The First Act
The scene represents a manicure establishment in New Bond Street. It is a front room upon the first floor, with three french-windows affording a view of certain buildings on the east side of the street. On the left, furthest from the spectator, is a wide, arched opening, apparently leading to another apartment, in which is the door giving entrance to the rooms from the staircase. Nearer, there is another french-window, opening on to an expanse of “leads” and showing the exterior of the wall of the further room above-mentioned. From the right, above the middle window, runs an ornamental partition, about nine feet in height, with panels of opaque glass. This partition extends more than half-way across the room, then runs forward for some distance, turns off at a sharp angle, and terminates between the arched opening and the window on the left. That part of the partition running from right to left is closed on its left side and forms, therefore, a separate room or compartment. Facing the audience, on the right, is a door admitting to this compartment; and, on the left, also in the, partition opposite the windows on the right, is an opening with a looped-back portière. The space between this opening and the further room forms a narrow anteroom, containing articles of furniture visible through the opening. Mirrors are affixed to the right wall, between the lower and the middle window and between the middle window and the partition, while on the left, between the window and the partition, is another mirror. A number of business cards are stuck in the frames of the mirrors. On the right, before each of the two lower windows, turned from the spectator, is a capacious arm-chair, made in cane open-work. Attached to the arms of these chairs are little screens—also made of cane—shielding in a measure the occupants of the chairs from observation. Upon both the right and left arms of these chairs are circular frames, in cane, shaped to receive bowls of water Above each of the screen-chairs stands a smaller chair, set to face the larger one; and beside the small chair, on its right hand, is a low table, upon which are arranged the instruments and toilet necessaries employed in the process of manicure On the right, between the window and the partition is a three-cornered what-not, on which are set out packets of soap and of powder and other articles of the toilet. At the further end of the room, in the centre, stands a desk laden with account-books; and above the desk, its back against the partition, is a chair. On the right is a hat-and-umbrella stand. Nearer, in the centre, is a large circular table on which are displayed bottles of scent and liquid soap, cases of instruments for manicure, and some wooden bowls of bath-soap with lather brushes. On the right and left are ordinary chairs. Placed against the partition on the left, and facing the audience, is a cabinet, making a display similar to that upon the what-not. Nearer, on the left, there is another screen-chair set to face the audience; below it is a smaller seat and, by the side of the smaller seat, another little table with manicure tools, &c. Some framed photographs of ladies hang against the wood-work of the partition and in the wall-spaces; and in the lower and middle windows, on the right, bird-cages are suspended.
The light is that of a bright day in June.
[On the right Miss Claridge and Miss Huddle are in the final stages of manicuring two smart-looking men. The men occupy the screen-chairs; the manicurists—comely girls in black frocks—sit, facing the men, upon the smaller seats. On the left Miss Moon is rougeing and varnishing the nails of a fashionably-dressed young lady, whose maid is seated at the table in the centre. Miss Limbird is at the desk, deep in accounts.
Miss Moon.
[To the young lady.] You won’t have them too red, will you?
Young Lady.
Not too red—nicely flushed.
First Gentleman.
[Examining his nails critically as he rises.] I say though, that’s a vast improvement!
Miss Claridge.
Getting more shapely, aren’t they?
First Gentleman.
Thanks awfully.
[He pays Miss Limbird, stands talking to her for a while, and ultimately strolls away through the opening in the partition. After putting her table in order, Miss Claridge goes out the same way, carrying her bowl of water and towel.
Miss Moon.
[To the young lady.] Have you had your hand read yet, madam, by any of these palmists?
Young Lady.
Heavens, yes! I’ve been twice to that woman Bernstein, and I don’t know how often to Chiron.
Miss Moon.
Ah, you ought to try Valma.
Young Lady.
Valma?
Miss Moon.
He’s the latest. Ladies are flocking to him.
Young Lady.
Really?
Miss Moon.
Yes. Such taking manners.
Young Lady.
Where does he—?
Miss Moon.
186—next door. [Indicating the window on the left.] You can see his waiting-room from that window.
Young Lady.
Is he a guinea or half a guinea?
Miss Moon.
Oh, he’s a guinea.
Young Lady.
That’s a bore.
Miss Moon.
Ah, but consider, madam—his rooms are draped from ceiling to floor in blue velvet. Blue velvet! fancy! Not that I’ve had the privilege of viewing them myself; Miss F. is our authority.
Young Lady.
Miss F.?
Miss Moon.
I beg your pardon—Miss Fullgarney. Valma is quite neighbourly with Miss Fullgarney.
[A door-gong sounds—as it does every time any one enters or quits the establishment—signifying that the first gentleman has departed.
Second Gentleman.
[Rising.] Much obliged. [Putting a tip into Miss Huddle’s hand.] For yourself.
Miss Huddle.
Much obliged to you.
Second Gentleman.
You’re a fresh face here?
Miss Huddle.
Yes; I used to be with Mossu and Madame Roget in Mortimer Street.
Second Gentleman.
I’ll ask for you next time. What name?
Miss Huddle.
Miss Huddle.
Second Gentleman.
Huddle?
Miss Huddle.
Well, p’r’aps you’d better ask for Miss Hud-delle; I fancy Miss Fullgarney is going to alter me to that.
Second Gentleman.
[With a nod.] Goo’-bye.
Miss Huddle.
Good-day, sir.
[He pays Miss Limbird and goes out. The maid rises and hands the young lady her gloves.
Miss Moon.
[Taking a card from the mirror.] Would you like a card of Valma’s, madam, just to remind you?
Young Lady.
[Accepting the card and reading it.] “Valma. Palmist. Professor of the Sciences of Chiromancy and Chirognomy. 186 New Bond Street.” [Giving the card to her maid.] Keep that.
[The door-gong sounds.
Miss Moon.
[Opening a window.] Look, madam. That’s one of his rooms; the window there—the open one—
Young Lady.
Yes, I see. Thanks. Good-morning.
