End of the Second Act — The Third Act
The scene is Lily’s boudoir—a room upon the second floor of her house, adjoining her bedroom. The decorations, though delicate, are gay, with a good deal of pink in them.
In the wall facing the spectator are two doors, one on the left, the other in the centre. The left-hand door opens into the room from the landing, where the staircase is shown; the centre door admits to the bedroom. In the right-hand wall there are two sash-windows giving a view of the tops of trees growing in a square; in the opposite wall, the grate hidden by a low, painted screen, is the fireplace.
A prettily designed “fitment” runs along the left-hand wall and the further wall, taking in the fireplace and doors as part of its scheme. On either side of the fireplace there is a cupboard with drawers beneath it; between the door on the left and the door in the centre is a similar cupboard; and on the right of the centre door, extending to the right-hand wall, there is a wardrobe with sliding doors. The cupboard doors are glazed and curtained in pink silk.
In the middle of the room, a little to the right, there is a large and comfortable settee, and on the left of the settee is a table littered with books, magazines, a scent-atomizer, a small silver-framed mirror, a case of manicure instruments, a box of cigarettes and a match-stand, and other odds and ends. Behind the table there is a fauteuil-stool, and on the right of the table a cosy arm-chair. A second arm-chair stands apart, between the table in the centre and the fireplace.
On the extreme left of the room, on the nearer side of the fireplace, there is a box-ottoman; on the other side of the room, by the nearer window, are a small writing-table and chair; standing across the right-hand corner, the key-board towards the further window, are a cottage-piano and a music-stool; and at the back of the piano there is another small chair, with some soiled gloves upon it.
A quantity of music is heaped untidily on the top of the piano; one of the wardrobe doors is open, revealing some dresses hanging within; and the edge of a lace petticoat, with its insertion of coloured ribbon, peeps out from under the carelessly-closed lid of the box-ottoman. Two milliner’s hat-boxes are on the floor by the ottoman, and a pair of satin slippers are lying, one here, one there, under the centre table.
The window-blinds are down but the daylight is seen through them.
The door on the left opens and Lily, still carrying her bouquet, enters and makes straight for the windows and draws up the blinds, letting in the clear, morning light. She is followed by Enid, Gabrielle, Daphne, and Jimmie and they by Farncombe, Von Rettenmayer, de Castro, Roper, Fulkerson, and Bland. They are all pale and haggard, and slightly dishevelled, but everybody seems broad awake except Daphne, who is borne down by sleepiness. Some of the men are smoking.
Lily.
Laying her bouquet upon the table in the centre as she crosses to the windows—to the women. Come in, dears; drawing up the blind of the nearer window come in, boys. Take off your things for a minute.
Fulkerson.
Whose inebriety has reached the argumentative stage. Working classhes! Don’ talk t’ me ’bout th’ working classhes!
Jimmie.
H’sh! Shut up, Bertie.
Fulkerson.
I’m s’h’ick o’ th’ ve’y mention o’ th’ name—working classhes!
Jimmie.
Sit on his head, somebody. We shall wake Ma and the servants.
Lily.
Taking off her wrap and hanging it up in the wardrobe. Don’t worry; you won’t wake my servants. And mother’s bound to hear us; she sleeps so lightly when I’m out.
Daphne.
Gaping violently. Oh-h-h-h!
Jimmie.
Clapping her hand over Daphne’s mouth. Manners!
Fulkerson.
Depositing his overcoat and hat upon the fauteuil-stool. One ’ud ’magine th’ working-man’sh th’ on’y pershon who ever does day’sh work! Ridiculush!
Von Rettenmayer and Bland.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
De Castro.
Thome truth in what Bertie’th thayin’, though. For inthtanthe——
Fulkerson.
With great disgust. Br’ish working-man!
Roper.
By Jove, yes! When I think o’ the work Mr. Lionel Hesketh Roper manages to dispose of in the course of a day——!
Von Rettenmayer and de Castro have placed their overcoats and hats upon the chair at the back of the piano and Farncombe, Bland, and Roper have piled theirs on the arm-chair on the left. Enid and Gabrielle throw their wraps upon the settee, Daphne drops hers upon the box-ottoman, and Jimmie puts hers over the arm of the chair by the centre table.
