o* bref, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 See dem han's now — sich a sight! 
 Would you evah b'lieve dey's white! 
 Stan' still 'twell I wash dem right, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 
 Jes' can't hoi' yo' haid up straight, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 Hadn't oughter played so late, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 Mammy do' know whut she'd do, 
 Ef de chillun's all lak you; . . 
 You's a caution now fu' true, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 
 Lay yo' haid down in my lap, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 Y'ought to have a right good slap, . 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 You been runnin' roun' a heap. 
 Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep, 
 Dah now, dah now, go. to sleep, 
 
 Po' little lamb. 
 
 (124) 
 
HE, SHE AND IT. 
 
 William Muskerry. 
 
 .Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : He, 
 
 She. 
 
 It (in the cradle). > ■ 
 
 Scene : Her boudoir. Door L. Door R. with portiere. 
 Two easy-chairs before fireplace L. Sofa R. Small toilet-table 
 R., with decanter, siphon, and glass. Clock on . mantelpiece L. 
 Newspaper on mantelshelf. She discovered sitting by fire, rock- 
 ing cradle supposed to contain It, while her hands are occu- 
 pied knitting feverishly. She looks impatiently at clock. 
 
 Note: She should be represented not only with unflagging 
 volubility, but also with constant variations of tone and expres- 
 sion ; while He should be acted in eloquent but natural panto- 
 mime, indicating by action the words He would, but is not 
 allowed to utter. Care must, however, be taken not to overdo 
 this, and particularly to avoid creating the impression that the 
 character is dumb. 
 
 She. Eleven o'clock [pause], two seconds past, and this 
 on the first anniversary of our wedding-day ! I can't stand it 
 any longer. Even if he has ceased to care for me he might have 
 some consideration for our innocent babe. [To It] When he 
 does come in, and wants to go to sleep, I'd wake up, if I were 
 
 3 play — 1 25 book 
 
4 HE, SHE AND IT. 
 
 you, and cry all night! It would be a judgment on him. [Door 
 L. opens gradually.] Ah, here he is at last! [Turns her back, 
 rocking cradle, and knitting furiously.] 
 
 [He enters quickly, L., and approaches his wife. She takes 
 no notice. He pauses, astonished. Looks anxiously at her, then 
 smiling, and going gently behind her, makes a movement as 
 though about to kiss her.] 
 
 She [rising, and giving him a look of withering contempt]. 
 Sir! 
 
 He [makes a step toward her] . 
 
 She. How dare you ! [Holds herself in tense attitude, 
 fists clenched.] 
 
 He [about to embrace her]. 
 
 She [recoiling]. No familiarities before our innocent off' 
 spring! [Puts cradle back a little.] 
 
 He [lays his hand upon her arm]. 
 
 She [shaking it off]. Unhand me, sir! [Crosses to R.] 
 
 He [follozvs her with gesture of astonishment]. 
 
 She [with her hand on the door-handle — solemnly]. All 
 is now over between us, sir, forever! [Exits R. H. D.] 
 
 [He springs after her. The door is slammed in his face. 
 He, alone, stands aghast and asks himself what can be the matter. 
 It occurs to him She is probably only joking. He puts his eye 
 and ear to keyhole alternately, but neither seeing nor hearing any- 
 thing, shakes head in perplexity. The matter is evidently be- 
 coming serious, and as if to prepare himself against a coming 
 storm He braces himself up, crosses to fireplace, and warms 
 hands energetically; then, taking neivspaper, throws himself into 
 easy-chair, puts up feet, and pretends to read with an air of 
 studied indifference. ] 
 
 She [re-enters, R., and plants herself in front of him]. 
 Things cannot go on like this any longer. [He looks up at her 
 over top of neivspaper with surprise.] If you flatter yourself 
 that, after leaving me to wait up for you all the evening, I am 
 going tamely to submit to sit down and watch you reading. 
 [Folds her arms aggressively.] 
 
 He [about to rise and offer her his seat], 
 
 (126) 
 
HE, SHE AND IT. 5 
 
 She [ironically]. Oh, pray, don't get up. I should be 
 sorry to disturb you. I quite understand that after being out 
 half the day amusing yourself you naturally require a little re- 
 pose. 
 
 He [nods in assent, falls back in chair, yawns and stretches 
 himself] . 
 
 She [tremulously]. I am only sorry I did not go to bed 
 and take baby with me; I would have done it, too, if I had known 
 you would not be in until after midnight. [Kneels, looking into 
 cradle.] 
 
 He [points to clock, which only indicates eleven]. 
 
 She. It is nothing of the sort ! That clock is always an 
 hour slow. It is half-past twelve, at least, by now. [Rises.] 
 
 He [takes out watch, smiles, and shakes head]. 
 
 She. Don't do that; it only irritates me. [Stamps at him 
 and walks azvay.] 
 
 He [replaces watch and turns face of clock to wall]. 
 
 She. Oh! I understand; time is no object to you. One 
 o'clock — two o'clock — three o'clock — it is all the same to you. 
 Why didn't you stay out until six in the morning while you were 
 about it? No wonder you're ashamed to look a clock in the 
 face. 
 
 He [about to protest]. 
 
 She. Of course, it never occurred to you that it was just 
 twelve months ago to-day we were married? [Turns clock 
 around again.] 
 
 He [nods affirmatively]. 
 
 She. It is no use your wagging your head at me like a 
 Chinese mandarin. You know the idea never entered it. I'm 
 only surprised that you condescended to come home at all! 
 [Laughs satirically.] 
 
 He [rumples his hair up in desperation]. 
 
 She. It is no wonder you've got a headache. You've been 
 enjoying yourself, I suppose. 
 
 He [laughs quietly], 
 
 (127) 
 
6 HE, SHE AND IT. 
 
 She. It is all very well to laugh now, but I know what a 
 state you'll be in, in the morning. 
 
 He [opens his mouth, about to protest]. 
 
 She. No, sir! not another word! You always think you 
 can talk me out of everything. I can guess where you've been, 
 so it's not worth your while inventing any stories about club 
 dinners, or Board meetings, or scientific associations. I dare 
 say you've been carrying on as usual — gallivanting! 
 
 He [rises thunderstruck]. 
 
 She. Then there were women there. Where? Wherever 
 you've been. Pretty women, I suppose you call them — pah! 
 Frights I pronounce them. 
 
 He [drops back into chair, horrified]. 
 
 She. You see, I know all about it. Quite overcome to find 
 ;hat out, aren't you? It was a political banquet, I suppose. All 
 respectable mugwumps, with a Bishop in the chair, and none 
 but married men admitted, and no females — of course, not; I 
 daresay you were the life and soul of the party — such as it was ! 
 
 He [lights cigarette, shrugs shoulders, and crosses R.]. 
 
 She. Wasn't it amusing? That is a pity, and you such a 
 favorite, too, in society. 
 
 He [makes a gesture of deprecation] . 
 
 She. At least, I've been told so. I can't say I find you 
 very entertaining at home, but I presume you only put on 
 your company manners, like your dress coat, when you are going 
 out. And you are good looking. But, beware! Your hand- 
 some face may yet prove your downfall ! 
 
 He [advances toward her, smiling]. 
 
 She [retreating] . No, sir, no ; not before the child ! Re- 
 serve your blandishments for those who appreciate them. 
 
 He [endeavors to protest]. 
 
 She. Oh ! I tell you, you cannot deceive me. I know the 
 style of woman you admire. A forward, slangy, horsey young 
 person like Miss Desborough. 
 
 He [appears to repeat the name to himself in astonisnmcnt]. 
 
 (128) 
 
HE, SHE AND IT. 7 
 
 She. Yes, Miss Desborough! And the creature actually 
 had the assurance to call on me* yesterday. At your instigation, 
 no doubt. Her hat was simply shameless. 
 
 He [shakes his head]. 
 
 She. Oh, don't put down that vile cigarette to talk to me 
 about the Desboroughs being fine people, and such old friends 
 and neighbors of yours, when you know the girl's mother was a 
 nobody. [He gives a start of astonishment.] Yes, sir, a no- 
 body ! Everyone knows that her mother was only a dancing 
 woman when that silly old Desborough married her. 
 
 He [taps back of chair impatiently]. 
 
 She. Well, a professor of dancing, it's the same thing. 
 Gave lessons in the waltz, the two-step, the schottische, the minuet. 
 This sort of thing — got her living by it [taking up her robe and 
 rapidly imitating various steps named]. She might have been in 
 the. ballet for all I know. 
 
 He [makes a gesture of incredulity]. 
 
 She. Oh, don't try to deny it! You men are so weak that 
 any woman can wind you round her little finger — and so, it's for 
 the pleasure of her society you are always so willing to forsake 
 me — and It [pointing tragically to cradle]. 
 
 He [finding it impossible to get in a word, crosses to fire- 
 place]. 
 
 She. Yes, that's right — fly in a passion and shout. 
 
 He [resumes his seat in quiet resignation]. 
 
 She. Do anything, but don't sulk [stamping]. There's 
 nothing I despise or abominate so much as a man who sulks. 
 
 He [wheels chair round to fire and turns back to her, and 
 shrugs shoulders]. 
 
 She. Oh! if you are not going to speak to me, the best 
 thing you can do is to go out and get a judicial separation. 
 
 He [turns head and looks at her over chair with astonish- 
 ment]. 
 
 She. It is no use answering me back, because you've noth- 
 ing to say, and you know it. 
 
 He [shakes head and sighs], 
 
 (I2Q) 
 
8 HE, SHE AND IT. 
 
 She. What have I ever done? [Pathetically.] 1*11 chal- 
 lenge you to go back through the whole year of our married 
 existence and tell me if you can find one solitary instance in 
 which I have failed in my duty toward you — [violently] never, 
 sir ! never ! never once ! ! ! And now, now. to all your abuse 1 
 answer not a word ! 
 
 Ke [rises impetuously]. 
 
 She. Hush! would you awake our sleeping babe? 
 
 He [goes gently toward cradle] . 
 
 She [rushing between them]. Beat me! Strike me, if von 
 will, but you shall not lay a finger on our child ! 
 
 He [raises his arm to intercept her]. 
 
 She. Coward! Would you raise your hand against a 
 woman? Oh, crowning degradation! 
 
 He [stands aghast] . 
 
 She. Strike ! I am ready. [Spreads out arms receptively.} 
 
 He [puts hands in pockets and looks at her]. 
 
 She. Well, why don't you? I am prepared for the worst. 
 Oh, don't be afraid. I shall not defend myself. [Same gesture.] 
 
 He [turns on heel, and is looking toward door L]. . 
 
 She [bitterly]. Ah, how like a man! You haven't even the 
 courage of your conviction. You strike mentally, but dare not 
 strike physically. 
 
 He [pauses at the door]. 
 
 She. I suppose you wish to avoid a scene on account of the 
 servants. You are very considerate for everyone — but me. 
 
 He [looks at her coldly and retraces steps]. 
 
 She. Do you hear what I say? [Grabs him by shoulders 
 and screams in his ear.] 
 
 He [pretends not to hear her, and taking up newspaper, sits 
 down before fire] . 
 
 She. That's right, I'd hide my face if I were you, and pre- 
 tend to read the paper. Some men would have the manliness to 
 say something, seeing a woman — a wife — a mother — sad, wretch- 
 ed, driven almost to despair — would try to reason with her with 
 
 (130) 
 
HE, SHE AND IT. g 
 
 a gentle word, a friendly gesture, or a look of kindness. Is it 
 so very hard to show a little sympathy for the woman who loves 
 you? [Sinks into chair, hands clasped over knee.] 
 
 He [somezvhat moved, lets paper fall to floor]. 
 
 She. And, after all, what I ask you is only to tell me every- 
 where you have been, and everything you have done since this 
 morning, beginning with the worst things first. 
 
 He [somewhat surprised]. 
 
 She. Only that and nothing more, and to admit it is not 
 quite the thing to come home at midnight. [Rises.] . 
 
 He [on point of replying]. 
 
 She. Well, if the clock was wrong, it was very near it, and. 
 it must have been the last train but one when you left town, and 
 what you. were doing there at all is a mystery. [Paces floor.] 
 
 He [tries once more to speak]. 
 
 She [preventing him]. And you won't give me an answer. 
 [Bursts into tears and falls on sofa, sobbing.] 
 
 He [looks at her pityingly]. 
 
 She [sobbing]. Mother — mother, if you could only look 
 in on me and see me now ! You'd start straight home again. 
 
 He [rises in despair]. 
 
 She. And to think that this is only the beginning of my 
 misery! 
 
 He [approaches her and lays hand gently on her shoulder]. 
 
 She [repidses him]. Don't touch me ! Don't come near me! 
 I will not listen to your hypocritical excuses. You wish to break 
 my heart — well, you've broken it. I hope you're pleased with 
 the result. [Becomes hysterical.] 
 
 He [losing all patience, leaves her abruptly and strides up 
 and down the room]. 
 
 She. Oh, I dare say I've made myself very ridiculous. I've 
 no reason to complain. I dare say I shall be used to this sort of 
 thing directly. Other women have been neglected by their hus- 
 bands and lived happily forever afterward; but I'm of too sensi- 
 tive a nature. Ah ! my poor dear Aunt Louisa often told me how 
 it would be. The Aunt Louisa you hated. 
 
 (131) 
 
IO HE, SHE AND IT. 
 
 He [standing near fireplace, with back to audience, turns at 
 last word]. 
 
 She. Yes. Aunt Louisa knew everybody and everything — 
 only too well ! — and she said to me, many and many a time, when 
 talking about you — "Mark my words, he's not all he seems. Some 
 day he will break your heart." 
 
 He [showing signs of increasing anger, and at word "break" 
 impatiently snaps paper-knife he has taken from mantelshelf]. 
 
 She. And now you've broken her paper-knife. Aunt Louisa 
 was a prophet ! She said you had brutal instincts. 
 
 He [throzvs down paper-knife angrily. Going to dressing- 
 table, pours out glass of water from siphon] . 
 
 She. I must beg you not to turn my dressing-room into a 
 drinking-bar. Only yesterday you let some drops fall on the sofa 
 cushion — my dear mother's work. 
 
 He [gives a look of polite regret, pours out another glass, 
 adding brandy from decanter]. 
 
 She. It's brandy and soda now ! My cup of bitterness is 
 filled to overflowing. [He crosses to sofa impatiently.] And 
 now you've gone and slopped it over my mother's cushion again. 
 Not content with running down my Aunt Louisa, you would 
 actually vent your rage on mother's cushion. 
 
 He [raises hand above head in astonishment]. 
 
 She. Don't dare to appeal to Heaven like that — it only adds 
 to your profanity, and what harm did a hapless cushion ever do 
 to you? 
 
 He [drops arm in despair]. 
 
 She. And now you're swearing — actually swearing — it's 
 no use denying it ; I sazv you do it ! But what could I expect of a 
 man who would deliberately select this day of all days in the year 
 to make me miserable — but, of course, you've quite forgotten 
 what day it is. [Turns her wedding-ring on finger.] 
 
 He [tries to speak]. 
 
 She. Don't make matters worse by denying it; don't con- 
 descend to falsehood; don't prevaricate! [Raises hands aloft, 
 palms out.] 
 
 (132) 
 
HE, SHE AND IT. II 
 
 He [looks at audience, as if to take them into his confidence, 
 puts hand into his pocket, and turns smilingly toward her.] 
 
 She. Well, what is it? Why don't you speak? 
 
 He [producing velvet jewel-case and baby's rattle]. 
 
 She [taking case and opening it]. A bracelet, with an in- 
 scription ! [Reads.] "To my dear wife, on the first anniversary 
 of our wedding-day." For me! And so it was all for me you 
 went to town? 
 
 He [gently places rattle in cradle] . 
 
 She. And for baby, too? [falling on neck and embracing 
 him rapturously]. Oh, you dear, darling old hubby, how good 
 of you, and how I love you. And I always knew Aunt Louisa 
 was a catty old maid, and I've wondered all the evening how I 
 was ever lucky enough to capture you in the first place. [Em- 
 braces him rapturously.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 MEDITATIONS OF JOHNNY. 
 