Miss Moon.
Good morning.
[The young lady pays Miss Limbird and goes, followed by her maid.]
Miss Huddle.
[To Miss Moon] What time is it, dear?
Miss Moon.
[Putting her table in order.] Half-past one. Lunch-time.
Miss Huddle.
Thought so; I’ve sech a vacancy.
[Miss Huddle goes out, carrying her bowl and towel, as Frank Pollitt—“Valma”—appears at the window on the left—a well, if rather showily, dressed young fellow, wearing a frock coat, white waistcoat, and patent-leather boots. He is handsome in a commonplace way, and, though stilted and self-conscious, earnest in speech and bearing.
Pollitt.
[Looking in.] Excuse me—
Miss Moon.
[Startled.] Oh! oh, Mr. Valma!
Pollitt.
[Entering.] Is Miss Fullgarney in the way?
Miss Moon.
[Gazing at him in modest admiration.] She’s with a lady in the private room, Mr. Valma.
[The door in the partition opens.
Sophy.
[From the private room.] Oh, no, madam, I promise I won’t forget. Certainly not, I take too much interest in your daughter’s nails for that.
Miss Moon.
This is her.
[A middle-aged lady enters from the private room, followed by Sophy Fullgarney. The customer pays at the desk while Sophy rattles on. Sophy is a pretty, elegant, innocently vulgar, fascinating young woman of six-and-twenty.
Sophy.
[With the air of the proprietress of a prosperous establishment.] Oh, yes, it did slip my memory to come on Thursday, didn’t it? The truth is I had a most racking head, a thing I never have—well, I oughtn’t to say never have, ought I? [To Miss Limbird.] Now, Miss Limbird, see that two pots of Crème de Mimosa are posted to Mrs. Arment, Carlos Place; and book me, please—me—you thoroughly understand?—to attend upon Miss Arment to-morrow evening at seven. [Accompanying the customer, who now withdraws.] To-morrow evening at seven—without fail. [Raising her voice.] The door, Miss Claridge. Good morning, madam. Good afternoon.
[The door-gong sounds.
Sophy.
Come, girls, you can get to your lunches.
[Miss Limbird leaves her desk and goes out.
Miss Moon.
Here’s Mr. Valma, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
[With a little gasp.] Mr. Valma. [Approaching him.] How do you do?
Pollitt.
[Advancing.] Pardon me for the liberty I have taken in again crossing the leads.
Sophy.
[Looking away from him.] No liberty at all.
Pollitt.
I desire a few words with you, Miss Fullgarney, and it struck me that at this time of the day—
Sophy.
Yes, there’s nothing doing here just at lunch-time.
Pollitt.
Perhaps you would graciously allow me to converse with you while you—
Sophy.
[Regaining her self-possession.] Oh, I had my lunch an hour ago; I came over so ravenous. [Going to Miss Moon, who is still lost in admiration of Pollitt—in a whisper.] Be off, child. Don’t stand staring at Mr. Valma.
Miss Moon.
[In Sophy’s ear.] I think I’ve got him another!
Sophy.
Shut up!
[Miss Moon withdraws, with her bowl and towel.
Sophy.
[To Pollitt.] Did you catch what she said? Oh, it doesn’t matter if you did; you know we are all working for you, like niggers.
Pollitt.
[Tenderly.] Ah!
Sophy.
Not a customer leaves my place without having heard your name mentioned. My girls are regular bricks.
Pollitt.
[Approaching her.] And what are you?
Sophy.
[Looking away again.] Oh, I do no more than any of the others.
Pollitt.
Do you expect me to believe that? you, their queen! No, it is you who have helped me to steer my bark into the flowing waters of popularity.
Sophy.
[Nervously.] Extremely pleased, I—I’m sure. [He is close beside her; a cork is drawn loudly. They part, startled and disturbed. She goes to the opening in the partition, raising her voice slightly.] Girls, can’t you draw your corks a shade quieter? Nice if somebody was coming upstairs!
Miss Limbird.
[In the distance.] Very sorry, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
[To Pollitt, as she toys with the articles upon the circular table.] Everything is so up this weather. It’s their lime-juice champagne.
Pollitt.
[By her side again—suddenly.] I love you!
Sophy.
Oh, Mr. Valma!
Pollitt.
I love you! Ever since I had the honour of being presented to you by Mr. Salmon, the picture-dealer next door, I have thought of you, dreamt of you, constantly. [She brushes past him; he follows her.] Miss Fullgarney, you will accord me permission to pay you my addresses?
Sophy.
[In a flutter.] I—I am highly flattered and complimented, Mr. Valma, by your proposal—
Pollitt.
[Taking her hand.] Flattered—no!
Sophy.
[Withdrawing her hand.] Oh, but please wait!
Pollitt.
Wait!
Sophy.
I mean, I certainly couldn’t dream of accepting the attentions of any man until he fully understood—
Pollitt.
Understood what?
Sophy.
[Summoning all her dignity.] Oh, I’ll be perfectly straight with you—until he fully understood that, whatever my station in life may be now, I have risen from rather—well, I may say very small beginnings.
Pollitt.
What matters that?
Sophy.
Oh, but I beg your pardon—it does. [Relaxing.] I am sure I can depend on you not to give me away all over the place?
Pollitt.
Miss Fullgarney—!
Sophy.
[After a cautious glance round.] You know, Mr. Valma, I was always a self-willed, independent sort of a girl—a handful, they used to call me; and when father died I determined to have done with my step-mother, and to come to London at any price. I was seventeen then.
Pollitt.
Yes?
Sophy.
Oh, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, really; still, I did begin life in town—[with an uneasy little laugh and a toss of the head]—you’d hardly believe it!—as a nursery-maid.
Pollitt.
H’m! I am aware that is not considered—
Sophy.
I should think not! Oh, of course, in time I rose to be Useful Maid, and then Maid. I’ve been lady’s-maid in some excellent houses. And when I got sick of maiding I went to Dundas’s opposite, and served three years at the hairdressing; that’s an extremely refined position, I needn’t say. And then some kind friends routed me out, [surveying the room proudly] and put me into this.