Lily.
To everybody. I’ll just run upstairs and tell mother that all’s serene. She goes to the door on the left; Farncombe, Bland, and Roper get in each other’s way in their desire to open it for her. If any of you want a drink, you must hunt for it yourselves in the dining-room. To Roper. You play host, Uncle Lal.
She disappears, turning to the left and ascending the stairs.
Roper.
Briskly. Now, then, give your orders, gents! Coming forward. Ladies, don’t all speak at once.
Fulkerson.
Making for the door. I’ll have sma’ whiskeyan’ soda.
He goes along the landing and down the stairs.
Bland.
Following him. No, no! Bertie! Bertie——!
Jimmie.
Seated in the arm-chair by the centre table—to Roper. Stop it. We’ll have trouble enough to get that boy home as it is.
Roper hurries out after Bland and Fulkerson. Von Rettenmayer and de Castro also move to the door.
Von Rettenmayer.
To Enid, who is sitting with Gabrielle on the settee. Enid——?
Enid.
A glass of soda-water.
Gabrielle.
Same for me, Von.
Von Rettenmayer.
To Jimmie. Jimmie——?
Jimmie.
No, thanks.
Von Rettenmayer.
Looking down upon Daphne, who has curled herself up on the box-ottoman and is already asleep—sentimentally. Baby—baby——
Daphne.
Half sighing, half moaning. Ah-h-h-h!
Jimmie.
To Von Rettenmayer. Don’t disturb her. Let her have her snooze in peace.
Von Rettenmayer.
Still contemplating Daphne. Shall I bring you your boddle, you preddy liddle baby?
Enid.
Annoyed. Don’t be an idiot, Karl. To de Castro, who is talking to Farncombe. Sam, will you fetch me some soda-water?
Von Rettenmayer.
To Enid, bestirring himself. I beg bardon.
He goes out, with de Castro. Enid has taken the mirror from the table and now looks at herself in it.
Enid.
What a sight! To Gabrielle. I wonder whether Lil would mind me going into her bedroom?
Gabrielle.
Taking the mirror from Enid. Of course she wouldn’t. Viewing herself with dismay. Oh, I’m yellower than you!
She jumps up, throwing the mirror upon the settee, and goes to the door in the centre. Enid follows her and the two girls open the door narrowly and withdraw. Jimmie rises and picks up the mirror.
Jimmie.
With one knee upon the settee, surveying herself. Ugh, you lovely creature! Glancing at Farncombe as she readjusts a comb, and finding that he is gazing at her earnestly. Turn your face to the wall, please; I’m about to use my puff.
Suddenly, with rapid movements, he shuts the door on the left, gives a quick look at Daphne, assures himself that the centre door is closed, and comes to Jimmie. She stares at him in astonishment.
Farncombe.
Standing at the back of the settee—in a low voice. Miss Birch, you’re Miss Parradell’s friend—her great friend. Will you be a friend of mine too, and do me a service?
Jimmie.
Startled. It—it all depends——
Farncombe.
Beg her to allow me to remain behind, with you, for a few minutes after the others have gone.
Jimmie.
Remain—you and I?
Farncombe.
And then, if she will, will you wait in the next room while I speak to her? Miss Birch, I—I must speak to her.
Jimmie.
W-w-wouldn’t—to-morrow——?
Farncombe.
It is to-morrow now. It’s day.
Jimmie.
Dropping her eyes. She’s tired.
Farncombe.
Five minutes—no longer. Entreatingly. Won’t you try to arrange it for me?
Jimmie.
Pursing her lips. H’m! I’d stay; delighted. Demurely. It doesn’t matter how tired I feel.
Farncombe.
Contritely. I’m a brute!
Jimmie.
But I really think the arranging is your job, Lord Farncombe.
Farncombe.
I know I should make a bungle of it with all these people round me, and attract attention. You’re clever.
Jimmie.
Raising her eyes to his, abruptly. Look here! Do I guess correctly?
Farncombe.
What——?
She pulls him towards her and whispers into his ear. He nods. She whispers again, breathlessly, and then releases him.
Jimmie.
Eh? Eh?
Farncombe.
Drawing back and facing her, firmly. Yes.