 S. E. Kiser. 
 
 I wisht 'at I was bigger, so when I go to play 
 With older boys they wouldn't try to order me away, 
 An' nen they wouldn't always make me set up on the fence, 
 When they are playin' circus, an' be the audy-ence. 
 
 I'd like to git into the ring, an' play I was the clown, 
 Or else the bareback rider, who goes jumpin' up and down, 
 Or I'd like to be the ringmaster — wouldn't that be just immense! 
 But ev'ry time they make me play 'at I'm the audy-ence. 
 
 When I get bigger some day I'm goin' to have a ring 
 An' be the lofty tumbler, an' clown, an' ev'rything, 
 An' then the littler boys'll have to set up on the fence 
 An' clap their hands when I perform an' be the audy-ence. 
 
 (i33) 
 
WERNER'S READINGS No. 36. 
 
 A YOUNG SOUBRETTE. 
 
 Joe Cone. 
 
 I fell in love with a gay soubrette, 
 
 And she fell in love with me ; 
 At least, so she said, but objected to wed, 
 
 "Because I'm too young," said she. 
 I followed the show from town to town, 
 
 And sat in the baldheaded row, 
 And waited in fear for fully a year 
 
 For my little soubrette to grow. 
 
 I covered her fingers with costly rings, 
 
 I dined her in lavish style ; 
 Till at length I became fatigued of the game 
 
 When I saw the low state of my pile. 
 The night I proposed, I ne'er can forget! 
 
 She kicked the hat off from my head ; 
 And my love it did smother, for she was the mother 
 
 Of the leading lady, they said ! 
 
 ONE SECRET SHE KEPT. 
 
 Mary S. Anthony. 
 (Sister of Susan B. Anthony.) 
 
 A man refused to tell his wife the outcome of a business trans- 
 action in which she took a deep interest. 
 
 He — No, I won't tell you. If I did, you'd repeat it. You 
 women can never keep a secret. 
 
 She — John, have I ever told the secret about the solitaire en- 
 gagament-ring you gave me eighteen years ago being paste ? 
 
 (i34) 
 
A MORNING CALL. 
 
 Charles Dance. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Sir Edward Ardent. 
 
 Mrs. Chillingtone. 
 
 *- 
 
 Scene : A well-furnished drawing-room in Mrs. Chilling- 
 tone's country house. Mrs Chillingtone discovered working, 
 her work-table being near the fire. 
 
 Mrs. Chillingtone. Now let me look at this note once 
 again [putting dozvn her work, taking up note and reading]. 
 
 "My Dear Fanny : — I am sorry, for my own sake, that you 
 declined to join the large and merry party who are now staying 
 here — not so for yours — ior there is a plot against you, and I am 
 fortunately enabled to put you on your guard. Never mind how I 
 came to know it — it is enough that I did not particularly listen, 
 only — when gentlemen are on visits at country houses, they should 
 ascertain exactly how their rooms are situated, before they talk 
 too loud. I need not tell you, that it is well known that your 
 early marriage was a forced one. It is, now, equally a matter of 
 notoriety that you mistrust the whole of the opposite, or, as you 
 call them, the 'opposing' sex, and that you have resolved never to 
 marry aerain. I quire differ from you on this point, but never 
 mind that — the subiect was canvassed, a heavy wager was laid 
 that vou would breakvourresolutionwithin p week; and your ap- 
 pointed conqueror is Sir Edward Ardent. As vour house is but a 
 few miles from this, and as he has but little time to spare, if he 
 really means to win, I should not wonder if he were to ride over 
 
 3 play— 133 book 
 
4 A MORNING CALL 
 
 this very day, and make a morning call." [Speaking.] Indeed! 
 "He has the reputation of making great professions to every hand- 
 some woman he meets, without coming to the point with any ; but 
 you know him better than I do." [Speaking] Yes, I know him. 
 "He's a good-looking, good-for-nothing, fascinating fellow, and 
 that's the truth ; I only wish he would make love to me." 
 [Speaking] No doubt, my dear. "However, I believe he is in 
 very safe hands with you." [Speaking] So do I. "Take care of 
 yourself, and make an example of him for the sake of our sex in 
 general, and of yours, dear Fanny, in particular. Charlotte." 
 
 Sir Edward Ardent, indeed ! What impertinence ! And I'm to 
 surrender in less than a week, am I ? Well, we'll see about that 
 [crumpling letter angrily in her hand]. And to think that I al- 
 most fancied the man ! Well, it isn't worth thinking of, and I 
 don't care a yin about it. I'm really only too glad of a chance 
 to teach him a Wesson. Ugh! [Shivers.] How cold it is! I 
 hope the renowned lady-killer will begin his attack soon; a little 
 bit of a sWrmish might warm-one, for positively the fire won't. 
 [Rings bell and pokes iire.] 
 
 [Enter Sir Edward Ardent, in hunting dress.] 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. The snow puts an extinguisher on our 
 hunting to-day, and some amusement I must have, so I have come 
 to try if I can win the widow, and my bet. [She rings a second 
 time.] She rings again — what does she want, I wonder? 
 
 Mrs. C. Coals. 
 
 Sir E. Ma'am? 
 
 Mrs. C. Coals. 
 
 Sir E. Coals? 
 
 Mrs. C. [looking up]. Dear me, Sir Edward Ardent, I de- 
 clare, I beg your pardon, I took you for my servant. 
 
 Sir E. Would that you would keep me for your servant ! 
 
 Mrs. C. What wages do you ask? 
 
 Sir E. I'll serve you for love. [Comes close to her.] 
 
 Mrs. C. You'll never get paid. [Starts away from him.] 
 
 Sir E. Engage me, and I'll take my chance. 
 
 Mrs. C You have great confidence. [Starts around table.] 
 
 Sir E. Not too much. [He follows her.] 
 
 (136) 
 
A MORNING CALL. 5 
 
 Mrs. C Yes you have — in yourself, I mean. 
 
 Sir E. Never mind, engage me? 
 
 Mrs. C. I've heard a bad character of you from your last 
 place. 
 
 Sir E. Indeed! from whom? 
 
 Mrs. C. From your mistress, to be sure. 
 
 Sir E. What mistress? 
 
 Mrs, C. Have you so many? [Stops and faces him sud- 
 denly.] 
 
 Sir E. None ! but I seek one, and that one — 
 
 Mrs. C. Will have a remarkably troublesome servant. 
 [Sits.] 
 
 Sir E. Well, if I am not allowed to finish a sentence — 
 [walks azvay offended]. 
 
 Mrs. C. My very good friend, when you are talking with a 
 lady, think yourself remarkably well off if you are allowed to 
 begin a sentence. 
 
 Sir E. I am quite aware that ladies — 
 
 Mrs. C. Are very unreasonable on that subject — generally 
 speaking, they are — I am an exception. You wish to say some- 
 thing ? 
 
 Sir E. I do — something very — 
 
 Mrs. C. Stop a minute — you shall have every chance — sit 
 down and warm yourself, while I work. [He sits.] When you 
 feel inclined to speak — speak, and I won't interrupt you. 
 
 Sir E. [rises]. I cannot sit — I am too much agitated. 
 [Paces stage.] 
 
 Mrs. C. Well, whatever you do, don't walk about, for 
 that is unbearable. You're setting your heels on my nerves, I 
 tell you. 
 
 Sir E. I don't know what to do. You're very disconcerting. 
 
 Mrs. C. Poor man! then I'll tell you — fetch the scuttle, 
 and put on some coals. 
 
 Sir E. Hadn't I better ring for your servant? 
 
 Mrs. C. Certainly not ! when I rung for him you answered 
 
 cm) 
 
6 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 t) ,e bell, and not only that, but you applied for the place. Now 
 go to work. 
 
 Sir E. He is shaking the snow off my coat. 
 
 Mrs. C. An additional reason for your doing his work, and 
 so let me see how well you can do it. [He fetches scuttle, which 
 he carries with both hands.] Very well, very well — upon my 
 word I think you have been in service before; there, don't spill 
 them, or I shall have to send you about your business. 
 
 Sir E. [stopping]. Mrs. Chillingtone, listen to me, I am 
 serious 
 
 Mrs. C. Not with the coal-scuttle in your hand, surely. 
 
 Sir E. It is very hard that you will turn everything I say 
 into ridicule; however, in the hope that artificial warmth may 
 thaw the natural iciness of your disposition, I will make up the 
 fire before I unburden my mind. 
 
 Mrs. C. Stop! I have had hundreds of serious speeches 
 made to me, but it just occurs to me that I never heard one from 
 a man with a scuttle full of coals. Speak just as you are, scuttle 
 and all. 
 
 Sir E. No! indeed, I 'shall not. 
 
 Mrs. C. Now, do, pray ; you can't think how well you look. 
 A smudge on your nose would make the picture perfect. 
 
 Sir E. You must excuse me. I certainly cannot see why a 
 man who feels earnestly should not express himself earnestly at 
 any moment ; neither do I see that the ebullition of a genuine 
 feeling is rendered less worthy of attention by the accidental cir- 
 cumstance of his having a coal-scuttle in his hand ; but [throwing 
 some coals on] you have chosen to point attention to the fact, and 
 possibly [throwing more] there may be some degree of ridicule 
 attached to it. Therefore, although I burn to speak — [he looks at 
 her, she is looking another way] I say, Mrs. Chillingtone, al- 
 though I burn to speak — [throwing all that remains on]. 
 
 Mrs. C. Don't smother the fire on my account. 
 
 Sir E. [putting down scuttle, and pacing stage — aside]. 
 Her cool indifference is past belief. I'm not used to be treated in 
 
 (138) 
 
A MORNING CALL. y 
 
 such a way by women, and yet there are moments when I fancy 
 that she is listening more than she pretends to be. 
 
 Mrs. C. Are you speaking to me, Sir Edward? because I 
 don't hear one word you say. 
 
 Sir E. I was talking to myself. 
 
 Mrs. C. And there is no better way of ensuring an attentive 
 listener. 
 
 Sir E. Thank you, madam. 
 
 Mrs. C. [rising and coming forward], i You and I have 
 known one another a long time; why say "Madam"? It sounds 
 very formal. 
 
 Sir E. Does it, does it! [Aside.] She thaws, by Jupiter, 
 she thaws! [Aloud, and earnestly.] Does it? 
 
 Mrs. C. Does it, does it, does it? Why, yes, it does — and 
 what then? [Takes up a book and slams it angrily on table.] 
 
 .Sir E. [Aside.] Down to the freezing-point again. I'll 
 pretend to go, and try what that will do. 
 
 Mrs. C. I haven't had the speech yet; when are you going 
 to begin ? 
 
 Sir E. Some other time ; I t 1 ink I hear a carriage [going] . 
 
 Mrs. C. I hear none, but if anybody should call, I can say 
 "not at home." 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. Oh, ho, my lady! [Returning.] Well, 
 since you will say "not at home'' — 
 
 Mrs. C. I didn't say I would — I only said I could. 
 
 Sir E. Mrs. Chillingtone, good morning [going]. 
 
 Mrs. C. Nonsense ! stay where you are, you restless man. 
 
 Sir E. You're very kind, but I must go. [Goes to door, 
 which he opens and holds in hand, standing half in and half out.] 
 
 Mrs. C. Where to ? 
 
 Sir E. I don't know ; but good-bye. 
 
 Mrs. C. Till when, then? 
 
 Sir E [aside]. She says "till when?" It's mv private 
 opinion she wishes me to stay. 
 . Mrs. C Till when? 
 
8 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 Sir E. Till to-morrow. [Aside.'] One day's absence will 
 bring her to her senses [going], 
 
 Mrs. C. Not to-morrow, you cruel man. 
 
 Sir E. [shutting door and returning] . Ah ! you wish me 
 not to go to-day. [Comes close, both hands extended in emotional 
 appeal.] 
 
 Mrs. C. I don't wish you not to go to-day — I only wish you 
 not to come to-morrow. [He appears crestfallen. She laughs.] 
 
 Sir E. Shall you be out? 
 
 Mrs. C. No, I shall be at home ; but I shan't want you.- 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. It's nothing to me; but as sure as fate, 
 there's a man in the case — it's nothing to me, I say, but I don't 
 like it. [Aloud.] "You shan't want me," Mrs. Chillingtone- — 
 "you shan't want me?" that is, don't misunderstand me, I don't 
 mean to say it's likely you would want me, but when you say you 
 don't want me, it seems ~~ much as to sav you don't wish for 
 me ; of course, I don't mean to say it's likely you would wish for 
 me, but when you say, or if you say, you don't wish for me, it's 
 almost as much as to say that you wish me away ; I say almost, 
 I don't say quite. 
 
 Mrs. C. But I do ; you have been a long time arriving at a 
 conclusion, but the curious part of the business is that you have 
 arrived at the right one. 
 
 Sir E. After such a declaration, it would be folly in me to 
 say another word. 
 
 Mrs. C. A declaration? good gracious! Who has made a 
 declaration ? I heard none. 
 
 Sir E. This is trifling; I say it would be folly in me to 
 say another word. 
 
 Mrs. C. So it would, so it would ; but you'll say it for all 
 that. 
 
 Sir E. Well, I believe I shall, in fact, I must; I have a 
 question to ask you — -a question, my dear Mrs. Chillingtone, to 
 which I must entreat your most serious attention. [She walks 
 gently off to her room.] I will not add to your embarrassment by 
 
 (140) 
 
A MORNING CALL. g 
 
 even looking at you while you answer it, contenting myself with 
 merely begging that your answer may be a candid one. [Listens.] 
 Yes, cost what it may, a candid one. [Listens again.] I pause for 
 your assurance that it shall be a candid one. [Aside.] She hesi- 
 tates — she's lost. 
 
 Mrs. C. [calling from within]. Are you gone, Sir Edward? 
 
 Sir E. Gone, Mrs. Chillingtone ? gone? Why, you are 
 gone. 
 
 Mrs. C. [re-entering]. Only for the moment. I went for my 
 thimble. 
 
 Sir E. Went for your thimble! [Aside.] Women have al- 
 ways an excuse at the tips of their fingers. [Aloud.] Only for 
 a moment ! Don't you know what Mrs. Haller says ? "There are 
 moments in which we live years." 
 
 Mrs. C. I must beg, Sir Edward, that you won't quote 
 Mrs. Haller to me. I never associate with ladies of that descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. This is put on — she must be shamming, for 
 she couldn't know that I was — how deceitful women are ! but I 
 will go now. [Goes to door.] I positively will go. [Opens door, 
 then stops — aloud.] Surely you heard my question. 
 
 Mrs. «C. Well, I fancied I heard you mumbling something. 
 
 Sir E. Mumbling! [Aside.] Well, well, I'll bear it all — 
 my turn must come. [Aloud.] I asked you why you wished me 
 away? 
 
 Mrs. C. What! to-morrow? [Busies herself with sewing.] 
 
 Sir E. Yes. [Sits at table opposite Mrs. C] 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh ! because I expect somebody else. 
 
 Sir E. A man? 
 
 Mrs. C. Ah, that's the worst of it ! [Repeatedly sticks pins 
 in a cushion on table.] 
 
 Sir E. A husband, perhaps? 
 
 Mrs. C. No, a simple man. 
 
 Sir E. The more simple, the more likely to become a hus- 
 band. 
 
 (141) 
 
IO A MORNING CALL. 
 
 Mrs. C. That is the most natural thing you have said yet. 
 
 Sir E. Why so? [Puts hand on table near cushion.} 
 
 Mrs. C. It's so rude. [Sticks pin in his hand instead of 
 cushion.} 
 
 Sir E. [withdrazving hand]. Wow! [Aside.] She doesn't 
 know a man from a pin-cushion. [Aloud.] I didn't mean to be 
 rude ; make allowance for my feelings — I feared it was a husband. 
 
 Mrs. C. You need not have feared it. When you asked if 
 it was a man that I expected, I said "that's the worst of it." I 
 could not have said that, if it had been a husband. 
 
 Sir E. Now, who is rude ? but I care nothing for the rude- 
 ness — I derive warmth and comfort from the openness of that 
 assurance. 
 
 Mrs. C. [imitating his tone]. And I derive neither warmth 
 nor comfort from the openness of that door ! so I wish you would 
 shut it. 
 
 Sir E. Oh, Mrs. Chillingtone, you are too cold. 
 
 Mrs. C. I told you so. 
 