Pollitt.
Then why bestow a second thought upon your beginnings?
Sophy.
No, I suppose I oughtn’t to. Nobody can breathe a word against my respectability. All the same, I am quite aware that it mightn’t be over pleasant for a gentleman to remember that his wife was once—[sitting in the screen-chair] well, a servant.
Pollitt.
[By her chair.] It would not weigh on my mind if you had been kitchen-maid [pointing out of the window] at Fletcher’s Hotel. [Looking about him.] It’s this business I don’t care for.
Sophy.
This business!
Pollitt.
For you. If you did no more than glide about your rooms, superintending your young ladies! [Sitting, facing her.] But I hate the idea of your sitting here, or there, holding some man’s hand in yours!
Sophy.
[Suddenly ablaze.] Do you! [Pointing out of the window.] Yet you sit there, day after day, and hold women’s hands in yours!
Pollitt.
[Eagerly.] You are jealous of me?
Sophy.
[Panting.] A little.
Pollitt.
[Going down upon one knee.] Ah, you do love me!
Sophy.
[Faintly.] Fondly.
Pollitt.
And you will be my wife?
Sophy.
Yes.
Pollitt.
[Embracing her.] My dearest!
Sophy.
Not yet! suppose the girls saw you!
Pollitt.
Let all the world see us!
Sophy.
[Submissively, laying her cheek upon his brow.] Oh, but I wish—and yet I don’t wish—
Pollitt.
What?
Sophy.
That you were not so much my superior in every way.
Pollitt.
[In an altered voice.] Sophy.
Sophy.
[In a murmur, her eyes closed.] Eh-h-h?
Pollitt.
I have had my early struggles too.
Sophy.
You, love?
Pollitt.
Yes. If you should ever hear—
Sophy.
Hear—?
Pollitt.
That until recently I was a solicitor’s clerk—
Sophy.
[Slightly surprised.] A solicitor’s clerk?
Pollitt.
You would not turn against me?
Sophy.
Ah, as if—!
Pollitt.
You know my real name is Pollitt—Frank Toleman Pollitt?
Sophy.
I’ve heard it isn’t really Valma. [With a little shiver.] Never mind that.
Pollitt.
But I shall be Frank to you henceforth, shan’t I?
Sophy.
Oh, no, no! always Valma to me—[dreamily] my Valma. [Their lips meet in a prolonged kiss. Then the door-gong sounds.] Get up! [They rise in a hurry. She holds his hand tightly.] Wait and see who it is. Oh, don’t go for a minute! stay a minute!
[They separate; he stands looking out upon the leads. Miss Claridge enters, preceding the Marquess of Quex and Sir Chichester Frayne. Lord Quex is forty-eight, keen-faced and bright-eyed, faultless in dress, in manner debonair and charming. Frayne is a genial wreck of about five-and-forty—the lean and shrivelled remnant of a once good-looking man. His face is yellow and puckered, his hair prematurely silvered, his moustache palpably touched-up.
Quex.
[Perceiving Sophy and approaching her.] How are you, Miss Fullgarney?
Sophy.
[Respectfully, but icily.] Oh, how do you do, my lord?
[Miss Claridge withdraws. Frayne comes forward, eyeing Sophy with interest.
Quex.
My aunt—Lady Owbridge—has asked me to meet her here at two o’clock. Her ladyship is lunching at a tea-shop close by—bunning is a more fitting expression—with Mrs. Eden and Miss Eden.
Sophy.
[Gladly.] Miss Muriel!
Quex.
Yes, I believe Miss Muriel will place her pretty finger-tips in your charge, [partly to Frayne] while I escort Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack to view this new biblical picture—[with a gesture] a few doors up. What is the subject?—Moses in the Bulrushes. [To Frayne.] Come with us, Chick.
Sophy.
It’s not quite two, my lord; if you like, you’ve just time to run in next door and have your palm read.
Quex.
My palm—?
Sophy.
By this extraordinary palmist everybody is talking about—Valma.
Quex.
[Pleasantly.] One of these fortune-telling fellows, eh? [Shaking his head.] I prefer the gipsy on Epsom race-course.
Sophy.
[Under her breath.] Oh, indeed! [Curtly.] Please take a seat.
[She flounces up to the desk and busies herself there vindictively.
Frayne.
[To Quex.] Who’s that gal? what’s her name?
Quex.
Fullgarney; a protégée of the Edens. Her father was bailiff to old Mr. Eden, at their place in Norfolk.
Frayne.
Rather alluring—eh, what?
Quex.
[Wincing.] Don’t, Chick!
Frayne.
My dear Harry, it is perfectly proper, now that you are affianced to Miss Eden, and have reformed all that sort of thing—it is perfectly proper that you should no longer observe pretty women too narrowly.
Quex.
Obviously.
Frayne.
But do bear in mind that your old friend is not so pledged. Recollect that I have been stuck for the last eight years, with intervals of leave, on the West Coast of Africa, nursing malaria—
Quex
[Severely.] Only malaria?
Frayne.
[Mournfully.] There is nothing else to nurse, dear Harry, on the West Coast of Africa. [Glancing at Sophy.] Yes, by gad, that gal is alluring!
Quex.
[Walking away.] Tssh! you’re a bad companion, Chick!
[He goes to the window and looks into the street. Frayne joins him. Sophy, seizing her opportunity comes down to Pollitt.
Sophy.
[To Pollitt.] Valma dear, you see that man?
Pollitt.
Which of the two?
Sophy.
The dark one. That’s Lord Quex—the wickedest man in London.
Pollitt.
He looks it. [Jealously.] Have you ever cut his nails?
Sophy.
No, love, no. Oh, I’ve heard such tales about him!
Pollitt.
What tales?
Sophy.
I’ll tell you, [demurely] when we’re married. And the worst of it is, he is engaged to Miss Eden.