Jimmie.
Walking away, in a flutter. Oh! Oh! Oh!
Farncombe.
You’ll help me? She pauses, deliberating. You’ll help me?
Jimmie.
Returning to him, with an air of prudence. I tell you what I will do. Pointing to the writing-table. Scribble her a note—a line—and I’ll give it to her. That won’t attract attention. I’ve no objection to do that for you. Hurry up! He sits at the writing-table and searches for writing materials. In the drawer. He opens a drawer and takes out a sheet of note-paper. Standing at the other side of the table, she selects a pen and hands it to him. A “J” suit you?
Farncombe.
Taking the pen from her. What shall I say?
Jimmie.
Ho, ho! Well, I never! He writes. Oh, but it isn’t exactly a love-letter, is it? Simply say—what was the expression you used just now?—“will you allow me to remain behind for a few minutes with Miss Birch after the others have gone?”
Farncombe.
Writing. Thank you.
Jimmie.
With a little wriggle. Call me Jimmie if you like.
Farncombe.
Thank you.
Jimmie.
Knitting her brow thoughtfully. I suppose you ought to give her an inkling, though—the merest hint—of the reason, oughtn’t you?
Farncombe.
Looking up. Ought I?
Jimmie.
Well, you don’t want her to think it’s only to chat about the weather——!
Farncombe.
For heaven’s sake, don’t chaff me! writing “—after the others have gone?” Biting his pen. How would this do? “I know I am presuming a lot, but I—I can’t leave you—I can’t leave you till I—till I have asked you—till I have asked you the most important question a man can put to a woman.”
Jimmie.
Oh, but that’s ideal! Gabrielle reappears. Dash these girls! To Gabrielle, whose complexion is much improved. Lord Farncombe is writing me out a remedy for freckles. Isn’t it sweet of him?
Gabrielle.
Mournfully. Freckles! If you want to see a martyr to freckles, knock at my door.
Enid returns, with lips that are a little too red, as Von Rettenmayer and de Castro re-enter at the door on the left. They leave the door open. Von Rettenmayer is carrying a syphon of soda-water and de Castro two tumblers. The men put the syphon and tumblers on the centre table and Von Rettenmayer fills the glasses and he and de Castro hand them to Enid and Gabrielle.
Von Rettenmayer.
To Enid and Gabrielle. I hobe we haf nod kepd you waiding.
De Castro.
Bertie’th been makin’ himthelf a reg’lar nuithanthe downthairth.
Enid.
Poor Bertie! Pity he has this little failing.
Gabrielle.
With mild enthusiasm. Yes, there’s not a nicer boy in London than Bertie, bar that.
De Castro.
Flieth to hith head tho!
The four continue talking. Jimmie has gone back to Farncombe, who is still writing, and is watching him impatiently.
Jimmie.
To Farncombe, under her breath. Do be quick!
Hastily he blots his note and folds it. Bland, Fulkerson, and Roper appear on the landing, issuing from the staircase, and there they are joined by Lily, who comes down the stairs.
Fulkerson.
On the landing, to Lily, indignantly. Lirry—Misspa’dell——
Jimmie.
To Farncombe. Here she is!
Roper.
To Fulkerson. Now, then; have it out with Lily!
Lily.
What’s wrong?
Farncombe rises and slips his note into Jimmie’s hand.
Fulkerson.
To Lily. Mosht unjusht’fiable treatmen’ ’n th’ part ’f these gen’lemen!
Von Rettenmayer.
Listening, with the others at the centre table, to what is going on upon the landing. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Jimmie.
To Farncombe, over her shoulder. Good luck!
Bland.
To Lily. The youth is irate with us for cutting off supplies.
Lily enters with Fulkerson; Roper and Bland following. Bland strolls over to the piano, laughing.
Fulkerson.
To Lily. M’ argumen’ is this. When a gen’leman’sh invited b’ th’ lady ’f th’ house t’ partake ’f refreshmen’——
Lily.
To Fulkerson. Be quiet, Bertie, or I’ll box your ears. Joining the group at the centre table. Ho, ho! I’ve had such a wigging for asking you up. Mother says we girls’ll look as ugly as sin on the stage to-night.