 Sir E. [going toward door]. Be content; I am about to shut 
 it once and forever. 
 
 Mrs. C. And when you have shut it, on which side of it 
 do you propose to remain? 
 
 Sir E. Has the lovely Mrs. Chillingtone a choice upon the 
 subject? 
 
 Mrs. C. The lovely Mrs. Chillingtone has no choice upon 
 the subject — but the lovely Mrs. Chillingtone, like the rest of her 
 too fascinating sex, has considerable curiosity. 
 
 Sir E. Your wish shall be gratified — I remain on this side. 
 [Comes in, having shut door.] 
 
 Mrs. C. I excuse the impertinence of that speech for the 
 sake of its amusing vanity. 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. I'll let her go on — I'll let her go on — there 
 will come a dav of reckoning. 
 
 Mrs. C. Well, sir? 
 
 Sir E. Well, ma'am? 
 
 (142) 
 
A MORNING CALL. II 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, nonsense ! you mustn't repeat my words — you 
 must say something ; suppose this were a play, you couldn't come 
 into a room where a lady was, shut the door, and not speak. 
 
 Sir E. Perhaps you will be good enough to furnish the 
 plot of the play. 
 
 Mrs. C. I fancy it would be more in my way to act it ; how- 
 ever, I'll try my hand. I must begin, I believe, with the stage 
 directions. [Puts doivn sewing and rises.] 
 
 Sir E. If you please. 
 
 Mrs. C. Well — "the stage represents a drawing-room in 
 Mrs. Chillingtone's country house — a large party are assembled 
 at another country house, a few miles off." 
 
 Sir E. What, on the stage? 
 
 Mrs. C. No, no ! that is only for your information, to help 
 you what to say; now, don't interrupt me, and don't speak till I 
 tell you. "Mrs. C. has been strongly pressed to join the party 
 at her neighbor's house ; but, knowing herself to be rather an 
 attraciive person, and knowing that men, always more or less silly 
 about women, think it behooves them to make especial donkeys 
 of themselves when on a visit in a country house, she has declined. 
 One of the gentlemen " 
 
 Sir E. Donkey! 
 
 Mrs. C. "Sir Edward Ardent, by name" — (I told you not 
 to interrupt me, and you see what you have got by it) — "thinks 
 proper to ride over to Mrs. Chillingtone's under pretense of a 
 'morning call,' although it is very evident to her that he has some 
 other object lurking behind." 
 
 Sir E. How does she know that? 
 
 Mrs. C. I'm writing a play, ?nd I'm not bound to tell more 
 than I like. 
 
 Sir E. But I have to speak presently, and I want informa- 
 tion. - 
 
 Mrs. C. You shall have more than you want. "Sir Edward, 
 like hundreds of other moderately good-lookine men, has been 
 humored by sundry weak women until he fancies himself irre- 
 sistible." 
 
 (143) 
 
I2 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. He may prove so yet. 
 
 Mrs. C. "And, taking advantage of a previous acquaintance 
 with Mrs. C, to deprive her of her privilege of saying 'not at 
 home,' he breaks through the ordinary rules of society — enters-^ 
 her room without being announced — and " 
 
 Sir E. Stay! I can explain all. 
 
 Mrs. C. Can you? that is just what I want; but don't be in 
 a hurry — pull that couch this way. [He pulls couch to center of 
 stage.] "Mrs. Chillingtone, though astonished at his coolness, 
 takes her seat on one side of the couch [she sits] and motions 
 Sir Edward to occupy the other." [He prepares to do so, and 
 when nearly seated, Mrs. Chillingtone puts hand under his arm 
 and causes him to rise again.] "He has almost done so when he 
 suddenly recollects that he has omitted to bow on accepting the 
 invitation." [He bows to her.] "Having supplied the omission, 
 he takes his seat, and Mrs. Chillingtone waits patiently for the 
 promised explanation of his extraordinary conduct." 
 
 Sir E. I can give it in five words. 
 
 Mrs. C. Not less? 
 
 Sir E. Yes, in three — "I love you !" 
 
 Mrs. C. Stay a minute — let me clearly understand. Are 
 you carrying on the little drama I began, or are you, Sir Edward 
 Ardent, Bart., in your own proper person, addressing yourself to 
 me — Fanny Chillingtone, widow? 
 
 Sir E. I hope you don't take me for an actor. 
 
 Mrs. C. Well, in love affairs, there is not. much difference 
 between a man on and a man off the stage — one is a professional 
 actor, and the other an actor of professions. 
 
 Sir E. You think, then, that truth has no part in love affairs ? 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, yes it has, I wish it hadn't. 
 
 Sir E. Why so ? 
 
 Mrs. C. Because it always comes too late. 
 
 Sir E. Always? 
 
 Mrs. C. I speak from my own experience. 
 
 Sir E. You have never tried but once. \Sits closerA 
 
 (144) 
 
A MORNING CALL. 13 
 
 Mrs. C. And have no inclination to try again. [She moves 
 away.] 
 
 Sir E. You think all men alike, then? [Sits closer.] 
 
 Mrs. C. Yes, in their disposition to deceive women. [She 
 moves away again.] 
 
 Sir E. Ah ! Mrs. Chillingtone, I could die for you. 
 
 Mrs. C. What a charming speech ! Many men have offered 
 to live for me, and I have refused them. You propose to die for 
 me — now if I thought I could depend upon you 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. Confound your impudence! but I'll be even 
 with you yet. [Aloud.] You may, indeed, you may. Ah, Mrs. 
 Chillingtone, I could lie at your feet the live-long day, like a 
 pet dog, with happy eyes to see you, with greedy ears to hear 
 you, and express, by mute devotion, that deep affection which, at 
 last, no tongue, however eloquent, could tell. [He sits on foot- 
 stool by her knee.] 
 
 Mrs. C. [aside]. Hang the fellow, how pleasant he talks! 
 
 Sir E. [aside}. She's touched. 
 
 Mrs. C. There is only one thing I fear, Sir Edward. 
 
 Sir E. [earnestly]. Say what it is? It ceases with the ut- 
 terance. 
 
 Mrs. C. If you were to become my pet dog 
 
 Sir E. Yes! 
 
 Mrs. C. I'm afraid you would expect me to wash and comb 
 you every day. [Laughs at him, rises, and walks about.] 
 
 Sir E. [rises, and paces the stage]. Really, Mrs. Chilling- 
 tone — this indifference — I wish you wouldn't laugh — this indif- 
 ference — now, pray don't laugh — this indifference to one who — 
 oh, well, if you are determined to laugh, it's useless to attempt 
 opening one's mouth. 
 
 Mrs. C. There, there, I won't laugh any more. [Sits down.] 
 I'm dumb, and will only express by mute devotion, that (what is 
 it? oh!) that deep affection which no tongue, however eloquent, 
 can tell. 
 
 (us) 
 
I 4 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 Sir E. I should be sorry, Mrs. Chillingtone, to charge you 
 with affectation, but this indifference is unlike your sex. [Aside.] 
 I'll try if I can make her jealous. [Aloud.] I don't hesitate to 
 tell you that it has been my fate to make an impression upon the 
 fairer portion of the creation ; it is not one, two, ten or twenty 
 only, that I might have married, had I but held my little finger 
 up. I haven't a particle of vanity in my composition ; but com- 
 mon sense tells us there must be something about me to account 
 for the very marked preference shown me by the ladies. [Con- 
 sciously arranges his tie.] 
 
 Mrs. C. Don't mistake me! I always listen with pleasure 
 when my own praises are sounded, though I seldom take the 
 trouble to inquire to what regiment the trumpeter belongs ; you 
 may go on. 
 
 Sir E. It is now some three years since first I met you ; on 
 that occasion it was my good fortune to dance with you — shall 
 I ever forget that dance ? no ! to my dying day the very tune will 
 haunt me — it was a polka ! 
 
 Mrs. C. No such thing; it was a quadrille. 
 
 Sir E. You're right, it was. I said it but to try you. 
 
 Mrs. C. [aside]. I wish I had held my tongue. 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. I didn't remember a bit about it; but that's 
 nothing. [Aloud.] You are quite aware that I" never even hinted 
 to you the passion with which you then inspired me. 
 
 Mrs. C. [aside]. Now, is he going to have the effrontery 
 to pretend that he has been in love with me all this time? 
 
 Sir E. No, like the gentle Viola, I "let concealment feed on 
 my damask cheek." 
 
 Mrs. C. Never mind. You have plenty of it left. 
 
 Sir E. Is this a moment for levity? I ask you, is this a 
 moment for levity? But I am rightly served — women have 
 adored me by dozens, and I have sported with their feelings, I 
 have slighted them, poor dears ! And, now, I, in turn, am doomed 
 to the bitter pangs, of unrequited affection. Oh, Mrs. Chilling- 
 tone, may you be saved from such a fate ! You have many ad- 
 
 (146) 
 
A MORNING CALL. 15 
 
 mirers (not so many, I dare say, as I have), but a great many — 
 you snub them all, but beware ! the time and the man may come, 
 and you may meet in our sex the avenger I have found in yours. 
 
 Mrs. C. There's no great danger. 
 
 Sir E. I don't know that ; love delights in tormenting — 
 women are weak creatures, men are full of deceit. 
 
 Mrs. C. You must be going to publish a copy-book. Sounds 
 like it. 
 
 Sir E. Extremes frequently meet ; she who begins by hating, 
 often ends by loving ; some day you may be addressed by one 
 whom, like myself, for instance, at first sight — he may be very 
 good-looking, although you may think him plain — his figure may 
 be nearly faultless, and you see nothing in it — his conversation, 
 winning to all other ears, may fall unheeded upon yours — nay, 
 even his voice, to many soft and sweet, may sound to you harsh 
 and discordant. And yet this man shall bend your stubborn 
 spirit — and how? I grieve to say by flattery; he shall tell you 
 you've a pretty- foot. 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, Sir Edward ! [Sticks out her foot and peeps 
 at it.] 
 
 Sir E. And praise, as indeed he may with truth, your danc- 
 ing; he shall talk of the beauty of your figure 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, Sir Edward! [Takes waltz step or two.] 
 
 Sir E. And' compare it, to its advantage, with the classic 
 forms of old; he shall discourse of your brilliant wit 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, Sir Edward ! you'll prevent me from speaking 
 at all. [Sinks into sofa.] 
 
 Sir E.' And, having thus fixed your attention, and secured 
 your silence, he shall tell you that your voice is "linked sweetness 
 long drawn out," that your face [Mrs. Chillingtone leans back, 
 and throws white handkerchief over head] — but here description 
 fails me — not because, as a proof of your uneoualed modesty, you 
 have concealed it — but because lanp-uap-e offers rot the means to 
 do it justice.. He no doubt will feel the same difficulty, and pass- 
 ing to your hand, he shall venture to take it within his, and finding 
 
 • (147) 
 
1 6 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 no resistance, even to press it to his lips — then, on a sudden, will 
 the change take place — then will his figure in an instant become 
 good, his face handsome, his conversation brilliant, and his voice 
 musical — then ; but possibly I offend you — I will release your 
 hand. [He lets it go, it falls by her side. Aside.] How is this? 
 Is she ill ? No ; slightly overcome — it's only another victory 
 gained a little sooner than I expected. Edward Ardent, what 
 the devil is there in you that no woman on earth can resist you? 
 I must look at her. [Pulls the handkerchief from her face.] Fast 
 asleep, by all that's horrible! [Walks up and down much ex- 
 cited.] It's enough to drive one mad — downright stark, staring, 
 raving mad — but she wakes. 
 
 Mrs. C. {who has only pretended to be asleep, pretending to 
 awake]. What o'clock? Oh, what a dreadful noise you make. 
 I was having such a nice nap. 
 
 Sir E. And charming dreams, no doubt? 
 
 Mrs. C. Yes, just till this minute. I dreamt that a nice, 
 gentlemanly man was saying all sorts of captivating things to me. 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. Indeed! [Aloud.] You do care about the 
 creatures, then? 
 
 Mrs. C. Not a bit; but you know how absurd dreams are. 
 
 Sir E. Very likely. "A nice, gentlemanly man was saying 
 all sorts of captivating things to you." 
 
 Mrs. C. When suddenly he turned into a monkey, and 
 grinned and chattered most repulsively. At length the monkey 
 darted at my hand ; I fancied that he was going to bite it, and — 
 I suppose that awoke me. 
 
 Sir E. Others can awake from dreams as well as you. 
 Madam, good morning [going].. 
 
 Mrs. C. Where is the man going to? 
 
 Sir E. "The man !" the monster, you mean. [Gives ex- 
 clamation of rage and clenches fists as he paces floor.] 
 
 Mrs. C. Well, the monster. Ha, ha! 
 
 Sir E. To the zoological gardens. [Exit.] 
 
 Mrs. C. He is actually gone; and some women would say 
 
 (148) 
 
A MORNING CALL. 1 7 
 
 "I have lost him forever." I — knowing a little more of the world — 
 allow him five minutes, at the outside, to return. [Re-enter Sir 
 Edward.] I have been too liberal. [To Sir* Edward.] What! 
 won't the Zoologicals have you? have they too many specimens 
 already ?. 
 
 Sir E. No; but they won't receive me without a certificate 
 from you. 
 
 Mrs. C. Of what, pray? 
 
 Sir E. That I have been your pet monkey. 
 
 Mrs. C. You grow insulting, sir ; and I shall leave the room 
 [going] . 
 
 Sir E. Nay, that is more my duty. 
 
 Mrs. C. So I think; but until you do, I shall. [Exits, 
 slamming door.] 
 
 Sir E. Oh ! very well, ma'am. [He watches her out.] Go? 
 I should think so Go? I should like to know who would 
 stay. [Sits dozvn.] 
 
 [Re-enter Mrs. Chillingtone.] 
 
 Mrs. C. Not gone yet, Sir Edward? 
 
 Sir E. Returned so soon, Mrs. Chillingtone? 
 
 Mrs. C Having a right to suppose the house clear, it surely 
 was not very wonderful that I should return to my own drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Sir E. Oh, I'm gone. I merely came back to look for my 
 little dog. [Whistles.] Trim, Trim, Trim. [Whistles again.] 
 Where on earth has the dog got to ? Trim, Trim, Trim. 
 
 Mrs. C. That was not your real excuse, sir, so don't con- 
 descend to deceit. 
 
 Sir E. You are right, it was not. I returned to prove that 
 I was not quite a monster, and to take my leave somewhat less 
 abruptly. 
 
 Mrs. C. Why go at all? [Smiles and offers chair.] 
 
 Sir K Do you wish me to remain on your account? . 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, dear no ; on your own. After being so ex- 
 cessively warm it might be dangerous to rush into this frosty air. 
 
 (149) 
 
1 8 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 [Laughs at him. ] Sudden changes sometimes produce astonish- 
 ing effects. .-..',: 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. Sudden changes ! "I thank thee, Jew, for 
 teaching me that word." I'll try a sudden change. [Aloud.] 
 I've no objection to staying an hour or two, as you seem to wish 
 it. [Goes to fireplace — drazvs chair, and seats himself with back to 
 her.] Have you got such a thing as a newspaper? 
 
 Mrs. C. A newspaper, Sir Edward? A newspaper, in my 
 company ? 
 
 S,ir E. Why not ? You went to sleep in mine. 
 
 Mrs. C. I was not asleep, sir? 
 
 Sir E. Oh! you were only pretending? 
 
 Mrs. C. That was all. I heard every word of the nonsense 
 you talked. 
 
 Sir E, Ah! you may well call it nonsense. What rubbish 
 one does talk to women — doesn't one? And the best of it is, 
 they believe it — poor things ! 
 
 Mrs. C. "Poor things," Sir Edward ! "poor things !" You 
 don't flatter yourself that I believed what you were saying; al- 
 though it was easy to see that you meant every word. 
 
 Sir E. Have you seen the poker anywhere? 
 
 Mrs. C. The poker? 
 
 Sir E. What can there be in women that, although quick 
 to detect us when we flatter others, they invariably gorge the bait 
 themselves ? 
 
 Mrs. C. / gorge the bait, Sir Edward!— I! 
 
 Sir E. How can my remarks apply to you? You are a 
 professed man-hater. You wear the man-hating scowl. 
 