Pollitt.
Who is she?
Sophy.
Miss Muriel Eden, my foster-sister; the dearest friend I have in the world—except you, sweetheart. It was Muriel and her brother Jack who put me into this business. And now my darling is to be sacrificed to that gay old thing—!
[The door-gong sounds; Quex turns expectantly.
Pollitt.
If Miss Eden is your foster-sister—
Sophy.
Yes, of course, she’s six-and-twenty. But the poor girl has been worried into it by her sister-in-law, Mrs. Jack, whose one idea is Title and Position. Title and Position with that old rake by her side!
Miss Limbird enters, preceding Captain Bastling—a smart, soldierly-looking man of about eight-and-twenty. Miss Limbird returns to her seat at the desk.
Sophy.
[Seeing Bastling.] My gracious!
Pollitt.
What’s the matter?
Quex.
[Recognising Bastling and greeting him.] Hallo, Napier! how are you?
Bastling.
[Shaking hands with Quex.] Hallo, Quex!
Quex.
What are you doing here?
Sophy.
[To Pollitt.] Phew! I hope to goodness Lord Quex won’t tumble to anything.
Pollitt.
Tumble—to what?
[Quex introduces Bastling to Frayne.
Sophy.
You don’t understand; it’s Captain Bastling—the man Muriel is really fond of.
Pollitt.
What, while she’s engaged—?
Sophy.
[With clenched hands.] Yes, and she shall marry him too, my darling shall, if I can help to bring it about.
Pollitt.
You?
Sophy.
Bless ’em, I don’t know how they’d contrive without me!
Pollitt.
Contrive—?
Sophy.
[Fondly.] You old stupid! whenever Muriel is coming to be manicured she sends Captain Bastling a warning overnight; [squeezing Pollitt’s arm, roguishly] this kind of thing—“My heart is heavy and my nails are long. To-morrow—three-thirty.” Ha, ha, ha!
Pollitt.
Dearest, let me advise you—
Sophy.
[Her hand upon his lips.] Ah, don’t lecture! [Bastling saunters forward to attract Sophy’s attention.] Oh—! [To Pollitt, hurriedly.] Go now. Pop in again by-and-by. [Caressingly.] Um-m-m! my love!
[Pollitt goes out by the window.
Sophy.
[Joining Bastling—formally.] Good day, Captain Bastling.
Bastling.
Good afternoon, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
[Dropping her voice.] She’ll be here in a minute.
Bastling.
[In low tones—making a show of examining the articles on the circular table.] Yes, I had a note from her this morning. [Glancing at Quex.] Confounded nuisance—!
Sophy.
[Pretending to display the articles.] It’s all right; he’s got to take Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack Eden to look at Moses in the Bulrushes—a picture—
Bastling.
Sophy—I’ve bad news.
Sophy.
No! what?
Bastling.
My regiment is ordered to Hong-Kong.
Sophy.
Great heavens! when are you off?
Bastling.
In a fortnight.
Sophy.
Oh, my poor darling!
Bastling.
I must see her again to-morrow. I’ve something serious to propose to her.
Sophy.
[Half in eagerness, half in fright.] Have you?
Bastling.
But to-morrow it must be alone, Sophy; I can’t say what I have to say in a few hasty whispers, with all your girls flitting about—and perhaps a customer or two here. Alone!
Sophy.
Without me?
Bastling.
Surely you can trust us. To-morrow at twelve. You’ll manage it?
Sophy.
How can I—alone?
Bastling.
You’re our only friend. Think!
Sophy.
[Glancing suddenly towards the left.] Valma’s rooms!
[Frayne has wandered to the back of the circular table, and, through his eyeglass, is again observing Sophy. Quex now joins him.
Bastling.
[Perceiving them—to Sophy.] Look out!
Sophy.
[Taking a bottle from his hand—raising her voice.] You’ll receive the perfume in the course of the afternoon. [Replacing the bottle upon the table.] Shall I do your nails?
Bastling.
Thanks.
[They move away. He takes his place in the screen-chair; she sits facing him. During the process of manicuring they talk together earnestly.
Frayne.
[Eyeing Sophy.] Slim, but shapely. Slim, but shapely.
Miss Moon enters, with a bowl of water. Having adjusted the bowl upon the arm of the screen-chair, she retires.
Frayne.
There’s another of ’em. Plain. [Watching MISS MOON as she goes out.] I don’t know—rather alluring. [Finding Quex by his side.] Beg your pardon.
Quex.
Didn’t hear you.
Frayne.
Glad of it. At the same time, old friend, you will forgive me for remarking that a man’s virtuous resolutions must be—ha, ha!—somewhat feeble, hey?—when he flinches at the mere admiration of beauty on the part of a pal, connoisseur through that pal undoubtedly is.
Quex.
Oh, my dear Chick, my resolutions are firm enough.
Frayne.
[Dubiously.] H’m!
Quex.
And my prudery is consistent with the most laudable intentions, I assure you. But the fact is, dear chap, I go in fear and trembling—
Frayne.
Ah!
Quex.
No, no, not for my strength of mind—fear lest any trivial act of mine, however guileless; the most innocent glance in the direction of a decent-looking woman; should be misinterpreted by the good ladies in whose hands I have placed myself—especially aunt Julia. You remember Lady Owbridge?
Frayne.
Why did you intrust yourself—?
Quex.
My one chance! [Taking Frayne to the table, against which they both lean shoulder to shoulder—his voice falling into a strain of tenderness.] Chick, when I fell in love with Miss Eden—
Frayne.
[In sentimental retrospection.] Fell in love! what memories are awakened by the dear old phrase!
Quex.
[Dryly.] Yes. Will you talk about your love affairs, Chick, or shall I—?
Frayne.
Certainly—you. Go on, Harry.
Quex.
When I proposed marriage to Miss Eden—it was at the hunt-ball at Stanridge—
Frayne.