Enid.
So we shall—hags.
Lily.
Sitting in the arm-chair by the centre table. I feel as fresh as paint. To Gabrielle. Give me a sip.
De Castro hands Gabrielle’s glass to Lily.
Fulkerson.
Gazing at Daphne stupidly and singing to himself. “Oh, the gals! Oh, the gals! I am awfully fond of the gals!——”
Von Rettenmayer, Roper, de Castro, Enid and Gabrielle.
Chiming in with Fulkerson lightly. “Be they ebon or blond, Of the gals I am fond;——”! Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Bland.
H’sh, h’sh! Ma’s quite right. Seating himself at the piano. One more turn and then let’s clear out.
Lily.
Jumping up. Hurrah! To Roper, as Bland runs his hands over the key-board. Shut the door, Uncle Lal.
Von Rettenmayer.
Aha! One more durn! To Enid. Enid——!
Fulkerson.
Singing. “I am dreadfully fond of the gals!”
Roper.
Closing the door. Choose your partners, gents! Very softly Bland plays the melody of a languorous song and instantly Von Rettenmayer and Enid and de Castro and Gabrielle dance to it—Von Rettenmayer and Enid at the back, de Castro and Gabrielle near the piano. Jimmie——!
Jimmie passes Lily to go to Roper. As she does so, she presses Farncombe’s note into Lily’s palm.
Jimmie.
To Lily, in a whisper. Rat-tat, says the postman! Catching hold of Roper and swinging him round. La, ra, ral, la——!
Lily.
To Farncombe, who is standing by the writing-table. Lord Farncombe——?
Farncombe goes to her and they dance together.
Fulkerson.
To Daphne, tapping her on the shoulder. Missdure, may I have th’ grea’ pleasure——? Shaking her. Missdure—Missdure——
Daphne.
Starting up. Oh! Looking round wildly. Oh——!
Fulkerson.
Dancing with her. Pray ’xcuse th’ absence ’f gloves.
Daphne.
Faintly. Oh! Oh, I—I thought I’d gone to bed!
With their hands on each other’s shoulders, the couples, swaying from side to side, half sing, half murmur, the refrain of the song.
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If you would only, only love me;
If you would merely, merely say,
Wait but a little, little for me,
I will be yours, be yours some day!
The refrain is repeated, the dancers droning to it with a, buzzing sound, and then Bland returns to the melody.
Lily.
As she dances, recollecting the note she is holding and opening it. What’s this? Reading the note, her arm resting upon Farncombe’s shoulder. “Dear Miss Parradell.... glancing at the signature Farncombe”! To Farncombe. From you!
Farncombe.
Yes.
Lily.
Reading. “Will you allow me to——?”
She reads to the end silently, and then she stops dancing and they stand for a moment looking confusedly at each other. Then, with an expressionless face, she slips the note into her dress and they dance again, singing the refrain as before.
Bland.
At the finish, shutting down the lid of the piano and rising. Ladies and gentlemen, the festivities connected with Miss Parradell’s birthday are over. Leaving the piano. Our lives will now resume their normal, serious course.
Von Rettenmayer.
Regretfully. Ah-h-h-h!
The ladies put on their wraps, the men their overcoats, and there is a great deal of stir and chatter. De Castro assists Gabrielle; Von Rettenmayer, Enid; Fulkerson, Daphne; and Farncombe, Jimmie. Lily joins in the talk and bustle with forced animation. Jimmie and Farncombe glance at her, and then, inquiringly, at one another.
Roper.
Putting on his overcoat with Bland’s help. Well, nobody can say the affair hasn’t been a brilliant success; that’s one comfort.
Gabrielle.
Wouldn’t be true if they did. To de Castro, irritably. You’ve got it inside-out.
Lily.
To Enid and Gabrielle, kneeling upon the settee. Ah, yes, haven’t we had a splendid, splendid time!
Enid.
Splendid!
Von Rettenmayer.
A gharming pardy!
De Castro.
Abtholutely A 1!
Von Rettenmayer.
Singing. “Venus, seinen Nacken beut Dir Dein Sklave, dienstbereit!”
Lily.
Running to Roper and seizing his hands. A vote of thanks to Lal for his share in getting it up!