 Mrs. C. I have never said anything of the sort, nor do I 
 wear it. 
 
 Sir E. Well, you have given out that you mean never to 
 marry again ! 
 
 Mrs. C. I don't know that I have gone so far as that; but 
 that has nothing to do with it. You have been for the last 
 twenty minutes making me professions of admiration and at- 
 tachment. I need hardly to tell you that they were perfectly in- 
 
A MORNING CALL. 19 
 
 different to me ; but the extraordinary alteration in your tone and 
 manner gives me the right to have this question answered — did 
 you mean them? 
 
 Sir E. [laughing]. No. 
 
 Mrs. C. Were you attempting to make a fool of me? 
 
 Sir E. [laughing]. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. C. [aside]. This is a little too much. [Aloud.] Look 
 you, Sir Edward Ardent, your assumed coldness — 
 
 Sir E. And your assumed excitement — 
 
 Mrs. C. I don't say that it is altogether assumed. 
 
 Sir E. You're annoyed, then? 
 
 Mrs. C. Not the least annoyed ; but I'm excessively pro- 
 voked at the deception you have practised. But it was not a. 
 deception — I won't admit that it was a deception. You were quite 
 sincere. 
 
 Sir E. Not I. 
 
 Mrs. C. You admire me beyond any woman you ever saw. 
 
 Sir E. Now, pray don't talk nonsense. 
 
 Mrs. C. You do — and you love me to distraction. 
 
 Sir E. Don't I look as if I did. [Crosses legs carelessly and 
 wags foot.] 
 
 Mrs. C. I don't care for that. You love me to distraction — ■ 
 and if you don't, you ought. And whether you do or not, after 
 what you have said, you are bound to marry me if I insist upon 
 it ; and rather than you should go away and have the impertinence 
 to brag to your male friends that you have had the best of it, I 
 do insist upon it. So now, sir, marry me, and then we shall see 
 who has the best of it. 
 
 Sir E. [altering his tone]. Are you serious? 
 
 Mrs. C. Perfectly. 
 
 Sir E. [rising, and coming forzvard]. Then for once, Mrs. 
 Chillingtone, / am serious. You had a perfect right to determine 
 not to marry ap'ain ; but the pains you took to make that deter- 
 mination public, looked like a studied insult to us bachelors; and, 
 at a special meeting duly convened, it was voted that you should 
 be made to break your resolution. I have succeeded in conquering 
 
20 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 your boasted aversion to mankind — but there, I regret to say, the 
 task assigned me ends. In taking my leave, I will not affect 
 to deny that I admire you; but all personal considerations must 
 bend before a sense of public duty. It became necessary to 
 read you a great moral lesson ; and — with the sternness of a judge 
 who carries out the wholesale rigors of the law — I have read it. 
 [Bows, and is going.] 
 
 Mrs. C. Stay, Sir Edward. [He stops and turns — aside.] 
 Flesh and blood can't bear this. [Aloud.] Stay for a moment, 
 and ask yourself your true position. A set of men combine to 
 form a plan against one poor weak woman; you are selected as 
 their scape-goat; if you fail, they're ready with their jeers — if you 
 succeed, the victory is theirs — the odium yours. 
 
 Sir E. [aside] . I'm dreadfully afraid that's true. 
 
 Mrs. C. [aside]. Now for it. [Aloud.] And you have 
 succeeded but too well; my pride is humbled — the advantages 
 which you possess of face and figure — 
 
 Sir E. [aside]. Oho! 
 
 Mrs. C. Those brilliant powers of conversation which Na- 
 ture has given you, and which you so fatally can use, have brought 
 me to your feet — and now you propose to leave me. 
 
 Sir E. How is this ? Can it be that you really love me ? 
 
 Mrs. C. Can it be that you know yourself, and doubt it? 
 Oh, Sir Edward, would that the choice of my appointed con- 
 queror had fallen on one less fascinating — or that your' pride had 
 been content to feed on victories past, nor claimed another female 
 slave to chain to your triumphant chariot-wheels ! [Much moved.] 
 But thus to conquer, and thus cruelly to leave, is but a wanton 
 exercise of power, and may be likened to that of the fowler, who 
 shoots the bird he cares not to preserve, for the mere pleasure of 
 seeing the hapless creature die! [Weeps.] 
 
 Sir E. [aside] . Die ? D — n it, she mustn't die ! I've gone 
 too far. [Aloud, and with patronising air.] No, no, my dear 
 Mrs. Chillingtone — I have no pleasure in anything of the sort, I 
 assure you. Calm yourself, I entreat you. I'm sure you won't 
 attribute it to anything in the shape of vanity, when I say that it 
 
 (152) 
 
A MORNING CALL. 21 
 
 is evident I have been a little more fascinating than I intended. 
 I meant to win your consent, certainly— and I have won it ; but 
 thinking — pardon me — that you were rather heartless (at least, 
 so I understood you understand), I never dreamt — -(don't you 
 see?) that I should touch your heart. It only shows that one 
 never knows one's own powers ! however, though thoughtless, and 
 perhaps wild, I trust that I am still a gentleman. [Aside.'] How 
 deuced well she looks through her tears ! [Aloud.] And rather 
 than see a lady suffer on my account [aside, having looked at her 
 again] oh, by George ! a man might do a great deal worse [aloud] 
 I offer you, this time in all sincerity, my hand and fortune. 
 
 Mrs. C. Sir Edward Ardent knows but little of the woman 
 whom he honors with his pity, if he supposes she would wed a king 
 upon such terms. It is my duty, however, to thank you for your 
 generous offer — the more generous because affection has no 
 share in it. 
 
 Sir E. Now, Mrs. Chillingtone, upon my word, you must 
 not say that. I assure you, I'm extremely fond of you — I was 
 afraid I was — I mean, thought I was ; but this last half hour has 
 convinced me. 
 
 Mrs. C. It will take longer to convince me. 
 
 Sir E. Time is nothing — sincerity everything. I am the 
 most devoted of your slaves. 
 
 Mrs. C. I'm sorry to hear it; the best slaves make the 
 worst masters. 
 
 Sir E. I'll promise anything. 
 
 Mrs. C. So will a servant seeking a situation — so will a 
 candidate for a seat in Parliament — and so, no doubt, would a 
 king, were the office elective. [Paces floor agitatedly.] 
 
 Sir E. How can you hope to escape a risk which is common 
 to all ? Any man may break his word. 
 
 Mrs. C. And where women are concerned most men do. 
 
 Sir E. Men, not gentlemen. 
 
 Mrs. C. Am I to understand that you are a gentleman, and 
 not a man ? 
 
 dS3) 
 
22 A MORNING CALL. 
 
 Sir E. At present,, think of me only as a lover. I am the 
 slave of the ring, ready to obey you in all things. I entreat you 
 make trial of your power. . ; 
 
 Mrs. C. You shall be indulged. Fetch my bonnet and 
 shawl; [he goes for them] and while you are about it, bring your 
 own hat. [He returns with them.] Now put that on. [He is 
 about to put on hat.] No, no, put on my bonnet. 
 
 Sir E. Not your bonnet ! 
 
 Mrs. C. Yes, and shawl. [He puts on bonnet and shdwl.] 
 Good, now give me your hat. [He gives it to her.] 
 
 Sir E. What next, I wonder? 
 
 * '•""- Mrs. C. Now, sir, according to your own modest account, 
 
 ladies have been making love to you all your life. I am curious 
 
 to see how a lady looks when she so demeans herself; [putting on 
 
 ' his hat] fancy me the fascinating man, which you evidently fancy 
 
 yourself. Down on your knees, and — I leave the rest to you. 
 
 . Sir E. Well, if. I must — there. [Kneels.] Hear me, then, 
 you captivating tyrant, while I own that I love you, and ask, in 
 all humility, for a return. .... - . 
 
 Mrs. C. [aside]. I have him down at last, and there I'll 
 keep him. I fear I care too much about him, and love is sweet ; 
 /,but to an insulted woman revenge is sweeter. 
 
 Sir E. I entreat you to relieve me from a position which is 
 not only painful, but extremely inconvenient. Do you love me? 
 
 Mrs. C. What if I do? You are aware that all personal 
 considerations must bend before a sense of public duty. It is 
 necessary to read you a great moral lesson. 
 
 Sir E. You do not love me, then? 
 
 Mrs. C. [taking off hat, and throwing it away]. No; I was 
 shamming. Laughing at you. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Sir E. [rising, and throwing away bonnet and shawl]. So 
 was I. 
 
 Mrs. C. Your assertion comes a little too late, sir. What 
 would you have me infer from your having been on your knees 
 to me? 
 
 Sir E. That I want a clothes-brush. 
 
 (1*4) 
 
A MORNING CALL. 23 
 
 Mrs. C. Indeed! — my' servant will furnish you with one 
 as you go out. 
 
 Sir E. Very well, madam — I understand your hint ; but 
 remember, I go to bear witness to my friends that you accepted 
 me, and I declined — I'm bound to speak the truth., 
 
 Mrs. C. Ay, and the whole truth ; you will therefore be 
 pleased to add, that subsequently / declined. the honor you pro- 
 posed. 
 
 Sir E. I'm afraid that will make me look ridiculous. 
 
 Mrs. C. Not more than you do now, I think 
 
 Sir E. There is one way to make it bearable. 
 
 Mrs. C. And that is — 
 
 Sir E. Union is strength; let. us be. married and share the 
 ridicule between us. 
 
 Mrs. C. A very handsome offer; half your ridicule is to 
 be my marriage settlement. 
 
 Sir E. Half all I possess on earth — nay the whole. I get 
 the better half again if I get you. 
 
 Mrs. C. But will. a general, so celebrated in the field of 
 love, be content to renounce all future conquests? 
 
 Sir E. Let him but win this final battle, and he will. Ycu 
 shall be his Waterloo — in conquering you he masters all the 
 world — for you, henceforth, are all the world to him. Come ! 
 
 Mrs. C. Oh, Edward! [Falls into his arms.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 (i55) 
 
THE PHOTOGRAPH. 
 
 Paul Laurence Dunbar. 
 
 See dis pictyah in my han' ? 
 
 Dat's my gal. 
 Ain't she purty? Goodness Ian'! 
 
 Huh name Sal. 
 Dat's de very way she be, — 
 Kin' o' tickles me to see 
 Huh smilin' back at me. 
 
 She sont me dis photograph 
 
 Jes' last week; 
 An', aldough it made me laugh. 
 
 My black cheek 
 Felt somethin' a-runnin' queer—- 
 Bless yo' soul, it was a tear, — 
 Jes' f'om wishin' she was here. 
 
 Often when I's all alone 
 
 Layin' here, 
 I git t'inkin' 'bout my own 
 
 Sallie dear ; 
 How she say I'se huh beau. 
 An' hit tickles me to know 
 Dat de girl do love me so. 
 
 Some bright day I'se goin' back 
 
 Fo' do la ! 
 An', as sho'z my face is black, 
 
 Ax huh pa. 
 De blessed little miss, 
 Who's a smilin' out o' dis 
 Pictyah, lak she wan'ed a kiss. 
 
 (156) 
 
THOSE LANDLADIES. 
 
 Ina Leon Cassilis. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Isabel Morton, a young lady teacher. 
 Mrs. Dobbs, a landlady. 
 
 Scene : Sitting-room in a lodging-house. Chair by table 
 R. Sofa with cushions L. Pictures on wall. Other furnishings 
 ad lib. Door C. in flat. 
 
 [Enter Isabel with a letter, which she kisses several times.] 
 Isabel. You dear, darling Harry — to write so soon again ! 
 [sits by table R.] — though, to be sure, I should have been awfully 
 disappointed if you hadn't ! Why, I've had no letter since yes- 
 terday morning. Now, let's see what he says — the old dear! 
 [Kisses letter. Opens it. Knock at door. She does not notice. 
 Reads.] "My own dearest, best of darlings — " 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Dobbs, with duster and feather-brush. She is 
 a regular specimen of landlady, elderly, and dressed in slovenly 
 fashion. ] 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs [in somewhat familiar manner]. Thank you, 
 Miss. I thought as 'ow you wouldn't mind me comin' in to do the 
 dustin' ! You see, there ain't much time of a mornin', what with 
 gettin' off the children to school, and Seusan 'avin' to wait on the 
 gents in the second floor as 'as their breakfastis at h'eight, an' 
 six rashers o' backon to fry an' heggs accordin' ! [Rolls up 
 sleeves.] 
 
 3 play — 257 book 
 
4 THOSE LANDLADIES. 
 
 Isabel [who has hardly noticed her, absently]. Yes, Mrs. 
 Dobbs, air right. [Mrs. D. sniffs. Begins dusting.] t 
 
 Isabel [reads]. "My own love, when I last looked on your 
 sweet face, I thought — " 
 
 Mrs. D. [interrupting so glibly as to make her speech seem a 
 continuance of Isabel's]. Them gals is awful dirty an' ontoidy. 
 I never did see sich a lot o' dust. [Takes up cushion and pounds 
 it with stick.] 
 
 Isabel [not heeding, laughs]. You stupid old dear — what 
 made you think I didn't look well ! — 
 
 Mrs. D. Not stoopid, nor h'old neither, Miss ! least ways I 
 ain't forty yet, an' I hain't said nothin' h'about your 'ealth ; an' 
 was married when I wasn't no more than seventeen, in lilock 
 sat'n an' a white bonnet with h'orange blossoms, h'an a pimple 
 on my nose distressed me h'orful, an' Dobbs 'ad a bloo coat and 
 gray trousers, as is dead now an' buried in h'Abney Park Cim- 
 mitry, which 'is father an' mother was buried in the same grave, 
 an' lived together nigh on fifty years and never a quarrel. 
 [Mounts chair to dust picture.] 
 
 Isabel [glancing up at Mrs. D.'s back]. Old party seems to 
 have the habit of talking to herself. [Reads.] "Do you remem- 
 ber last Sunday, on the river, dearest, when I was lying at your 
 feet—" 
 
 Mrs. D. [turns toward Isabel, still standing on chair]. 'E 
 was as fine a figger of a man as you could see in a mornin's walk, 
 'ed such calves growin' on 'is legs, and looked quite the gen'leman 
 in 'is 'igh 'at of a Sunday, though, to be sure, 'e'd take a drop too 
 much. [Straightens picture on wall.] 
 
 Isabel [reads]. "With your hand in mine — while we drift- 
 ed, drifted — " [sighs dreamily, gazing at letter]. 
 
 Mrs. D. An' that's the way with all of 'em, it's the drink 
 'at does it, an' you take my advice, an' don't you git married 
 [jumps down] ; you'll 'ave to keep yer 'usband — " 
 
 Isabel [reads]. "And the little lambs." Ah! yes, could I 
 forget? [Clasps hands under chin, elbows on table, and looks up 
 dreamily. ] 
 
 (158) 
 
THOSE LANDLADIES. 5 
 
 Mrs. D. You'll be glad anuff to forgit, but 'tain't easy with 
 four children to keep [straightens chairs and dusts them], an' a 
 lodgin' 'ouse full, an' me as never soiled my 'ands, bein' as I may 
 say born a lydy, which my pa never would consent to me marryin' 
 Dobbs as was a idle, good-for-nothin' — 
 
 Isabel [clasping letter to bosom]. Ah! that happy day! 
 
 Mrs. D. 'Appy ! it was the wust day as I ever 'ad ! Rainin', 
 an' everyone over-h'eatin' at the table h'afterwards ; an' I wish 
 I'd never seen 'im — I do, — which wasn't my h'equal. 
 
 Isabel [reads]. "How handsome you looked!" 
 
 Mrs. D. [smirking] . Well, that's as one may think. I never 
 liked a squint myself, tho' if I do squint I'm 'andsomer than 'im. 
 Why, Dobbs was that cross-eyed, you couldn't tell whether 'e was 
 a lookin' at you, or round the corner of the 'ouse, an' when we 
 went walkin' Sundays, e'd h'often kiss the girl walkin' the other 
 side of 'im when 'e reached a shady spot thinkin' hit was me — 
 'is h'eyes were that h'uncertain. 
 
 Isabel. Dear me, I've been dreaming and lost my place [be- 
 gins looking through letter again] . Ah ! well, what comes next? 
 