[His eyes sparkling.] Did you select a retired corner—with flowers—by any chance?
Quex.
There were flowers.
Frayne.
I know—I know! Nearly twenty years ago, and the faint scent of the Gardenia Florida remains in my nostrils!
Quex.
Quite so. Would you like to—?
Frayne.
[Sitting.] No, no—you. Excuse me. You go on.
Quex.
[Sitting on the edge of the table, looking down upon Frayne.] When I proposed to Miss Eden I was certain—even while I was stammering it out—I was certain that my infernal evil character—
Frayne.
Ah, yes. I’ve always been a dooced deal more artful than you, Harry, over my little amours. [Chuckling.] Ha, ha! devilish cunning!
Quex.
And I was right. Her first words were, “Think of your life; how can you ask this of me?”—her first words and her last, that evening. I was desperate, Chick, for I— Well, I’m hit, you know.
Frayne.
What did you do?
Quex.
Came to town by the first train in the morning—drove straight off to Richmond, to my pious aunt. Found her in bed with asthma; I got her up. And I almost went down on my knees to her, Chick.
Frayne.
Not really?
Quex.
I did—old man as I am! no, I’m not old.
Frayne.
Forty-eight. Ha, ha! I’m only forty-five.
Quex.
But you’ve had malaria—
Frayne.
Dry up, Harry!
Quex.
So we’re quits. Well, down on my marrow-bones I went, metaphorically, and there and then I made my vows to old aunt Julia, and craved her help; and she dropped tears on me, Chick, like a mother. And the result was that within a month I became engaged to Miss Eden.
Frayne.
The young lady soon waived her—
Quex.
[Getting off the table.] I beg your pardon—the young lady did nothing of the kind. But with aunt Julia’s aid I showed ’em all that it was a genuine case of done with the old life—a real, genuine instance. [Balancing upon the back of the chair.] I’ve sold my house in Norfolk Street.
Frayne.
You’ll want one.
Quex.
[Gravely.] Not that one—for Muriel. [Brightly.] And I’m living sedately at Richmond, under aunt Julia’s wing. Muriel is staying at Fauncey Court too, just now; she’s up from Norfolk for the Season, chaperoned by Mrs. Jack. [Sitting, nursing his knee, with a sigh of content.] Ah! after all, it’s very pleasant to be a good boy.
Frayne.
When is it to take place?
Quex.
At the end of the year; assuming, of course—
Frayne.
That you continue to behave prettily? [Quex assents, with a wave of the hand.] The slightest lapse on your part—?
Quex.
Impossible.
Frayne.
But it would—?
Quex.
[A little impatiently.] Naturally.
Frayne.
Well, six months pass quickly—everywhere but on the West Coast of Africa.
Quex.
And then—you shall be my best man, Chick, if you’re still home.
Frayne.
[Rising.] Hah! I never thought—
Quex.
[Rising.] No; I who always laughed at marriage as a dull depravity permitted to the respectable classes! I who always maintained that man’s whole duty to woman—meaning his mistresses—that a man’s duty to a woman is liberally discharged when he has made a settlement on her, or stuck her into his will! [Blowing the ideas from him.] Phugh!
[He goes to the little table, and examines the objects upon it.
Frayne.
[Following him.] Talking of—ah—mistresses I suppose you’ve—?
Quex.
Oh, yes, they’re all—
Frayne.
Made happy and comfortable?
Quex.
I’ve done my utmost.
Frayne.
Mrs.—?
Quex.
[Rather irritably.] I say, all of them.
Frayne.
No trouble with Lady—?
Quex.
No, no, no, no.
Frayne.
What about the little Duchess? [Quex pauses in his examination of a nail-clipper.] Eh?
Quex.
[Turning to him, slightly embarrassed.] Odd that you should mention her.
Frayne.
Why?
Quex.
She’s staying at Fauncey Court also.
Frayne.
The Duchess!
Quex.
She proposed herself for a visit. I dared not raise any objection, for her reputation’s sake; the ladies would have suspected at once. You’re one of the few, Chick, who ever got an inkling of that business.
Frayne.
Very awkward!
Quex.
No. She’s behaving admirably. [Thoughtfully—with a wry face.] Of course she was always a little romantic and sentimental.
Frayne.
By gad though, what an alluring woman!
Quex.
[Shortly.] Perhaps.
Frayne.
Ho, come! you don’t mean to tell me—?
Quex.
[With dignity.] Yes, I do—upon my honour, I’ve forgotten. [The door-gong sounds.] This must be the ladies.
Muriel Eden enters, followed by Miss Claridge. Muriel is a tall, fresh-looking, girlish young woman, prettily dressed. Sophy rises and meets her.
Muriel.
[Behind the circular table—to Sophy, breathlessly, as if from the exertion of running upstairs.] Well, Sophy! [Looking round.] Is Lord Quex—? [Sophy glances towards Quex, who advances.] Oh, yes. [To Quex.] Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack won’t fag upstairs just now. They’re waiting for you in the carriage, they asked me to say.
Quex.
[In tender solicitation.] Moses in the Bulrushes? You still elect to have your nails cut?
Muriel.
Thanks, I—[with an effort] I’ve already seen the picture.
Quex.
And its merits are not sufficient—?
Muriel.
[Guiltily.] I thought the bulrushes rather well done.
Quex.
May I present my old friend, Sir Chichester Frayne?
Muriel.
[To Frayne.] How do you do?
Quex.
[To Frayne.] Will you come, Chick? [To Muriel.] We shall be back very soon.
[Muriel nods to Quex and Frayne and turns away to the window, removing her gloves. Sophy joins her.
Frayne.
[To Quex.] As I suspected—the typical, creamy English girl. We all do it! we all come to that, sooner or later.
Quex.
[Looking from, Muriel to Frayne proudly.] Well—
Frayne.
[In answer, kissing his finger-tips to the air.] Alluring!
Quex.
Ha! [Hastily.] We’re keeping the ladies waiting.