Bland.
Slapping Roper on the back. Bravo, Lal!
Some of the Others.
Bravo, Lal!
Lily.
Walking about. And to Carlton! Bravo, Carlton!
Some of the Others.
Bravo, Carlton! Bravo, Smythe!
De Castro.
Putting on his overcoat. Don’t forget Morrie Coolin’!
Lily.
No, don’t forget Morrie. Dear old Morrie!
Some of the Others.
Bravo, Morrie!
De Castro.
There hathn’t been a hitch from thtart to finish, in fact.
Lily.
At the nearer side of the table again. Not a hitch.
Fulkerson.
Remembering his grievance. I beg yo’ par’n—no’ a ’itch! In difficulties with his overcoat. When a gen’leman’sh invited b’ th’ lady ’f th’ house t’ partake ’f some refreshmen’——
Some of the Others.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Gabrielle.
Coming to Lily and kissing her. So long, dear.
Enid, Daphne, and Jimmie also come to Lily, who embraces them demonstratively, and the men follow.
Lily.
To the girls. Ta-ta; ta-ta; ta-ta! I won’t come down.
Enid.
No, no; we’ll let ourselves out. Leaving Lily. Till to-night!
Lily.
Till to-night! Shaking hands with the men. Ta-ta; ta-ta; ta-ta!
The Men.
Ta-ta! Ta-ta! Ta-ta!
Von Rettenmayer.
Kissing her hand slyly. Goddess!
Lily.
To Bland, in a whisper. Take care of Bertie. Everybody moves to the door, except Lily who remains standing in the middle of the room. Some are on the landing, some in the doorway, when she calls to Roper and Jimmie. Uncle Lal! Jimmie! I want to speak to you two for a second. Roper and Jimmie detach themselves from the rest and return. Oh—and Lord Farncombe! Farncombe also returns and Lily, passing him, goes on to the landing and mixes with the others. Be off; Lord Farncombe and Lal will look after Jimmie. Vincent, you close the front-door. No noise! Au revoir, mes enfants! She watches them descend the stairs and, her manner softening, comes back into the room. Lord Farncombe wants to have a quiet talk with me, Uncle Lal—about—about something, and he’s asked me to let him remain behind with Jimmie for a few minutes. To Jimmie. But there’s no necessity for you to wait, dear.
Jimmie.
Don’t consider me.
Lily.
But I do. Go upstairs and tell mother that Lord Farncombe’s with me. Say I promise he shan’t stay long. To Roper. You’ll take Jimmie home, won’t you, Lal?
Roper.
His eyes bolting. W-w-with pleasure.
Lily.
To Jimmie. I shall see you again later in the day, perhaps?
Jimmie.
Rather! Throwing her arms round Lily’s neck and pressing her cheek to Lily’s. Rather! To Roper, significantly. Sit in the hall till I’m ready.
She runs out on to the landing, pausing at the door to bestow a parting nod and a smile upon Farncombe, and ascends the stairs.
Roper.
In a state of great excitement and exhilaration—to Lily. Yes, yes, I won’t keep you and— winking at her and jerking his head in Farncombe’s direction from your tête-à-tête. Patting her face gleefully. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Taking her hand, his own quivering. Lil, Uncle Lal you call me, but I’ve always felt more like a parent towards you—acted as such, hey?
Lily.
Y-y-yes, Lal.
Roper.
And any happiness that befalls you—any happiness that befalls you— choking I’ll leave it there. God bless yer; God bless yer! bustling over to Farncombe who, his hat in his hand, his overcoat on his arm, is standing near the piano and God bless you, my lad! incoherently I’m proud—proud to have the honour—and to have been the means of—the means of— wringing Farncombe’s hand God bless you both! He goes to the door and there finds Lily. I—I—I—I’ll drop in by-and-by and—and—and inquire after you, my pet.
Lily.
Faintly. All right, Lal.
Roper.
Patting her face again. Ha, ha, ha, ha! With a hop. Wurrr-roo! Stand away from the lift; no more passengers this journey!
He waves to Farncombe gaily and departs, closing the door. There is a short silence and then Farncombe places his hat and overcoat upon the chair by the piano and turns to Lily.
Farncombe.