 Mrs. D. [sits down, folding apron over hands]. A pint o' 
 beer hain't amiss ; I'm partial to it myself — but when it comes to 
 sperits, an' drinkin' 'em fust thing in the mornin' an' last thing 
 at night, why, I calls that a shameful waste o' money — don't you ? 
 
 Isabel [reads] . "I wish we could be together always — every 
 day, and all day ! I wonder if I should ever get tired of it." 
 [Sighs rapturously.] 
 
 Mrs. D. Tired? Lor, I can put hup with you if you can 
 with me, Miss. Me that wasn't brought h'up to 'ard work an' can't 
 scrub a floor to this day. I was brought up like a lydy — to do 
 nothink — [glances at Isabel] — not but what there is lydies as 'as 
 to work for their livin' same as me, an' I'm sorry for 'em ; but my 
 Uncle Josiah, what lived anigh 'amstid 'eath afore it was all spilt, 
 an' that there Caounty Gauncil a meddlin' an' a 'umbuggin' an' 
 puttin' up fences yere an' there, an' you can't never go nowhere, 
 'e says to me 'e says: "You hain't never no need to work, Sa- 
 rah," 'e says ; that's my name as was christened after my Aunt 
 
 (iS9) 
 
6 THOSE LANDLADIES. 
 
 Sarah as lived in the 'ighest fam'lies, an' 'ad four 'orses to her 
 funeral an' sich a storm as never was, we thought the 'earse would 
 upset. 
 
 Isabel [who has been reading, not listening]. In Burnhara 
 Beeches! Oh! delightful! 
 
 Mrs. D. No, miss, in the cimmitry, if you'll believe me, the 
 'earse was almost — 
 
 Isabel [rapturously]. Coming! Actually coming! By the 
 10 130 from Paddington — 
 
 Mrs. D. [brings hand down on Isabel's shoulder]. An' the 
 h'undertaker's 'at — 
 
 Isabel [starting in surprise and looking up at Mrs. D.]. At 
 what? 
 
 Mrs. D. [staring]. 'Is 'at was took oft by the wind — 
 
 Isabel. Oh! Yes, it is quite windy around here. [Aside.] 
 What is she jabbering about? [Returns to letter.] 
 
 Mrs. D. [peering over Isabel's shoulder at letter]. I s'pose 
 it's from 'er young man ! [Aloud.] Lor ! miss, don't you believe 
 in 'em — they're all alike. Why, Dobbs, when he was a'courtin', 
 you'd ha' thought butter wouldn't melt in 'is mouth, an' 'is letters 
 — why, they was all over crosses — there was more crosses than 
 writin'. But, Lor! when we was married there was more cuffs 
 than kisses. You won't catch me with a second 'usband ! If I 
 was you, I wouldn't 'ave a fust. I say, I wouldn't 'ave a fust. 
 
 Isabel [absently]. No, I don't mind the dust. [Reads.] 
 "A little cottage, somewhere in the country, with roses and honey- 
 suckles — " 
 
 Mrs. D. A settin' up by the fire asleep 'alf the time, an' 
 t'other 'alf in the public 'ouse — that's the way with 'em ! 
 
 Isabel [kisses letter again]. Oh! how sweet! 
 
 Mrs. D. Sweet ! wait till you're married ! you'll sing another 
 song. It hain't sweet to 'ave to keep vour 'usband an' four chil- 
 dern, to say nothink of 'is mother as is always droppin' in to tea 
 an' never so much as a penorth o' shrimps with her ; not that I 
 grudges anyone as wants 'em a bite an' a sup, but it's 'ard work 
 for a woman to feed — 
 
 (160) 
 
THOSE LANDLADIES. JT 
 
 Isabel. A pony carriage ! — only fancy ! — 
 
 Mrs. D. [amazed]. Well, I should say it was! [Aside.] 
 Whatever is she jabberin' about? [Notices letter in Isabel's 
 hand. ] Lor ! what fools gals is over a love letter ! It must a took 
 'er young man a week to write such a lot. Oh ! Lor, I am tired. 
 An' she hain't said another word about that pint. [Aloud.] 
 You won't mind me settin' down, will yer? [Wipes face with 
 duster.] Miss -Ives as. was yere afore you — her pa was a reel 
 gentleman — kep' 'is 'orse an' didn't do nothink — she liked to 'ave 
 me come an' chat with her an' 'av a pint at times. 
 
 Isabel [annoyed, looking up]. Mrs. Dobbs! Why are you 
 sitting there ? 
 
 Mrs. D. Don't mind me. You can go on readin' the letter. 
 I know what it is — 'ad 'em myself- — from Dobbs — as I was telling 
 you — . 
 
 Isabel [rising and folding up her letter] . If you have fin- 
 ished your dusting, Mrs. Dobbs — 
 
 Mrs. D. I 'aven't, my dear, I 'aven't— £>ut there hain't no 
 'urry — no 'urry at all! I halways 'as time for visits and pints. 
 
 Isabel. Then I shall wait in the hall and return to the room 
 when you have left it! [Going.] Insufferable impertinence! I 
 shall give notice to-morrow ! [Exits, nose in air.] 
 
 Mrs. D. [rising]. Well I never! I never did — in all my 
 born days ! So I hain't good anuff for yer, I hain't — little stuck up i 
 pauper of a music gove'niss ! Sich h'airs an' graces, an' me a reel 
 lydy what my father could a bought hup 'er an' her young man 
 h'over and h'over! I hain't a-p-nin' to put up with h'airs in the 
 second floor! Hout vou go. Miss Morton, next week — which I 
 don't believe you're h'even respectable. There ! [Flounces out.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 (161) 
 
IN VAIN. 
 
 Marion Short. 
 
 I wore a robe of lace that night, 
 And twined amid my hair 
 
 Some purple violets and white, 
 That I might seem more fair. 
 
 I threw my soul into my eyes, 
 
 My heart into my smile, 
 My whole life in the songs I sang 
 
 His fancy to beguile. 
 
 He said no word — but O his look ! 
 
 It held me in a spell; 
 He rose — I heard his steps advance 
 
 I knew his mission well. 
 
 My fingers wandered o'er the keys ; 
 
 He paused not far away; 
 I waited longingly to hear 
 
 The words he had to say. 
 
 He nearer came — my pulses throbbed ! 
 
 He stooped and whispered low : 
 "Miss Maud, let opera have a rest 
 
 And give us 'Old Black Joe.' " 
 
 (162) 
 
BREAKING THE ICE: OR, 
 A PIECE OF HOLLY. 
 
 Charles Thomas. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Pauline Phelps and Marion Short. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 CHARACTERS : Captain Selby. 
 Miss Marton. 
 
 Scene : Room in a country inn. Large high screen drawn 
 down stage to front, dividing stage into two equal parts ; each 
 side of screen furnished as a separate room. L. of screen : Fire- 
 place ; before fire an armchair ; table R. of chair, with drawing 
 materials ; R. of table, a common chair ; two more chairs in room ; 
 on one are Miss Marton's hat and ulster. R. of screen : Table, 
 R. C, with chairs each side ; window at back ; between screen and 
 window table with books, periodicals, etc. Above table hangs a 
 mirror. Capt. Selby' s hat and ulster on a peg on door. Miss 
 Marton discovered sitting L. of screen with magazine; Capt. 
 Selby R. of screen, standing looking out of window. 
 
 Miss Marton [sipping tea]. H'm! A pretty position I 
 must say. Snowed up in a' country inn eight miles from home, 
 compelled to share the only sitting-room with a strange man, and 
 nothing to take away the awkwardness of the situation but a 
 screen! [Pause, while she turns page of magazine.] After all, 
 I rather like it — the situation I mean, not the screen ; that might 
 be dispensed with, if he were nice. 
 
 3 play — 163 book 
 
4 BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY. 
 
 Capt. Selby. Still snowing. [Turns from window and 
 comes down R. of table.] H'm! A nice fix you are in, Jack 
 Selby. Due at JMarton Towers to-morrow, and bottled up by the 
 snow in this infernal old inn, with nothing but a lot of older peri- 
 odicals to keep you company. Stay, though, I am forgetting, 
 there's a lady — probably more ancient than the periodicals. [Takes 
 up paper.] 
 
 Miss M. I wonder what my neighbor is like. Elderly, no 
 doubt! Had he beeen young, he would have been more curious 
 on my account, stupid old thing. [Pause.] I know, I'll make 
 a fancy portrait of him. Let's see, where are my chalks? [Turns 
 to table and begins to draw.] 
 
 Capt. S. I wonder what my neighbor is like? Probably 
 her face would stop an eight-day clock, and her voice sound like 
 the alarm. [Humorously.] Only a screen between us two; I 
 hope and trust she won't take advantage of my defenceless posi- 
 tion. 
 
 Miss M. It's very difficult to put a polish on a bald head, 
 with chalks. Now for the red chalk to give him a little color. 
 
 Capt. S. Poor thing ! I dare say she is dying to make my 
 acquaintance ! For one reason I shouldn't mind making hers ; 
 arid that is, that she's got the fire on her side, and I'm getting 
 rather chilly. [Walks up and down quickly.] 
 
 Miss M. There, I should like to see if my notion of him is 
 correct. [Brings chair dose to screen.] 
 
 Capt. S. No, I think I nad better stop where I am. These 
 mature spinsters are sometimes deuced inflammable, and I'm not 
 at all sure that my appearance might not inspire her with a hope- 
 less attachment. [As he speaks he places chair before mirror, 
 slowly mounts it, and admires himself.] Therefore, Jack, keep 
 your fascinations in the background! [Miss Marton also 
 mounts her chair and looks over screen; on seeing how he is occu- 
 pied, she goes into a -fit of silent laughter, and bobs down, but a?ain 
 peeps cautiously.] Nature has been gracious to you, mv bov. 
 Your face is good, your figure unexceptionable. T don't mind 
 imparting these sentiments to you, Jack, because you're not the 
 
 (164) 
 
B-REARING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY. 5 
 
 sort 5 of man to be led away by conceit. You know well that con- 
 ceit makes a man look a fool; besides, you are endowed with a 
 certain innate modesty 
 
 Miss M. [unable to restrain her laughter]. Ha! ha! ' 
 
 Capt. S. {wheeling abruptly round on chair]. What, the 
 deuce L 
 
 Miss M. [endeavoring' to stop laughing], 'Oh! I beg your 
 pardon. 
 
 Capt. S. Have you been there long? [She goes into an- 
 other tit of laughing.] I suppose I look rather an idiot? 
 
 Miss M. My innate modesty, sir, prevents my answering 
 that question ! 
 
 Capt. S. [aside]. Oh, confound it! [Direct.] Ahem! 
 
 Miss M. Ahem! ' I ■ 
 
 Capt. S. [recovering his composure]. May I introduce my- 
 self? My name is Jones, Mr. Jones. 
 
 Miss M. I am delighted to hear it. Mine is Smith, Miss 
 Smith. [Jumps from chair.] "* ' 
 
 'Capt. S. [descends from' chair]. Then, Miss Smith, will 
 you allow me to speak to you? 
 
 Miss M. I cannot carry on a conversation with a person 1 
 can not see, Mr. Jones. 
 
 Capt. S. Thank you for the hint. [Pushes back screen and 
 enters.] 
 
 Miss M. [in confusion] . Oh; but I didn't mean 
 
 Capt. S. - Oh, I thought you did. [Formally.] Perhaps 1 
 had better retire. 
 
 Miss M. [coldly]: If you wouldn't mind. 
 
 Capt. S. But I should mind very much. You see, it's so cold 
 over there, and so dull. [.S^g-//.?.] 
 
 Miss M. [sighing] . It is dull. 
 
 Capt. S. And I was getting so bored with myself. [Sighs.] 
 
 Miss M. I know what you mean exactly. [Sighs.] 
 
 Capt. S. And then I am sick of this horrid old screen. 1 
 hate screens. -.-... 
 
 Miss M. They are sometimes very useful — to look over. 
 
 (165) 
 
6 BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY. 
 
 Capt. S. Aha! You startled me awfully; but come, am I 
 exactly what you expected to see ? 
 
 Miss M. N-no, not exactly. [Shows picture* so that only 
 he can see it.] That's what I thought you would be like. 
 
 Capt. S. [laughs] . The resemblance is not very great. 
 
 Miss M. Not at present; but you may grow to it! [Turns 
 picture to audience.] The youth! what he may become! [Puts 
 it on table.] Besides, had I seen you when I drew it, I should 
 have depicted you as Narcissus. [Crosses R.] 
 
 Capt. S. And why so, may I ask? 
 
 Miss M. You evidently are not well up in mythology. Nar- 
 cissus was a beautiful youth of unexceptionable figure. Standing 
 one day on a chair— I mean, by a fountain — he saw his own image 
 reflected in the glass — I should say, the water ; and, falling in love 
 with it, experienced all the agonies of an unrequited attachment. 
 Take warning by his fate, Mr. Jones, and when next you are 
 brushing your hair, restrain your feelings. [He turns away 
 pettishly. ] 
 
 Capt. S. Might I remark that a little restraint of the tongue 
 is sometimes advisable? 
 
 Miss M. Speech is silver, Mr. Jones. 
 
 Capt. S. And silence is gold, Miss Smith. 
 
 Miss M. Yes ; therefore I couldn't think of being so ex- 
 travagant as to use it ! There, don't be angry, and I'll tell you 
 how it is I came to be weather-bound here. [Sits C. Captain 
 takes a chair near her.] You see, the fact is, there was a young 
 man coming, whom papa had ordered me to marry, so I at once 
 determined to have nothing to do with him. 
 
 Capt. S. Naturally. 
 
 Miss M. Therefore, I wrote my father and mother a letter, 
 saying that to avoid meeting my expected suitor I had gone to 
 my godmother. Then, after luncheon, when they had gone out 
 to make a round of calls, I jumped on Maxwelton, and off I 
 went. [Rises.] 
 
 * A chalk outline of a baldheaded, red-nosed old man should be prcriously 
 prepared. 
 
 (166) 
 
BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY, 7 
 
 Capt. S. [rises]. And who is Maxwelton, and what had he 
 done that he should be jumped on? 
 
 Miss M. Maxwelton is my donkey. You've heard the song 
 "Maxwelton's braes are bonnie," I suppose? [Sings a snatch 
 from "Annie Laurie."] — and my Maxwelton has the bonniest 
 bray you have ever heard. [Crosses R. C] 
 
 Capt. S. [laughing]. Oh, I see now! But fancy you being 
 engaged to be married ! 
 
 Miss M. And why not, pray? I'm not absolutely repulsive 
 that I know of ■ 
 
 Capt. S. You are perfectly charming; only — you are so 
 young, you know 
 
 Miss M. That's not my fault; and, anyway, I'll outgrow it. 
 But, please, understand, Mr. Jones, that I'm not quite a baby. I 
 made my formal debut at a ball last spring. 
 
 Capt. S. Did you get lots of partners? [They resume 
 seats.] 
 
 Miss M. Yes, I never missed a dance. 
 
 Capt. S. I wish I had been there! 
 
 Miss M. So do I. 
 
 Capt. S. Really! Why? 
 
 Miss M. [hesitatingly]. You look — as if you could dance 
 wed ; besides, I don't feel shy with you ; and, though perhaps you 
 wouldn't think it, I am awfully shy with people I don't like. 
 
 Capt. S. Then do you like me? 
 
 Miss M. [bashfully.] I — I suppose so. 
 
 Capt. S. I'm awfully glad, and I wish more than ever that 
 1 had been at this ball. [Pauses.] I say, Miss Smith, was he at 
 this dance? 
 
 Miss M. No ; I've never seen him, and the more I don't see 
 him, the more I dislike him. 
 
 Capt. S. Just what I feel about the young lady whom my 
 father wants me to marry. 
 
 Miss M. What ! Are you engaged to be married to a girl 
 you have never seen? [He nods.] What a pity we can not 
 marry your tiresome young woman 
 
 (167) 
 
8 BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY. 
 
 Capt. S. To your niminy piminy noodle of a man. They 
 would be excellently suited to each other. . vii 
 
 Miss M. Poor thing! Howl should pity her.*. 
 
 ■Capt. S. Oh, I don't know ; she'd have much the best of the 
 bargain. . 
 