[He goes out. Frayne is following Quex, when he encounters Miss Claridge. He pauses, gazing at her admiringly. The door-gong sounds.
Miss Claridge.
[Surprised.] Do you wish anything, sir?
Frayne.
[With a little sigh of longing.] Ah—h!
Miss Claridge.
[Coldly.] Shall I cut your nails?
Frayne.
[Wofully.] That’s it, dear young lady—you can’t!
Miss Claridge.
[With hauteur.] Reely! Why not, sir?
Frayne.
I regret to say I bite ’em.
[He goes out. Miss Claridge titters loudly to Miss Limbird.
Sophy.
[To Miss Claridge, reprovingly.] Miss Claridge! I don’t require you at present.
[Miss Claridge withdraws.
Sophy.
[Going to Miss Limbird.] Miss Limbird, will you oblige me? hot water, please.
[Miss Limbird goes out. At once Sophy gives a signal to Bastling and Muriel, and keeps guard. Bastling and Muriel talk in low, hurried tones.
Bastling.
[On the right of the circular table.] How are you?
Muriel.
[On the other side, giving him her hand across the table.] I don’t know. [Withdrawing her hand.] I hate myself!
Bastling.
Hate yourself?
Muriel.
For this sort of thing. [Glancing round apprehensively.] Oh!
Bastling.
Don’t be frightened. Sophy’s there.
Muriel.
I’m nervous—shaky. When I wrote to you last night I thought I should be able to sneak up to town this morning only with a maid. And you’ve met Quex too!
Bastling.
None of them suspect—?
Muriel.
No. Oh, but go now!
Bastling.
Already! May I not sit and watch you?
Muriel.
Not to-day.
Bastling.
You must hear my news, then, from Sophy; she’ll tell you—
Muriel.
News?
Sophy.
[Turning to them sharply.] Hsst!
Muriel.
Good-bye!
Bastling.
[Grasping her arm.] Haven’t you one loving little speech for me?
Sophy.
[Behind the table.] Gar—r—rh!
[He releases Muriel and picks up a large wooden bowl of bath-soap, just as Miss Limbird re-enters with the hot water. Muriel moves away, hastily.
Sophy.
[To Bastling, taking the soap from him—raising her voice.] Thank you—much obliged. [Transferring the soap to Miss Limbird and relieving her of the bowl of water.] For Captain Bastling, with a bottle of Fleur de Lilas.
[Miss Limbird returns to her desk; Sophy deposits the bowl of water upon the arm of the screen-chair; Bastling fetches his hat, and gives some directions to Miss Limbird.
Muriel.
[To Sophy, in a whisper.] Sophy, these extravagances on his part! I am the cause of them! he is not in the least well off!
Sophy.
Don’t worry; it’s all booked. Ha, ha! bless him, he’ll never get his account from me! [Bastling, with a parting glance in the direction of Muriel and Sophy, goes out.] He’s gone.
[Miss Limbird also goes out, carrying the bowl of bath-soap.
Muriel.
[With a sigh of relief.] Oh!
Sophy.
[Coming to her.] We’re by ourselves for a minute. Give me a good hug. [Embracing her.] My dear! my darling! ha, ha, ha! you shall be the first to hear of it—I’m engaged.
Muriel.
Sophy! to whom?
Sophy.
To Mr. Valma, the great palmist.
Muriel.
What, the young man you’ve talked to me about—next door? [Kissing her.] I hope you are doing well for yourself, dear.
Sophy.
He’s simply perfect! he’s—! oh, how can I be such a brute, talking of my own happiness—! [In an altered tone.] Darling, Captain Bastling’s regiment is going to be sent off to Hong-Kong.
Muriel.
[After a pause—commanding herself.] When?
Sophy.
In about a fortnight.
Muriel.
[Frigidly.] Is this what you had to tell me, from him?
Sophy.
Yes, and that he must see you to-morrow, alone. I’ll arrange it. Can you manage to be here at twelve?
Muriel.
I daresay, somehow.
Sophy.
[Looking at her in surprise.] I thought you’d be more upset.
Muriel.
[Taking Sophy’s hand.] The truth is, Sophy—I’m glad.
Sophy.
Glad!
Muriel.
Awfully glad the chance has come of putting an end to all this. Oh, I’ve been treating him shockingly!
Sophy.
Him?
Muriel.
Lord Quex!
Sophy.
[Impatiently.] Oh! pooh!
Muriel.
[Leaving Sophy.] Yes, after to-morrow he sha’n’t find me looking a guilty fool whenever he speaks to me—by Jove, he sha’n’t! I believe he guessed I haven’t seen Moses in the Bulrushes!
Sophy.
But, dear, how do you know what Captain Bastling means to say to you to-morrow?
Muriel.
[Pausing in her walk.] To say?—good-bye.
Sophy.
Suppose he asks you to put him out of his misery—marry him directly, on the quiet?
Muriel.
[A little unsteadily.] Then I shall tell him finally—my word is given to Lord Quex.
Sophy.
[Coming to her again.] Given!—wrung out of you. And just for that you’ll lose the chance of being happy—all your life—with the man you—
[She turns away, and sits, on the right of the circular table, blowing her nose.
Muriel.
[At Sophy’s side, desperately.] But I tell you, Sophy, I love Lord Quex.
Sophy.
You may tell me.
Muriel.
I do—I mean, I’m getting to. [Defiantly.] At any rate, I am proud of him.
Sophy.
Proud!
Muriel.
Certainly—proud that he has mended his ways for my sake.
Sophy.
[Between tears and anger.] Mended his ways! with those eyes of his!
Muriel.
[Looking down upon Sophy, wonderingly.] His eyes? why, they are considered his best feature.
Sophy.
I never saw wickeder eyes. All my girls say the same.
Muriel.
[With rising indignation.] I am sure you have never detected Lord Quex looking at anybody in a way he should not.
Sophy.
Oh, I admit he has always behaved in a gentlemanly manner towards me and my girls.
