tales of two people 48

tales of two people 48

Mr M. (_Speaking to unseen person in the conservatory._) So awfully

sorry, but I absolutely promised to meet a man at the club. (_Pause._)

Beg pardon? Oh, a fellow named Smith--you don’t know him. (_Pause._)

Yes, I hope we shall meet soon, but I’m rather afraid I may have to go

out of town. (_Pause._) Good-night. (_Backs a little further into the

corridor._) Phew!

 

_Miss Grainger’s back appears in the doorway leading to the conservatory

on the left._

 

Miss G. (_Speaking to unseen person in the conservatory._) Yes, of

course we shall be friends. What? (_Pause._) Oh yes, _great_ friends,

What? (_Pause._) I don’t know--I may be going out of town. Good-night.

(_She backs into the corridor, throws her eyes upwards, and draws in her

breath with a long sigh._)

 

_Mr M. meanwhile has taken out a cigarette, and is just about to

light it when they turn and see one another. Both start, smile, and

then become grave and rather formal in manner._

 

Mr M. (_Putting his hands--with the cigarette and the match-box--behind

him._) Oh, I beg pardon! I didn’t think anybody--(_He turns as if to

retreat into the conservatory._)

 

Miss G. Please don’t go--and please do smoke. It’s so nice and cool

here, isn’t it? (_She sits down on the couch and fans herself gently._)

 

Mr M. May I really? (_He comes forward a little, holding up his

cigarette._) You’re sure you don’t mind?

 

(_She nods. He lights the cigarette._)

 

Miss G. It’s so warm in that conservatory. (_Pointing to the left._)

 

Mr M. (_With feeling._) So it was in that one. (_Pointing to the right.

He wipes his brow, she fans herself assiduously._) Ouf!

 

Miss G. You _do_ look rather--flustered.

 

Mr M. Well--in fact--so do you.

 

(_They look at one another, trying to remain grave, but presently

both give a short embarrassed laugh. Mr M. comes a step nearer,

placing his hand on the back of the chair._)

 

I’ve got it! I know the signs!

 

(_She looks at him inquiringly and with amusement. He nods towards the

conservatory on the left._) You’ve been refusing some fellow in there.

 

Miss G. Have I? (_Pointing to the conservatory on the right._) And what

have you been doing in there?

 

Mr M. (_After a careful glance over his shoulder_.) As you didn’t see

the lady, I don’t mind admitting that I’ve been doing the same thing.

 

Miss G. (_Raising her brows._) Refusing?

 

Mr M. Refusing--to ask.

 

Miss G. Oh!

 

Mr M. (_He smokes vigorously, then throws his cigarette into a

receptacle._) It’s a precious lot easier for you than for us, though. I

say, I must sound like a conceited idiot, I know, but--well, you see,

the fact is----

 

Miss G. That you’re Mr Marchesson----?

 

Mr M. (_Pleased._) You know my name?

 

Miss G. Oh yes. Mine’s Grainger.

 

Mr M. Yes. I--I know your name, Miss Grainger.

 

Miss G. You’re diamonds? (_She touches some that she is wearing as she

speaks. He nods gloomily._)

 

I’m soap. (_He glances for a brief instant at his hand._) So, of

course----! (_She shrugs her shoulders and closes her fan. A moment’s

pause._)

 

Mr M. Beastly, isn’t it?

 

Miss G. Well, it’s--monotonous.

 

Mr M. It’s worse than that. It’s degrading, it’s heart-breaking, it’s

ruin to the character. It saps my faith in humanity, it trammels my

actions, it confines my affections, it cuts me off from friendship, from

the pleasant and innocent companionships which my nature longs for. I

alone mayn’t look with the eye of honest admiration on a pretty girl, I

alone mayn’t----

 

Miss G. Sit in a conservatory?

 

Mr M. (_With a shudder._) Above all--not that! I tell you it’s kept me

single for years! And you for----

 

Miss G. Years?

 

Mr M. (_Smiling._) Months! All last season and most of this! Take your

case now----

 

Miss G. (_Eagerly leaning forward._) Oh yes, let’s!

 

Mr M. You’d naturally enjoy men’s society, you’d like their friendship,

their company, their admiration. You’d enjoy an innocent but piquant

flirtation.

 

Miss G. Should I?

 

Mr M. (_Looking at her._) Well, yes, I think you would. You daren’t

venture on it!

 

Miss G. It is generally fatal, I admit.

 

Mr M. The plain truth is that the thing’s intolerable. I shall stick a

placard on my waistcoat--“Not for sale.”

 

Miss G. And I’d better become a hospital nurse!

 

Mr M. That’s rather an odd remedy, Miss Grainger. But, in some form or

other, celibacy--public and avowed celibacy--is our only chance. (_He

throws himself down in the chair._)

 

Miss G. (_Low._) Unless there was somebody who----

 

Mr M. Didn’t know who you were? Not to be done in these days, with the

illustrated press! And--you’ll excuse my referring to it?--but your fond

father put _you_ on the wrappings of the soap. And owing to the large

sale of the article----

 

Miss G. Yes, I know. But I meant--if there was somebody who

didn’t--didn’t care about the money?

 

Mr M. (_Half under his breath._) _Said_ he didn’t!

 

Miss G. And who--who really did care just for--for oneself alone? Oh, I

must sound romantic and absurd; but you--you know what I mean, Mr

Marchesson? There _are_ such men, aren’t there?

 

Mr M. Well, admitting there was one--and it’s a handsome admission,

which I limit entirely to the male sex--in the first place you wouldn’t

believe in him half the time, and in the second he wouldn’t believe in

himself half the time, and in the third none of your friends would

believe in him any of the time.

 

Miss G. That would be horrid--especially the friends, I mean.

 

Mr M. Female friends!

 

Miss G. Of course.

 

Mr M. Another disgusting aspect of the business! Do you--do I--ever get

legitimate credit for our personal attractions? Never! Never!

 

Miss G. (_With conviction._) That’s awfully true.

 

Mr M. So even your paragon, if you found him, wouldn’t meet the case.

And as for _my_ paragon, nobody but Diogenes would take on the job of

finding her.

 

Miss G. (_Musing._) Is _nobody_ indifferent to money?

 

Mr M. Only if they’ve got more than they want. (_He gives a glance at

her, unperceived by her, rises, puts his hands in his pockets, and

looks at her._) Only the unhappy rich.

 

Miss G. (_Roused from abstraction._) I beg pardon, what?

 

Mr M. Imagine a man surfeited, cloyed, smothered in it; a man who has to

pay six other men to look after it; a man who can’t live because of the

income-tax, and daren’t die because of the death duties; a man

overwhelmed with houses he can’t live in, yachts he can’t sail, horses

he can’t ride; a man in whom the milk of human kindness is soured by

impostors, and for whom even “deserving cases” have lost their charm; a

man who’s been round the d----d world--I beg your pardon, really I beg

your pardon--who’s been round the wretched world twice, and shot every

beast on it at least once; who is sick of playing, and daren’t work for

fear of making a profit----

 

Miss G. It almost sounds as if you were describing yourself.

 

Mr M. Oh no, no! No! At least--er--if at all, quite accidentally. I’ll

describe _you_ now, if you like.

 

Miss G. I get absolutely no thrill out of a new frock!

 

Mr M. There it is--in a nutshell, by Jingo! Miss Grainger, we have found

the people we want, the people who are indifferent to money, and

would--that is, might--marry us for love alone.

 

Miss G. (_Laughing._) You mean--one another? That’s really rather an

amusing end to our philosophising, isn’t it? (_She rises, laughing still, and holds out her hand._) Good-night.