 Miss M. Not at all; the wife's always the better half. 
 
 Capt. S. Ah, but the man's the nobler animal, and what's 
 quantity compared to quality ? 
 
 Miss M. I don't care. I maintain she is most to be pitied. 
 
 Capt. S. No, that I can not admit. 
 
 Miss M. But I say she is ! 
 
 Capt. S. Very well, then, I say she isn't! 
 
 MissM. )'_'_; , , ■ . ( Is. 
 
 Capt. S. \ [Together ad hb.} ^- 
 
 ...__ Miss M. [pettishly]. Pray how much longer are you going 
 on with that ? — like a negative echo. 
 
 Capt. S. Being an echo, I can't stop till you do. 
 
 Miss M. Well, I have stopped. . 
 
 Capt. S. So have I. 
 
 Miss M. [argumentaiively]. At least you'll admit you were 
 tired first. 
 
 Capt. S. No> no. 
 
 Miss M. Do, please. 
 
 Capt. S. Ask me like that, Miss Smith, and there is nothing 
 I would not do to please you ! 
 - Miss M. Ah, you don't mean what you say. 
 
 Capt. S. [with great. emphasis}.- I do indeed — only try me! 
 
 Miss M. Well, let me see. [Looks round room.] Ah! 
 [Runs to window.] Suppose you gather me a branch from that 
 ^oily-tree over the way. [Points out of 'zvindow.] 
 
 Capt. S. A branch. from that holly-tree, 'eh? [Stands look- 
 ing out of zvindow in dismay.] 
 
 Miss M. Do you hesitate. Mr. Tones? 
 
 Capt. S. [hastily]. Oh, no. I'm going directly. [Crosses 
 R. and stops. ] 
 
 (168) 
 
BREAKING 'THE- ICE: OR, A PIECE Oh 'HOLLY. . 9 
 
 Miss M. [crossing L.]. Pray, don't trouble yourself! 
 [Coldly.] I might have -known the value of your protestations:!, 
 
 Capt. S. I assure you, you mistake me.-- I consider that 
 wading through a snowdrift to gather holly is the height of en- 
 joyment. In fact, it's quite a little holiday for me. I'll just put 
 my overcoat on and be off. [Takes down his coat and begins -to 
 struggle into it. Miss Marton laughs aside. Puts hands into 
 pockets of overcoat.] Hello! [Aside.] What's this ? [Pulls out 
 four or live ladies' gloves.] Qh! scalps from the last. war-path — • 
 representing one, two, three, four, five flirtations, all safely 
 weathered, and now 
 
 Miss M* Are you not gone yet, Captain Jones? 
 ■' T Capt. S. [starts and shoves gloves back into his pocket, drop- 
 ping one as he does so] . Oh ! yes, yes — off now directly. [Exit.] 
 ■Miss'M. [coming forward]. Ha, ha, ha, what fun! [Goes 
 to window.] Yes, there he goes, plump into the snow; now he's, 
 down — up again — how pluckily he goes at it! I'm beginning to 
 be father sorry I sent him. He must think me a horrid wretch ! 
 I'll call him back! No — I don't like to do that \ Poor fellow! 
 he'll never forgive me, and I shall never forgive myself for hav- 
 ing been so stupid. Stupid ! it was most unfeeling ! I'll go and 
 order him some hot coffee against his return ! [Crosses L., stops 
 short on seeing glove.] Why, I've dropped one of my gloves. 
 No [picks it up and examines it] , it isn'tmiine ; I wonder whose 
 it is. Pshaw [throws it down], what does it matter to me? and 
 yet I should rather like to know ! [Picks it up again.] What 
 business had he to go after holly for me, when he had this glove 
 in his possession? Why didn't he tell me? His behavior has 
 been shameful [whimpers], arid I hope he will scratch himself. 
 [Crosses L. C] As for her, she must have a great fat hand to 
 fill that. [Holds out the glove by one finger.] Seven and a half 
 at least, and even then she has burst the buttons off. [Twists the 
 fingers round viciously.] I wish her fingers were iri it now ! I'll 
 burn it. [Runs to nrcplace.] No, I won't — I'll give it him back, 
 and wish him joy! [Capt. Selby enters; she hides glove in her 
 dress.] 
 
 (169) 
 
10 BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY. 
 
 Capt. S. [shivering, covered with snozv, and holding a branch 
 of holly in his hand]. Here it is, Miss Smith. 
 
 Miss M. [very coldly]. What is "it"? 
 
 Capt. S. Why, the holly. [Hangs hat up.] 
 
 Miss M. Well, pray, put it down; you don't expect me to 
 tcuch the nasty, prickly stuff, I suppose? 
 
 Capt. S. [angrily]. Have you nothing pleasanter than that 
 to say to me after doing your bidding? [Puts holly on table.] 
 
 Miss M. Did you scratch yourself? 
 
 Capt. S. A little 
 
 Miss M. I am so sorry. [Sarcastically.] By the way, 
 would you like a souvenir of this incident? 
 
 Capt. S. Immensely. [Aside.] I'm not likely to forget 
 the incident in a hurry ! 
 
 Miss M. Then there ! [Holds out the glove to hint, stands 
 pouting.] 
 
 Capt. S. [examines it, then draws the other gloves out of 
 his pocket and counts them; then bursts out laughing]. Why, 
 where did you get this? 
 
 Miss M. [rather ashamed]. Found it on the floor. [Turns 
 round.] Why, you've a lot of them! 
 
 Capt. S. Oh, yes ; I daresay I have some more in the other 
 pocket. Yes ; look here [produces two or three more] ; but after 
 all, they mean nothing — besides, you know, there is safety in 
 numbers ! 
 
 Miss M. But if they mean nothing, why do you keep them? 
 
 Capt. S. If they meant something, do you think I should 
 keep them in the pocket of an old ulster? 
 
 Miss M. It's not a very romantic place for them, certainly, 
 but, tell me, to whom did they belong ? 
 
 Capt. S. How on earth can I tell ? Don't ask me to unravel 
 such a tangled skein. Stay, though — this seems familiar to me — 
 [Holds up a large sized lady's glove.] 
 
 Miss M. That is the one I picked up. 
 
 Capt. S. Ah, yes, I can't be mistaken. Ah! what a host 
 of memories it brings back to me. 
 
 (170) 
 
BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OP HOLLY. n 
 
 Miss M. [coldly]. Pleasant, I presume. 
 
 Capt. S. Quite the reverse. This, my dear Miss Smith, 
 belonged to a great-aunt of mine. 
 
 Miss M. She must have been a very great aunt to take 
 such a large glove. 
 
 Capt. S. At one time she thought of making me her heir, 
 but I tried the old lady a little too high, by smoking in her best 
 bedroom, and setting my terrier onto her cats, and when the said 
 terrier chewed up her Sunday bonnet, and the mate of this glove, 
 she changed her mind and her will at the same time, and sent me 
 this [holding up glove], with the intimation that I need expect 
 nothing more from her. As for the ownership of the other 
 gloves, I give you my word, my mind is an absolute blank. 
 [Takes coat off, and hangs it up.] 
 
 Miss M. [aside]. What a goose I have been! [Aloud.] 
 I hope you don't think I've been very disagreeable? [Sits, L. C] 
 
 Capt. S. [crossing, L. C.]. Disagreeable! If there was no 
 one more disagreeable than you, what a delightful world it would 
 be! 
 
 Miss M. [softly] . I think it is delightful ! 
 Capt. S. What ! In spite of tyrannical parents and an un- 
 welcome lover? 
 
 Miss M. [blankly]. I had quite forgotten them and him — 
 I was only thinking of — now ! 
 
 Capt. S. [with meaning]. And "now" is nice, isn't it? 
 
 Miss M. [shyly]. Jolly! 
 
 Capt. S. I implore you, Miss Smith — [Half aside.] Oh, 
 hang it! I can't implore a Miss Smith. [Aloud.] What is your 
 Christian name? 
 
 Miss M. Margaret. What's yours? 
 
 Capt. S. Well, I was christened John, but my friends and 
 relations always call me — 
 
 Miss M. [clapping her hands]. I know — Jack! What was 
 it you were going to say just now? 
 
 Capt. S. [cogitating]. Let me see! Ah! I remember. 
 
 (171) 
 
12? BREAKING* THE TCE : ■ OR, -A PIECE OF HOLLY. 
 
 [Rising.] I implore you, Miss— Margaret, nay, I conjure you 
 [solemnly kneeling] — do not marry this confounded fellow. 
 
 Miss M. [starting up]. Good gracious! Mr. — -Jack — haven't 
 I run away to avoid the creature ? But do get up. . Suppose the 
 landlady should come. [Looks round nervously.] 
 
 Capt. S. Let her come. - . 
 
 Miss M. I implore you — nay [falling on her knees], I con- 
 jure you, rise! 
 
 Capt; S. Then promise — 
 
 Miss M. I promise; • 
 
 Capt. S. That you won't marry him. [Jerks thumb over 
 shoulder. ] \ 
 
 Miss M. That I won't marry him {imitates his gesture] 
 till you marry her. ''• - ' 
 
 'Capt. S, Which will never be, till you break your promise. 
 
 Both [sighin g] . Ah! [A silence.] a ; : '. 
 
 Capt. $. A penny for your thoughts ! . . 
 
 Miss M. They're not worth it. I'm certain" lit would be- 
 wild extravagance to give even half that sum for Captain Selby. 
 
 Capt. S. [dropping her hand and starting up]. Eh? What? 
 Captain Selby! Then you are Miss Margaret Marton, daughter 
 of Geoff roy Marton, of Marton Towers, who, to avoid marrying 
 this Captain Selby, have run away from home. - 
 
 Miss M. And how — how do you know that? 
 
 Capt. S.- Because, Miss Marton, /, am Captain Selby. 
 
 Miss M. [after a blank silence]. The niminy piminy noodle! 
 [Rises.] It's too bad! Why, I've run away to no purpose! 
 [Sits, L. C, with back to him.] 
 
 Capt. S. In vain have I endeavored to avoid that tiresome 
 young person. [Sits R. C, with back to her.] 
 
 Miss M. [speaking over her shoulder]. You will under- 
 stand, Captain Selby, that my part of our late conversation was 
 addressed solely to Mr. Jones, 
 rvj Capt.'S. Precisely so, Miss Marton, and -I trust also that 
 you will consider my recent observations as intended- for the"ear 
 of Miss Smith alone. 
 
 (172) 
 
BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY. 13- 
 
 Miss M. Of course, of course. Aha. [laughing ■ hysteri- 
 cally'], she had a lucky escape! 
 
 Capt. S. He had, you mean. 
 
 Miss M: I said "she," and I meant "she," an escape from 
 a niminy piminy noodle. [As Captain S. gives an angry ejacu- 
 lation.] Don't lose your temper, Captain Selby, you gave your- 
 self the name! < J 
 
 Capt. S. [jumping up and going up to her] . Miss Marton, 
 I wouldn't marry you now if you were the only woman in the 
 world. • . : . - 
 
 Miss M. If I were the only woman in- the world, you 
 wouldn't have the chance. [Rises.] ' ; '--''' 
 
 1 Capt. S. Indeed! * '' - 
 
 Miss M. No! Do you suppose if I had all the eligible 
 yoking men of the habitable globe at my ieet I should be" likely* 
 to -think twice about ydU ? ' : * • ~ s " ■ 
 
 C^PTiS/. // you had. But you never would have. ■ You're 
 tbOcfUsty. '' ,vv ; : -."'>--'• h \ ■- • ■,.v.,i. " :■•■:'■■• -..• 
 
 Miss M. Captain Selby, nature has gifted you with &"■ 
 fascinating exterior. This 1 1 know,- because I heard you say so, 
 and you naturally ' have the most reliable information' on the- 
 subject;: but, having expected so much on your face and figure, 
 nature was apparently taken with an economical fit; and-^seems 
 to hAve furnished your mind on a scale which I can characterize 
 only as cheap! -riura • , l> ..-•.! ■. 1 ■ .- ^■■< 
 
 Capt. S. I'll stand this no longer! '■>'■■ ;: ' : ■ ' ;: ' ■ ' r 
 
 Miss M. Dear me, I should have thought that with your 
 unexceptionable physique, you could have stood anything ! 
 
 Capt. S. This is' too much! I will never— '- **::.:' \ 
 
 ■ Miss M. ■ Never— -■ ■ • • • ' — 
 
 Both. Never speak to-you again! Bah! [Each' takes one 
 side of screen' and runs it down the stage. He takes up news- 
 paper.] — • ■•: " ; : • 
 
 Miss M. Well, I never want to see him again, and I'm only 
 sorry we ever met! [^ribf. 7 ] But one comfort is, he won't dare 
 to come near me again [sobs], ^hich, of course, makes it all right, 
 
14 BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY. 
 
 and makes me feel pretty comfortable. [Sobs.] In fact, I 
 never felt so happy in all my life ! [Weeps copiously, and sits R. 
 of table.] 
 
 Capt. S. [rising, and walking to and fro]. H'm ! that's all 
 over — precious good job, too! I'm uncommonly glad that things 
 have turned out as they have. [Stumbles over footstool.] Con- 
 found that footstool, it's always in the way ! That's just my 
 luck. Whenever I'm feeling particularly cheerful and jolly, I'm 
 sure co — to — fall over a footstool and hurt myself. However, I 
 must not let her hear me grumbling, or she'll think I'm annoyed 
 at our little dispute! I'll sing a jolly tune and that will deceive 
 her. [Sings.] "I wish I was in Dixie, I do, I do." 
 
 Miss M. [aside, and laughing through her tears]. I wish 
 you were, and there to stay. 
 
 Capt. S. [singing], I wish I was! [Speaks.] Odd how 
 out of tune I sing to-day ! It's this confounded cold weather that 
 gets into your throat, and — [pokes the tire violently, and knocks 
 his head against mantel]. Hang the mantelpiece! [Sits and 
 rubs his head.] 
 
 Miss M. [aside]. How he is swearing! At me, I suppose. 
 [Puts her hand by accident on the holly.] Oh! the holly which 
 he went to get for me through the snow. Poor fellow ! perhaps 
 I've been rather hard on him! ['Rising, and sidling toward the 
 screeH as she speaks.] I'm sure I have! After all, if I hadn't 
 been ordered to marry him, I think, that is, I feel sure, I should 
 have liked him— very much indeed ! [Stands close to edge of 
 'screen, and holds holly round into his compartment.] 
 
 Capt. S. Dear me! I've got the paper upside down! 
 [Suddenly sees holly.] The olive-branch, by Jove! Not if I 
 know it! [Turns his back on it; she rustles the holly.] And 
 yet [mej] I'm not sure I've behaved quite well. She's very 
 pretty, and very nice, really ! And I'm sure she's warm-hearted ; 
 at least she gave me it pretty hot just now ! 
 
 [Miss Marton rustles the holly again. He gradually ap- 
 proaches the screen; begins to play with the top leaves and berries 
 of the holly, but works gradually down to her hand; their fingers 
 become entangled, and the holly drops.] 
 
 (174) 
 
 
BREAKING THE ICE: OR, A PIECE OF HOLLY. 15 
 
 Capt. S. [who has worked back the screen with his foot]. 
 It — it is very cold. 
 
 Miss M. [shyly]: Yes. 
 
 Capt. S. Will you forgive me, Maggie? 
 
 Miss M. Yes, Jack, though you did say I was crusty. 
 
 Capt. S. Did I? 
 
 Miss M. Why, you know you did! 
 
 Capt. S. Ah ! But I meant crusty like a sweet cake. Good 
 to eat; at least — er — to — [draws her toward him as if to kiss her]. 
 
 Miss M. Oh [starting back] ! Hark! what's that? Water 
 dripping off the roof. There must be change of weather. [Runs 
 to window.] 
 
 Capt. S. [following her]. So there is — it's thawing! I'll 
 order a coach and we'll drive over to your father's house and 
 obtain absolution. And promise never to do so any more. 
 
 Miss M. [coquettishly, as she comes down C.]. But, Jack, / 
 enjoyed it. 
 
 Capt. S. [rapturously]. You little witch! [Takes her in 
 his arms as curtain falls.] 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
 THE BEE'S MISSION. 
 