Muriel.
[Haughtily. Towards you and your—! Sophy, pray remember Lord Quex’s rank.
Sophy.
[In hot scorn.] His rank! ha! do you think his lordship has ever let that interfere—?
[She checks herself, finding Muriel staring at her.
Muriel.
[In horror.] Sophy!
Sophy.
[Discomposed—rising.] Er—if I’m to do anything to your nails—
[As Sophy is moving towards the manicure-table, Muriel intercepts her.
Muriel.
You are surely not suggesting that Lord Quex has ever descended—?
Sophy.
[Hastily.] No, no, no. [Brushing past Muriel and seating herself before the screen-chair.] Come; they’ll all be here directly.
Muriel.
[Sitting in the screen-chair.] Sophy, you have heard some story—
Sophy.
[Examining Muriel’s hands.] A little varnishing is all you need to-day.
Muriel.
You shall tell me!
Sophy.
[Proceeding with her work methodically.] It’s nothing much; I’m sorry I—
Muriel.
[Imperatively.] Sophy!
Sophy.
[Reluctantly.] Oh, well—well, when I was at Mrs. Beaupoint’s in Grosvenor Street—
Muriel.
Yes?
Sophy.
A Lady Pumphrey came to stay there with a goodish-looking maid—Edith Smith her name was—
Muriel.
Never mind her name!
Sophy.
And they’d lately met Lord Quex in a country house in Worcestershire. Well, he had kissed her—Smith admitted it.
Muriel.
Kissed whom—Lady Pumphrey?
Sophy.
Oh, of course he’d kissed Lady Pumphrey; but he kissed Smith afterwards, when he tipped her. She told me what he said.
Muriel.
What did he say?
Sophy.
He said, “There’s a little something for yourself, my girl.”
Muriel.
[Starting to her feet and walking away.] My heavens! a Maid! what next am I to hear—his blanchisseuse? [Sinking into a chair.] Oh! oh, dear!
Sophy.
[Turning in her chair to face Muriel.] It’s one thing I always meant to keep to myself.
Muriel.
[Bitterly.] Still, I have promised to forgive him for so much already! And, after all, this occurred a long while ago.
Sophy.
[Thoughtfully.] Ye—e—es. I suppose if you did find him up to anything of that sort now, you’d—what would you do?
Muriel.
Do! [With all her heart.] Marry Napier Bastling.
Sophy.
[Rising—a mischievous light in her eyes.] Ah—! I almost wish it would happen!
Muriel.
Sophy!
Sophy.
[Leaning against the edge of the circular table, gripping Muriel’s hand.] Just for your sake, darling. [In a low voice.] I almost wish I could come across him in some quiet little shady spot—
Muriel.
[Looking up at Sophy, horrified.] What!
Sophy.
In one of those greeny nooks you’ve told me of, at Fauncey Court. [Between her teeth.] If he ever tried to kiss me, and I told you of it, you’d take my word for it, wouldn’t you?
Muriel.
[Starting to her feet.] For shame! how dare you let such an idea enter your head? you, a respectable girl, just engaged yourself—!
Sophy.
[With a quick look towards the window.] Oh, yes! hush! [Clapping her hand to her mouth.] Oh, what would Valma say if he knew I’d talked in this style!
[The door-gong sounds.
Muriel
Here they are.
Sophy.
[As they hastily return to their chairs.] Darling, I was only thinking of you and the poor Captain. [With another glance towards the window.] Phew! if my Valma knew!
[They resume their seats, and the manicuring is continued.
Miss Limbird enters, preceding Lord Quex and the Countess of Owbridge, Mrs. Jack Eden and Frayne. Miss Moon follows. Lady Owbridge is a very old lady in a mouse-coloured wig, with a pale, anxious face, watery eyes, and no eyebrows. Mrs. Eden is an ultra-fashionably-dressed woman of about thirty, shrill and maniéré.
Quex.
[To Lady Owbridge, who is upon his arm.] Yes, a curious phase of modern life. Many people come to these places for rest.
Lady Owbridge.
[Looking about her shrinkingly.] For rest, Henry?
Quex.
Certainly. I know a woman—I knew a woman who used to declare that her sole repose during the Season was the half-hour with the manicurist.
Mrs. Eden.
How are you, Sophy?
Sophy.
How are you to-day, Mrs. Eden?
Mrs. Eden.
Lady Owbridge, this is Miss Fullgarney, whom you’ve heard about.
[Sophy rises, makes a bob, and sits again.
Lady Owbridge.
[Seated.] I hope you’re quite well, my dear.
Sophy.
[Busy over Muriel’s nails.] Thanks, my lady; I hope you’re the same.
Mrs. Eden.
[Sitting.] What is your opinion of the picture, Lady Owbridge?
Lady Owbridge.
[Not hearing.] Eh?
Quex.
Moses in the Bulrushes—what d’ye think of it?
Lady Owbridge.
[Tearfully.] They treat such subjects nowadays with too little reverence.
Frayne.
[Thoughtlessly.] Too much Pharaoh’s daughter and too little Moses.
Quex.
[Frowning him down.] Phsst!
Mrs. Eden.
Certainly the handmaidens remind one of the young ladies in the ballet at the Empire.
Lady Owbridge.
The Empire?
Mrs. Eden.
[Checking herself.] Oh—!
Quex.
Popular place of entertainment.
Lady Owbridge.
Ah? The only place of that kind I have visited for some years is the Imperial Institute.
[Mrs. Eden rises, laughing to herself, and joins Sophy and Muriel. Frayne is now establishing cordial relations between himself and Miss Moon.
Mrs. Eden.
[To Sophy.] Well, Sophy, and how’s your business getting along?
Lady Owbridge.
[To Quex, after ascertaining that Frayne is not near her.] Oh, Henry, I have asked Sir Chichester to drive down to us to-night, to dine.
Quex.
