Act IV
Waiter. (Entering anxiously through the window.) Beg pardon, ma’am; but can you tell me what became of that—(He recognizes Bohun, and loses all his self-possession. Bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself together. After a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself sufficiently to address Bohun weakly, but coherently.) Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure, sir. Was—was it you, sir?
Bohun. (Ruthlessly.) It was I.
Waiter. (Brokenly.) Yes, sir. (Unable to restrain his tears.) You in a false nose, Walter! (He sinks faintly into a chair at the table.) I beg your pardon, ma’am, I’m sure. A little giddiness—
Bohun. (Commandingly.) You will excuse him, Mrs. Clandon, when I inform you that he is my father.
Waiter. (Heartbroken.) Oh, no, no, Walter. A waiter for your father on the top of a false nose! What will they think of you?
Mrs. Clandon. (Going to the waiter’s chair in her kindest manner.) I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Bohun. Your father has been an excellent friend to us since we came here. (Bohun bows gravely.)
Waiter. (Shaking his head.) Oh, no, ma’am. It’s very kind of you—very ladylike and affable indeed, ma’am; but I should feel at a great disadvantage off my own proper footing. Never mind my being the gentleman’s father, ma’am: it is only the accident of birth, after all, ma’am. (He gets up feebly.) You’ll excuse me, I’m sure, having interrupted your business.
(He begins to make his way along the table, supporting himself from chair to chair, with his eye on the door.)
(Bohun.) One moment. (The waiter stops, with a sinking heart.) My father was a witness of what passed to-day, was he not, Mrs. Clandon?
Mrs. Clandon. Yes, most of it, I think.
Bohun. In that case we shall want him.
Waiter. (Pleading.) I hope it may not be necessary, sir. Busy evening for me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir.
Bohun. (Inexorably.) We shall want you.
Mrs. Clandon. (Politely.) Sit down, won’t you?
Waiter. (Earnestly.) Oh, if you please, ma’am, I really must draw the line at sitting down. I couldn’t let myself be seen doing such a thing, ma’am: thank you, I am sure, all the same.
(He looks round from face to face wretchedly, with an expression that would melt a heart of stone.)
Gloria. Don’t let us waste time. William only wants to go on taking care of us. I should like a cup of coffee.
Waiter. (Brightening perceptibly.) Coffee, miss? (He gives a little gasp of hope.) Certainly, miss. Thank you, miss: very timely, miss, very thoughtful and considerate indeed. (To Mrs. Clandon, timidly, but expectantly.) Anything for you, ma’am?
Mrs. Clandon. Er—oh, yes: it’s so hot, I think we might have a jug of claret cup.
Waiter. (Beaming.) Claret cup, ma’am! Certainly ma’am.
Gloria. Oh, well, I’ll have claret cup instead of coffee. Put some cucumber in it.
Waiter. (Delightedly.) Cucumber, miss! yes, miss. (To Bohun.) Anything special for you, sir? You don’t like cucumber, sir.
Bohun. If Mrs. Clandon will allow me—syphon, Scotch.
Waiter. Right, sir. (To Crampton.) Irish for you, sir, I think sir? (Crampton assents with a grunt. The waiter looks enquiringly at Valentine.)
Valentine. I like the cucumber.
Waiter. Right, sir. (Summing up.) Claret cup, syphon, one Scotch, and one Irish?
Mrs. Clandon. I think that’s right.
Waiter. (Perfectly happy.) Right ma’am. Directly, ma’am. Thank you.
(He ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of human happiness, from the bottom to the top in a little over two minutes.)53
THE CRADLE (LE BERCEAU)