 Marion Short. 
 
 He loved each thread of her shining hair, 
 But oh, to tell her he did not dare, 
 But sat and sighed with a hopeless stare. 
 A bee came swimming the sunlit air — 
 " Buz-buz-buz." 
 
 (175) 
 
It circled near with a dreamy grace, 
 As if enthralled by her flower face, 
 And, trembling, lit for a moment's space 
 Within the folds of her bodice lace— 
 " Buz-buz-buz." 
 
 "Oh, hasten, hasten to rescue me, 
 My locks have tangled a vagrant bae !" 
 -The maiden's terror was sad to see 
 And quick the lover touched ground with knee-^ 
 " Buz-buz-buz." 
 
 The bee said : "Now, if he know love's laws-z 
 He'll tell the secret that gnaws and gnaws-z ; 
 He'll tell it to her because — because-z 
 , 'Tis fatal longer to pause and pause-z, 
 Buz-buz-buz." 
 
 The lover searched with a lover's care — 
 The bee kept sliding from snare to snare, 
 The swain found vent for his full despair — 
 "A heart lies bound in these meshes fair ! 
 Buz-buz-buz." 
 
 "Whose heart, I pray thee?" the maiden said. 
 "My own — and better that I were dead." 
 "Why so, dear heart? I am free to wed." 
 A kiss ! and skyward the gold bee sped — 
 " Buz-buz-buz !" 
 
 (W 
 
A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 W. R. Walkes. 
 
 Text and Stage-Business Edited and Revised 
 By Stanley Schell. 
 
 Copyright, 1906, by Edgar S. Werner. 
 
 Characters: Captain George Fielding. 
 Clara Manners. 
 
 Costumes : Evening dress. 
 
 Place : Small room off assembly room of Dr. Adams's 
 Asylum for Feeble-minded and Insane. 
 
 Stage Setting : Rug down, couch with pillows R. C. ; couch 
 .on a slant ; small table at C. ; pictures on wall ; two easy chairs L. ; 
 doors at R. and L. 2 E. and back C. Through B. C. door may 
 be seen a bit of hall leading to assembly room. 
 
 Scene: On rise of curtain Captain Fielding is seen peer- 
 ing into room through back C. entrance. He looks carefully 
 around room and enters softly, carefully looking behind sofa, 
 chairs, etc. 
 
 Capt. Nobody here ! Thank goodness ! [ Yazvns, stretches 
 arms high.] I've had about enough of this. [Yawns again.] 
 I've spent many depressing evenings in my time, but a ball at a 
 lunatic asylum beats the lot. Just fancy ! Two hundred- dancers, 
 and almost every one of them mad! [While talking moves to- 
 ward couch on which he drops as if he had found a delightfully 
 peaceful spot at last.] What a gump I was to come ! Confound 
 Jack Adams ! [Jumps up and shoves hands well down into 
 pockets.'] It was all his fault. . [Stalks up and down, then stops.] 
 
 3 play — 177 book 
 
4 A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 Said I'd find it splendid fun to listen to the strange delusions of 
 the patients! [Sneer mgly.] Fun, indeed! Well, — perhaps I've 
 no sense of humor. [6 its on couch and fixes pillows more com- 
 fortably.] To me they are just about as funny as a funeral. 
 And they're so depressingly monotonous. They've got but a poor 
 half-dozen or so of delusions between them; and they copy one 
 another's words and business like a lot of understudies. Now, 
 let me see! [Counts on his fingers.] I have danced with no 
 less than three Empresses of China, each of whom offered to 
 share with me the throne of the Celestial Empire. Four of my part- 
 ners informed me that they were Queens of the Air, and implored 
 me to go out on the roof, and fly together to the sunny South. 
 [Rises and shows manner of Hying, then strides to chair off L.] 
 The only one who seemed to have a line of business all to herself 
 was my last partner, who flew into a terrific rage directly I ap- 
 proached her, because I had, she said, borrowed her nose to go 
 to an evening party and had not returned it. As she showed 
 every intention of regaining possession of her lost property by 
 main force, I thought it best to guard my indispensable organ 
 [covers nose with hand], leave her for a while, and seek safety 
 here. [Sits comfortably on chair off L. and slightly turned away 
 toward L. Heaves a gentle restful sigh.] How refreshing is 
 this quiet after the glare and noise of the rooms below, and the 
 ceaseless babblings of idiocy. [Fawwj.] I feel very tired, quite 
 sleepy, in fact — I'll close my eyes for a few minutes — just for — a 
 — few — min. [Sleeps; slight pause.] 
 
 [Enter Clara Manners, carrying a large bouquet She is 
 slightly agitated.] 
 Clara. Thank goodness, here's an empty room [rushes to 
 couch and drops on it as if thoroughly done over] where I can 
 rest for awhile in peace. Oh, why did Aunt Maria bring me to 
 this ghastly gruesome function ! My head's in a perfect whirl ! 
 Dr. Adams assured me that all my partners would be harmless. 
 I suppose he meant by that that they wouldn't try to murder me — 
 and, of course, that's some comfort — but their insane ramblings 
 make my very flesh creep, and then their vacant laughter — oh I 
 
 073) 
 
A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 5 
 
 [shudders] it's horrible — horrible! [Looks round.] I wonder 
 where I am! Oh! [starting up] perhaps it's a padded room. 
 [Moves about room punching and tapping wall; hurts hand and 
 puts it to mouth.] Oh! No, there's nothing padded but the fur- 
 niture ; but suppose it should be where the violent people are kept 
 in chains — and things. I don't think I'll stay. [Going toward the 
 door.] 
 
 [Captain F. snores. Clara stops suddenly and looks 
 around in terror.] 
 
 Clara. Good gracious ! What's that? [Captain F. snores 
 more loudly and prolongedly. Clara seems to freeze and shud- 
 der.] Oh! it's a groan; some poor creature in a straight- jacket 
 Oh! What shall I do? 
 
 Capt. [gives a big yawn, stretching up his arms]. Ouhl 
 [Clara discovers him and sinks zvith a half scream and in a half- 
 fainting condition into the other chair. Captain F. wakes up 
 fully.] Oh, fudge! just beginning to doze, and in such a place. 
 [Yawns and stretches again.] Thought I heard talking. [Rises 
 and looks about him. Discovers Clara.] Hullo! followed! I'll 
 lead her a merry chase. [Acts demented.] Eh! [Puts hand 
 to nose in great alarm.] It's all right. It's another one. [Starts 
 to take off his coat.] How do you do? [Makes a deep salaam.] 
 Lady Macbeth or Sultana of Zanzibar. 
 
 Clara [terrified and aside] . There he is again ! He's taken 
 his coat off. Oh, I hope he isn't violent. How his eyes glare! 
 [Creeps down R.] 
 
 Capt. [aside], I must address her, I suppose. I'll humor 
 her a bit. [Aloud.] I beg your pardon ; but are you looking for 
 any one, the Editor of the "Sun," or Hamlet, Prince of Denmark? 
 [Moves toward her. She moves azvay, keeping her eyes on him 
 constantly.] 
 
 Clara [aside] . A lunatic, I knew it. I must humor him. 
 [Aloud and in timid manner.] Yes, I am engaged to Hamlet for 
 the next dance, have you seen him? 
 
 Capt. [aside]. Poor thing! mad as a hatter. [Aloud.] 
 Hamlet? Oh, yes, just this moment left him. We have been 
 
 (i79) 
 
6; A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 sitting for the last six months on the top of the North Pole toss- 
 ing for chocolate drops and making railway station sandwiches. 
 [Moves' nearer Clara, who tries to move away without his observ- 
 ing her.] 
 
 Clara. Really ! 
 
 Capt. [sinking voice and looking round; then moving closer 
 to her as if to disclose a great secret). Do you know what rail- 
 way station sandwiches are made of? 
 
 Clara. Oh, no. [In terror.] I mean yes, yes! No, I 
 don't, I mean rto. • 
 
 Capt. Then I'll tell you [takes her by the wrist' and brings 
 her down to footlights] ; but it's a dark and gruesome mystery. 
 They are made of gooseberry cakes, blacking, bull's eyes, and 
 declining rays of the sun. [Aside.] I am quite an accom- 
 plished lunatic. [Laughs and goes L. dragging her with him.] 
 
 Clara [aside]. That dreadful insane laughter! How shall. 
 I get away ! [Aloud.] Would you mind accompanying me in 
 search of my partner? . , ' 
 
 Capt. [aside]. Wants to get me down to dance, not if I 
 know it. [Aloud.] Pray, excuse me; the fact is — I am expect- 
 ing a visit from the Queen of Sheba and the janitor of the Astor 
 Flats; they are coming to offer me a tomb in the Hall of Fame. 
 [Earnestly, kneeling to her.] Stay with me, and you shall share 
 it. [Aside.] I'm getting on splendidly. 
 
 Clara [aside]. Oh, dear, oh, dear! what ravings! [Aloud, 
 positively, but timidly.] Thank you very much; it's awfully kind 
 of you, but I don't want a tomb, I don't indeed, I'm not dead yet. 
 
 Capt.' But it's such a useful thing to have in the house; 
 and if you grow tired of it you can turn it into a hen house, or 
 better still, raffle it. [Confidentially.] I know for a positive fact 
 that the messenger at the Day and Night Bank will take fifty 
 chances. [Goes up C. after letting go Clara's wrist.] 
 
 Clara You don't say so. [Aside.] . He doesn't seem so 
 very violent, but how piteous are his wanderings. Such a pleas- 
 ant-looking fellow, too! ' 
 
 (180) 
 
A PAIR OF LUNATICS. J. 
 
 .,, Capt. [aside, up a little]. This is an interesting case, decid- 
 edly, for she has not said a word about her own line of business. 
 Perhaps she's got a novelty. I'll find out. [Aloud.] But, tell 
 me what is your particular weakness ? You don't fly through the 
 air [imitating action of flying] or anything of that sort, do you? 
 
 Clara [smiling]. Oh, no, I'm not mad — oh, I beg your 
 pardon — [Aside.] How stupid of me. [Aloud.] I mean I am 
 only here on a visit to Dr. Adams — his guest, you know. 
 
 Capt. [aside]. A guest! [sorrowfully] poor creature. They 
 all say that. 
 
 Clara [sweetly]. So pleased to have met you, but I am 
 alraid I must be going. Good-by [going toward door, but keep- 
 ing eyes' on Capt. F.]. 
 
 CapTo Not just yet. [Stopping her.] .Tell me all about 
 yourself. [Aside.] This is the most charming lunatic I have 
 seen this evening. 
 
 Clara [aside]. I must pretend to be mad or he'll resent it 
 and become violent; what shall I say? Ah, I know. [Aloud.] 
 I am afraid I must be off, my balloon is waiting for me at the 
 attic window, my swan balloon, you know — and Auntie doesn't 
 like the birds to be kept waiting at night. 
 
 Capt. [aside, in tone of pity]. Poor creature! But it's dis- 
 tinctly a new idea and a pretty one. [Aloud.] Never mind 
 Auntie. Bother the birds. I'll blow you home through my bean- 
 shooter: [Sits L.] 
 
 Clara [timidly]. Thank you, that's very kind of you, but I 
 couldn't think of troubling you. [Aside.] He won't let me go. 
 I must go on humoring him till somebody comes. [5Yto.] ' 
 
 Capt. Corne^ tell me all about it. [Genially.] So you drive 
 about in a balloon, eh? That must be ripping. Is it your own,' 
 or hired for the evening? 
 
 Clara [as though inventing with an effort]. Eh, oh! our 
 own, but it's not a very grand turn out ; the old family balloon, 
 you know; and the swans are an awful pair of crocks, quite pasl 
 work. 
 
 (181) 
 
8 A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 Capt. How sad ! And the coachman — is he anything un- 
 usual ? 
 
 Clara [with effort]. The coachman? Oh, yes, he's a cop- 
 per-colored cokatoo with a cold in the head. [Aside.] How 
 awfully natural it is to be mad ! 
 
 Capt. [aside] . I like this. Humoring a lady-like lunatic is 
 distinctly entertaining. 
 
 Clara [rises, timidly]. Can — can I drop you anywhere this 
 evening ? 
 
 Capt. No, thanks. I prefer the old-fashioned bean-shooter. 
 So simple ! 
 
 Clara. Indeed ! 
 
 Capt. Yes, you put yourself in at one end, and blow through 
 the other, and puff ! — there you are. 
 
 Clara. How very convenient! [Aside.] Oh, he's dread- 
 fully mad, poor thing ! I must get away. [Aloud, edging toward 
 the door, in terror.] Good-by, thank you so much for this nice 
 chat. Such a pleasant evening. 
 
 Capt. [intercepting her] . No, no. Pray stop a little longer. 
 I've a lot of things to talk about before you go. [Aside.] I am 
 enjoying this. 
 
 Clara. What things? 
 
 Capt. Heaps of 'em. Solar myths, empty sardine tins; 
 lemonade, bottled ale and stout, programs, books of the burlesque ; 
 good morning, have you used Pears' soap? and say, oh say, I 
 implore you that you won't be happy till you get it. 
 
 Clara [aside] . How awful ! [Aloud.] But I must go. 
 I must, indeed, Aunt Maria and Dr. Adams will be getting so 
 anxious about me. 
 
 Capt. [confidentially]. Don't bother about them; they're all 
 right. [Mysteriously.] Aunt Maria has done it at last. Haven't 
 you heard about it? 
 
 Clara [startled]. No. I mean yes, yes. No. I mean no. 
 
 Capt. Then I'll tell you. She has laid Dr. Adams three 
 
 (182) 
 
A PAIR OF LUNATICS. p 
 
 acres to a cow that she will beat him in a go-as-you-please race 
 round the tower of St. Patrick's Cathedral on mowing machines ; 
 they are just doing the last lap now, and if you were to interrupt 
 them, do you know what would happen ? Consternation, annihila- 
 tion, and a bad attack of temper. They would clothe you in a 
 costume of custard-colored calico, trimmed with ruffles of fried 
 fish, and marry you to Bernard Shaw. So let me entreat — implore 
 you to remain with me and be safe, snuff-colored and solidified. 
 [Aside, as he walks away.] This is awfully good fun; but it's a. 
 terrible tax on the imagination. 
 
 Clara [aside]. What awful madness! If I could only calm 
 him. [Suddenly.] An idea! I've heard that they often soothe 
 these poor creatures with amateur acting. It sounds impossible, 
 but I'll try it. I'll give him as much as I can remember of 
 "Ophelia." [Goes up a little and proceeds to let down her hair.] 
 
 Capt. [aside] . Hullo ! What's she up to now ! 
 
 Clara [places some /lowers from her bouquet in her hair, and 
 takes some /lowers from the same, and carries them in her hand; 
 speaks in the moonstruck manner of Ophelia]. Where is the 
 beauteous majesty of Denmark? [Pause, turn R. and L., ad- 
 vance, and in sweet voice of melancholy, sing. With clasped 
 hands, move head, limp, in half -circle, backivard.] 
 
 [Sings.] 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 *r* 
 
 *-■ *- 
 
 5S- 
 
 — r- 
 
 -*-£- 
 
 -1—& ^ 
 
 How should I your true love know From an - 
 
 t± 
 
 ** 
 
 m 
 
 -<a-T— • — - L 
 
 P££ 
 
 ££ 
 
 m 
 
 BE= 
 
 
 * 
 
 (183) 
 
10 
 
 A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 
 t=t=: 
 
 -i — i — 
 
 :* — 
 
 o - - - ther one? By his coc - kle hat and 
 
 :5fc: 
 
 :^j=— -j? — E lsjSff 
 
 -6?- 
 
 z=jrEi*zz=Bzii jzz 
 
 r 
 
 :=|: 
 
 =E 
 
 
 *Z£ 
 
 3? 
 
 ==1 : 
 
 — V 
 
 m 
 
 -*-- -(2. 
 
 staff, 
 
 And his san 
 
 zx 
 
 dal 
 
 -£— 
 
 ^-zzafiz:;S 
 
 =3: 
 
 -29 — 
 
 shoon. 
 