[Watching Frayne with apprehension.] Ah, yes, delightful. [Trying to gain Frayne’s attention—warningly.] Phsst! phsst!
Lady Owbridge.
[Plucking at Quex’s coat.] I feel that Sir Chichester is a very wholesome friend for you, Henry.
Quex.
Very. Phsst!
Lady Owbridge.
What is the name of the West African place?—Uumbos—Uumbos seems to have improved him vastly.
Quex.
[In a low voice.] Chichester!
Lady Owbridge.
And it is our wish that you should associate for the future only with grey-haired men.
[Miss Moon now withdraws, with Frayne at her heels.
Muriel.
[Rising and coming to Lady Owbridge.] I’m ready, dear Lady Owbridge. Look! you can see your face in them.
[Lady Owbridge rises; Muriel displays her nails. Lady Owbridge shakes her head gravely, while Quex bends over Muriel’s hands gallantly.
Mrs. Eden.
[To Sophy.] My hands need trimming up desperately badly. That maid of mine is a fool at fingers.
Sophy.
Can’t you stay now?
Mrs. Eden.
[With an impatient movement of the head towards Lady Owbridge.] Oh, lord, no. [Suddenly.] I say, I wish you’d run down to Richmond, to Fauncey Court, and do me. Could you?
Sophy.
[Innocently.] Oh, yes.
Mrs. Eden.
To-night, before dinner?
Sophy.
I think I can.
Mrs. Eden.
[To Lady Owbridge.] Lady Owbridge, Miss Fullgarney is coming down to Richmond this evening to manicure me. Do, do, do let her give your nails the fashionable cut. [Going to Quex and Muriel.] Everybody is wearing pointed nails this Season.
Lady Owbridge.
[Advancing to Sophy.] Ah, no, no. These practices are somewhat shocking to an old woman. [To Sophy.] But I don’t blame you. [Laying her hand upon Sophy’s arm, kindly.] So you’re Miss Eden’s foster-sister, eh?
Sophy.
I’ve that honour, my lady.
Lady Owbridge.
You look a little thin. Come down to Fauncey Court to-day as soon as your duties will release you. Spend as many hours there as you can.
Sophy.
Oh, my lady!
Lady Owbridge.
Run about the grounds—go wherever you please; and get the air into your lungs. [With gracious formality.] Remember, I invite you.
Muriel.
[Innocently.] How good of you, Lady Owbridge!
Sophy.
Thank you, my lady.
[Frayne returns—accompanied by Miss Moon, who carries a neat package—and settles an account with Miss Limbird at the desk.
Lady Owbridge.
[To Sophy.] You shall be well looked after.
[She shakes hands with Frayne.
Muriel.
[Kissing Sophy.] We shall meet by-and-by.
Lady Owbridge.
Muriel—young people—
[Muriel joins Lady Owbridge; they go out together.
Mrs. Eden.
[Nodding to Sophy.] This evening, Sophy.
Sophy.
[In a flutter of simple pleasure.] Yes, Mrs. Eden.
Mrs. Eden.
[Shaking hands with Frayne.] Till dinner—
[She goes out.
Quex.
[To Sophy.] Good-bye, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
[Tripping across the room.] Good-day, my lord.
Quex.
[Joining Frayne.] Are you coming, Chick?
Frayne.
[Taking the parcel from Miss Moon, and turning to Quex, rather bitterly.] I say, that gal has made me buy something I don’t want. They stick you here frightfully—
Quex.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
[They go out together.
Sophy.
[Adjusting her hair at the mirror.] Come, girls! look alive! no more work for me to-day! I’m off home to change my frock. I’ve got an invite down to Richmond. My hat and coat!
[The door-gong sounds. Miss Moon disappears at the door in the partition. Miss Huddle enters.
Sophy.
Miss Hud-delle, please run next door, and ask Mr. Valma to step this way for a moment.
Miss Huddle.
He’s on the leads, Miss Fullgarney, smoking a cigarette.
Sophy.
[Running across to the window.] Get my bag of tools ready! sharp! [Miss Huddle and Miss Limbird go out; Sophy opens the window and calls.] Valma! Valma! Valma!
[Miss Moon returns with Sophy’s hat, coat, gloves and umbrella.
Miss Moon.
Your things, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
[Taking them from her.] Send for a hansom—a smart one.
[Miss Moon runs out as Valma enters at the window.
Sophy.
[Breathlessly.] Valma—Valma, love! I’ve got an invite down to Richmond—Lady Owbridge—she’s asked me specially! I’m going home to my place to smarten-up. Isn’t it jolly? [In an outburst.] Oh, love, you might give-up for to-day, and take me down!
Valma.
May I?
Sophy.
May you! Your hat—get your hat! you’ll find me outside in a cab.
[He hurries away.
Miss Limbird, carrying a leather bag, enters, followed by Miss Claridge and Miss Huddle.
Sophy.
[As she, with the aid of her girls, pins on her hat and scrambles into her coat.] You know, girls, many a silly person’s head would be turned at being asked to a place like Fauncey Court—as a guest, bear in mind. But there, the houses I’ve been in!—it’s nothing to me. Still, specially invited by the Countess of Owbridge herself—! [Putting her feet in turn upon a chair and hitching up her stockings.] I shall just make rather a favour of manicuring Mrs. Jack. One doesn’t go visiting to cut Mrs. Jack’s claws. Gloves! Thank goodness, the evenings are long! they say it’s simply heavenly at Fauncey Court—simply heaven— [She breaks off abruptly, staring straight before her. Under her breath.] Oh—! Fauncey Court—Lord Quex—!
Miss Claridge.
What’s the matter, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
N—n—nothing.
Miss Moon.
[Entering.] Cab, Miss Fullgarney!
Sophy.
[In an altered voice.] Bag. [She takes her bag from Miss Limbird and walks away, rather slowly, with her head down. Quietly, without turning.] See you in the morning, girls.
The Four Girls.
Good afternoon, Miss Fullgarney.
[Sophy goes out.
end of the first act.