 — ^- 
 
 1 
 
 P* 
 
 Kfii: 
 
 %•-* 
 
 ■&+¥■ 
 
 -M 
 
 3= 
 
 =^=£=: 
 
 3tZ^ 
 
 Capt. [waves her off] . Go away. I've nothing for you. 
 Clara. They say the owl was a baker's daughter. We know 
 what we are, but know not what we may be. 
 
 Capt. [thrusting out his arms toward he?']. Go away — '• 
 away. 
 
 Clara. There's rosemary ; that's for remembrance. [Offers 
 Capt. F. a floivcr. ] . 
 
 Capt. Thank you. I don't want any. 
 Clara. "O woe is me, 
 
 To have seen what I have seen, 
 See what I see." 
 
 0*4) 
 
A PAIR OF LUNATICS 
 . [Sings.] 
 
 r O „ 1 i I- — fr _1 z=z= 
 
 . And will he not come a - gain?. 
 
 :t= 
 
 ==:g=3!=: 
 
 And 
 
 :# 
 
 L-S 1 — t— 
 
 j=d=q: 
 
 r==g=;= 
 
 -jk — 
 
 m 
 
 ii 
 
 -tS 1 - 
 
 B 
 
 3=8* 
 
 =£ 
 
 will he not come 
 
 :_J h j 
 
 gain ? No, 
 
 -*_*: 
 
 -<s>- 
 
 s* 
 
 
 =t 
 
 :££ 
 
 3=1* 
 
 ■zK 
 
 J& 
 
 -\ — I- 
 
 -H 1- 
 
 e; 
 
 :C^: 
 
 it: 
 
 :t=d 
 
 no, ... . he's dead, Go to thy death-bed, He 
 
 =t 
 
 S 
 
 -m= 
 
 *F& 
 
 
 ¥? : 
 
 ^==|: 
 
 
 r 
 
 _,SL 
 
 -» 1 ■ 
 
 £ 
 
 r 
 
 (I8S) 
 
12 
 
 A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 $ 
 
 -o P 0- 
 
 sHHS 
 
 s=fc 
 
 nev - er will come 
 I N t I 
 
 gam. 
 
 -©>- 
 
 :it 
 
 Hia 
 
 m 
 
 -^-~\-M- 
 
 m=t 
 
 ■=£ 
 
 =rq: 
 
 :t= 
 
 afcg — #-r\ 
 
 :t=: 
 
 beard. 
 
 was white 
 
 as snow,. 
 
 -G>- 
 
 :*=: 
 
 All 
 
 I 
 
 e; 
 
 IS 
 
 i=:=sz: 
 
 P 
 
 :=*zz=2*=*: 
 
 * 
 
 -^ 
 
 :«£: 
 
 flax - en was. 
 -+-=* — i 
 
 f 
 
 *£ 
 
 TP 
 
 f=p 
 
 3± 
 
 his poll, 
 
 He Is 
 
 =« 
 
 
 P 
 
 l^^S^ 
 
 (186) 
 
A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 13 
 
 T=t 
 
 
 ^-4 
 
 =}-=%*! 
 
 M 
 
 -4- 
 
 gone, he is gone, And we cast a - way moan, And 
 
 =*=: 
 
 1 
 
 -Z5J-— 
 
 I 
 
 peace. ... be 
 . N ! 
 
 with., 
 _J 
 
 his 
 
 soul. 
 
 ■=t 
 
 m 
 
 3h: 
 
 3* 
 
 -_zt 
 
 I 
 
 -st 
 
 [Throws flowers about stage as she wanders about singing 
 preceding words.] 
 
 Capt. [aside and puzzled] . What is her little game ? [Sud- 
 denly.] By Jove! It's play acting. She's doing Shakespeare — 
 Ophelia. Well, I don't know much about him myself, but I'll do 
 my best to keep it up; so here goes. [Aloud, ranting.] 
 
 To be or not to be: Alas, poor Yorick! 
 
 Whether 'twere better in this world to call 
 
 A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse! 
 
 Or take a cab, or else a Fifth Avenue 'bus. 
 
 So get thee to a nunnery, and when thou'rt there 
 
 Off with his head, and tell him straight from me 
 
 My name is Lallal on the Grampian Hills 
 
 My father feeds his flock on threes of Scotch 
 
 (187) 
 
I 4 A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 And so whene'er they take their walks abroad 
 There's something rotten in the state of Denmark. 
 
 And so, farewell ! 
 No. No. I will not say "farewell," but "au revoir." 
 
 [Clara daring the foregoing has quailed, and sunk into a 
 chair. ] 
 
 Capt. [aside]. I'm used up. That's all I can remember, but 
 it has done the trick, shut her up completely. [Smiles com- 
 placently. ] 
 
 Clara [aside]. How he raved. His Shakespeare is all 
 mixed. I must do something more. I'll try again. [Rises and 
 glides toward Capt. F. ; at same time spreads out train and looks 
 admiringly at it. Aloud.] I'm Princess Alice. - I'm going to have 
 company to-night — real live company! [Laughs heartily.] And 
 I'm going to be some company myself. Only think of it — to have 
 company and to be company. And I'm not nervous a bit. [Walks 
 across stage admiring train. ] Old enough to entertain ! Enter- 
 tain!' Ha-ha-ha ! Entertain! A big word for a beginner. But 
 I must practise before Johnny comes. [Meditates, then walks 
 about in stately fashion.] Now, that's dignity, and I'm the Queen 
 of England! Good evening, Mr— Oh! you are Hamlet! I'm 
 going to capture you to-night — soul and body, Sit there. I'll sit 
 here. Don't look stern. Now, say you love me — me, your queen. 
 
 Capt. [aside]. I'll humor her, but my oh ! if some one would 
 only come. [Aloud.] My queen [approaches her, but she waves 
 him back. He falls on knees at table] ; I adore you. I — 
 
 Clara, [waving hands toward him]. Go back! Take this 
 with you. [Throws kiss from -finger-tips.] Didn't catch it, did 
 you? Try again. [Throws harder.] The King of Bombay al- 
 ways catches my kisses. Look out, now ; here comes one right at 
 your pate. [Throws kiss.] Ha, ha! and you muffed it! [Jumps 
 up suddenly and sings:] 
 
 "How should I your true love know." 
 
 [Stops and listens.] 
 
 "That's Jerry calling me over the river; 
 
 I cannot help answering" — 
 
 (188) 
 
A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 15 
 
 5^353= 
 
 =]- 
 
 ^ 
 
 La, ha, ha, ha, ha. 
 
 That says we shall row to-night. [Starts toward B. C. en- 
 trance. Capt. F. stops her.] 
 
 Capt. [aside]. She must be mad after all. It's my turn. I'll 
 try something, and I'll win out. 
 
 Clara [aside, in utter despair]. It's a failure. He's caught 
 on. Oh! will no one come! [Thinks a second.] I know now. 
 Dr. Adams said the other day that with these poor people the 
 commanding power of the human eye was most wonderful. I'll 
 try it. It's my last chance. [Turns toward him, folds arms, and 
 gazes at him steadily]. 
 
 .Capt. [aside]. Hullo! a new development. I believe she 
 fancies she's a wax-work and will want me to wind her up. 
 [Aloud.] I say, you know, this isn't the "Chamber of Horrors." 
 
 [Clara advances toward him slowly and melodramatically, 
 her features contorted into an expression of anger and malignity. 
 Capt. F. retreats before her in alarm. They go entirely around 
 room several times.] 
 
 Capt. [aside]. Gee whiz! She's getting violent. This is 
 too much .of a good thing! There's murder in her eye. She's 
 stark, staring, raving mad. [Sinks on -floor at her feet.] .Take 
 my life,. but spare, oh, spare my child! 
 
 Clara [aside]. How lovely! he's quite subdued, but I must 
 keep it up. [Continues to gaze at him as before.] 
 
 Capt. [aside]. What on earth is to be done. I wonder if I 
 could hypnotize her ? I don't know how to do it, but I'll try. [Rises 
 and advances toward her, a stem expression on face, and makes 
 passes with hands.] 
 
 Clara [aside]. Oh, dear! the effect has gone off and now 
 he is becoming infuriated. Oh, why did I do it ! [ Turns away. ] 
 
 [Capt. F. follows her and makes passes in every position in 
 which he finds himself: ] 
 
 Clara [faintly,- swaying to and fro]. Oh! oh! I'm going! 
 [Falls.] 
 
 (189) 
 
1 6 A PAIR OF LUNATICS. 
 
 Capt. [catches her, business of passing her from one arm 
 to the other, and finally deposits her in chair]. She's gone right 
 off. Then [complacently] by Jove! I'm a genuine hypnotist and 
 I never knew it. [Suddenly and alarmed.] But, how am I going 
 tD bring her round again? I'll be hanged if I know. Oh, con- 
 found it, this is serious. [Shakes her by her arm.] Here, I say, 
 gentle stranger. Your Majesty, fair Ophelia, wake up! [Busi' 
 ness of bringing her round — slaps her hand — and so on.] 
 
 Clara [opens her eyes]. Where am I? 
 
 Capt. [aside, joyfully]. Ah! she has said, "Where am I?" 
 then all is well. 
 
 Clara [rises and looks around]. Oh! alone, alone with him 
 still! Oh! [In an agony.] What shall I do? What shall I do? 
 [Rushes to the other side of the room, falls into chair and bursts 
 into tears; in taking out handkerchief a letter falls.] 
 
 Capt. [aside, alarmed]. Confound it; she's getting hyster- 
 ical. This won't do. [Aloud.] I say, your Majesty, don't cry. 
 You're not well. Let me call Dr. Adams. 
 
 Clara [eagerly, brightening]. Will you, will you? 
 
 Capt. Certainly. [Going, catches sight of letter.] But 
 what's this? [Reads address.] "Miss Clara Manners, Halbury 
 House." [Aside.] That's Jack's favorite sister he's always talk- 
 ing about. How strange! [Aloud, pointing to letter.] Then she 
 must be at the ball to-night. 
 
 Clara. Who ? 
 
 Capt. Miss Manners. 
 
 Clara. She is. I am Clara Manners. 
 
 Capt. You! [Aside, laughs.] Oh, that's awfully good. 
 [Aloud, soothingly.] No, no, you're the Sultana of Zanzibar. I 
 recognized you at once by your regal bearing ; and I am your most 
 devoted subject, General Booth, the oldest and dearest friend of 
 William the Conqueror [kneels], although the people outside 
 [confidentially] who are all mad, you know, call me Captain 
 George Fielding of the 45th Lancers. 
 
 (190) 
 
A PAIR OF LUNATICS. iy 
 
 Clara [aside]. 45th! Captain Fielding! That's Jack's 
 great friend. What a strange fancy! [Aloud.] But I assure 
 you my name is Clara Manners. 
 
 Capt. Eh? [Aside.] Now I look at her, she's uncommonly 
 like Jack. 
 
 Clara [aside]. His face bears a wonderful resemblance to 
 Mr. Fielding's portrait in Jack's album. [ They look at each other 
 for a few seconds, and then turn away.] 
 
 Capt. But surely Miss Manners is not — [touching his 
 head], 
 
 Clara. Certainly Captain Fielding isn't — [they again stare 
 for a second into each other's faces]. 
 
 Capt. [aside]. She doesn't look so very mad, after all. 
 
 Clara [aside]. I believe he's perfectly sane. 
 
 Capt. I say, now, between ourselves, you don't really pro- 
 pose to go home in a balloon, do you? 
 
 Clara [laughing]. Oh dear, no; and you — you are not a 
 very dear friend of William the Conqueror, I suppose? 
 
 Capt. [laughing]. Oh no, he's dead; my friend is Jack 
 Manners. 
 
 [Puts on coat quickly.] 
 
 Clara. My brother. [They shake hands.] 
 
 Capt. What a lucky chance ! I am so awfully glad to make 
 your acquaintance. And you — 
 
 Clara [rather coyly]. I am always pleased to meet any 
 friend of Jack's [with more effusion], especially a dear friend. 
 [They shake hands again with much effusion.] 
 
 Capt. But what lunatics we've been. 
 
 Clara. Yes, hopelessly insane ! 
 
 Capt. But as we're auite harmless, suppose we go down 
 stairs to supper, and look for your partner, Hamlet. 
 
 Clara. Yes, and when we've found him, we'll ask him to 
 write an epitaph for your tomb in the Hall of Fame. [Both 
 laugh.] 
 
 Curtain. 
 (191) 
 
THE TATTERED BATTLE-FLAG. 
 
 Marion Short. 
 
 [On Eve of Spanish-American War.] 
 
 Bring out that tattered battle-flag, old soldier, 
 
 To greet the light once more, 
 Though sight of it recalls dread scenes of carnage, 
 
 The cannon's flash and roar, 
 The cloud of smoke that lifted after battle, 
 
 The faces white and still, 
 The solemn roll call to the solemn silence, 
 
 The watch-fires on the hill. 
 
 Bring out that tattered battle-flag, old soldier, 
 
 Those stains and rents will tell 
 To eager eyes that never looked on warfare 
 
 The truth some know so well : 
 That wounds and woe are oft the. all of glory. 
 
 Those rags you staunchly guard 
 Went forth a flaunting, flaming silken banner, 
 
 Returned thus torn and marred. 
 
 Bring out that tattered battle-flag, old soldier, 
 
 To us as well as you 
 It whispers from its folds of our dead heroes, 
 
 Whene'er it meets the view, 
 Of hands that bore the colors unrclaxing r 
 
 Till death had loosed their hold ; 
 Of failing breaths entreating one last vision 
 
 Of stars and stripes unrolled. 
 
 Bring out that tattered battle-flag, old soldier, 
 
 For, though foretasting pain, 
 The youthful heart shall feel a love uprising, 
 
 Which none can e'er explain, — 
 The love that even now, O gray-haired soldier, 
 
 Invites you to the fray, 
 That bravely seeks to add to Freedom's heaven 
 
 Another star to-day. 
 
 (192) 
 
SPANISH GIPSY 
 
 CONDENSED TO 
 
 ONE AND ONE-HALF HOURS' READING, 
 
 WITH SPECIAL ADAPTABILITY 
 
 FOR A WOMAN READER 
 
 Price, $1.00 net, postpaid 
 
 POEM 
 
 By GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Condensation and Arrangement for Reading, 
 with Directions for hiterpretation 
 
 By LILY HOFFNER. WOOD MORSE 
 
 Contents of Book 
 
 Text Arranged in Scenes 
 Scenes of Play Tabulated 
 Pronunciation of Names of Characters 
 Suggestions for Characterization 
 Suggestions for Note on Reader's Program 
 
 CRITICAL RESUME 
 °f "THE SPANISH GIPSY" 
 
 By FLORENCE P. HOLDEN 
 
 " Feda.lma.'s Dance" — a most important scene 
 in the play — arranged as pantomime., with full direc- 
 tions, and ii illustrations fr.om life, published and 
 sold in separate form, for 40c, postpaid --£>) --£?} 
 
 For Either of these Publications, address the 
 Publishers 
 
 EDGAR S. WERNER AND CO. 
 
 11 EAST 14TH ST. NEW YORK CITY 
 
' B ^^' g | , ^ a | l N ^ l'N ^ i li i ^ l ^B i M ^M ^ l'M ^ l'N ^ | B N ^ | l N ^ l ^, l ^ ^ 1 i ^i |'' 1 i' ^ l ^1 ^ 1^ ^ I |' ^ l"l ^ l* , | ^ 1"l' ^ l"l ^ l"l ^ l*^l ^ l^^i"l^•|-^I^f'^ , 
 
 ^TTillMllllMllllHllllMllltHllllHlailHlailaillllMlailHillllMllllHltalBBflBlKlBllHfBllHllllflilatlBlBllHllllHlaiiBUalKUllHlBltMrin! 
 
 aim 
 ■!■ 
 
 ■ li 
 
 Rlij 
 ■]■ 
 
 ■ la 
 ■la 
 
 i il«|ii|aiii|a|ii|B|ii|i|iiia[iiia[iiiaiiii«iiiiBiiiiBiiii«iiii«iiiiBiiiiaiiiiaiiiiaiiiiaiiiiaiiiiBiiiiMiiiiaiiii«iiiwiiiniiiiainiBl 
 iilaliilaliilHliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliilisliilBliilaliilaliilaliilaliilaliiLliilaliilaliiLliilal