In a low voice. It’s awfully kind and gracious of you to have granted my request, and frightfully selfish of me to have made it. I deserve to be kicked.
Lily.
Slowly advancing to the table in the centre—avoiding his gaze. Is—is Jimmie aware of precisely what’s in your note?
Farncombe.
Y-y-yes. Drawing nearer to her. I hope you won’t be angry with me for confiding in her. You see, I—I——
Lily.
At the further side of the table, fingering one of the objects upon it. And she’ll confide in Uncle Lal. Shrugging her shoulders. Oh, but dear old Lal appears to have summed up the situation pretty accurately as it is. With an artificial little laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Well, I’m afraid they’ll be horribly disappointed, poor wretches.
Farncombe.
Blankly. Disap-pointed?
Lily.
Raising her eyes to his and shaking her head at him. You—you silly boy!
Farncombe.
Coming to her quickly. Ah, please—please don’t take that tone with me. I’m no boy. And I’m simply mad about you. If you don’t marry me, I—I—I’m done for.
Lily.
H’sh! Nonsense; not you!
Farncombe.
It’s true. Life’ll be over for me from that moment, if you refuse to marry me.
Lily.
Mockingly. Over!
Farncombe.
Oh, love is all on my side at present, naturally; but, as God hears me, it’ll be no fault of mine if you don’t grow to love me in time.
Lily.
Listen——!
Farncombe.
I’ll worship you—worship you. I do worship you!
Lily.
H’sh! Lord Farncombe——
Farncombe.
Eddie! Won’t you?
Lily.
Certainly not.
Farncombe.
Do! Eddie! Eddie!
Lily.
Eddie, then——
Farncombe.
Ah——!
Lily.
Sit down a minute. She goes to the settee and sits there, somewhat ruffled, and he moves to the arm-chair by the centre table and also sits, his elbows on his knees, bending towards her. She pushes her hair back from her brow impatiently, as if vexed with herself. Lord Farncombe—Eddie—for how long have you known me?
Farncombe.
What does it matter? I—I admit——
Lily.
Reckoning our acquaintance from last week—from the afternoon Bertie brought you here, when we scarcely spoke to one another—you haven’t known me for as many days as you can count on your fingers.
Farncombe.
I’ve watched you—watched you in the theatre——
Lily.
On the stage! Ho, ho! Oh, you—but I mustn’t call you silly boy again, must I! And what do you know of me, apart from the glimpse you’ve had of me off the stage, and my being a shining light at the Pandora? What do you know of my—what’s the word?—origin—where and what I’ve sprung from; how I was reared; how much education I’ve received; how much I’ve contrived to pick up of the way to behave in perlite society? You can judge from poor mother, if from nothing else, that I come from humble beginnings. Yes, but how humble you couldn’t dream, making a grimace not after a supper of raw carrots!
Farncombe.
Do you think I care how humble your beginnings were! What I do know—what I am sure about—is that you’re good—and beautiful—and—and—and gifted—and—and— leaning his head on his hands oh, I can’t describe you; you’re—you’re—to me, you’re perfect.
Lily.
After a pause, looking at him with blinking eyelids. You—you dear! He raises his head. She changes her tone instantly. Merci; yes, perfect, pour le moment. Hear my French! Taking the box of cigarettes from the table. Have a cigarette? Don’t get up. She tosses him a cigarette and he catches it. My name’s printed on them—“Lily.” Lighting a cigarette. Isn’t it chic!
Farncombe.
Producing his cigarette case and exchanging her cigarette for one of his own. I’ll never smoke that.
Lily.
Pushing the match-stand towards him. Stoopid! Now, attend to me. What do you say to a tiny provision shop in Kennington, over the water?
Farncombe.
Was that——?
Lily.
Nodding. H’m; that was my start in the world. Father kept a small shop in Kennington—Gladwin Street, near the Oval. We sold groceries, and butter and eggs and cheese, and pickled-pork and paraffin. I was born there—on the second floor; and in Gladwin Street I lived till I was fourteen. Then father smashed, through the Stores cutting into our little trade. Well, hardly smashed; that’s too imposing. The business just faded, and one morning we didn’t bother to take the shutters down. Then, after a while, father got a starvation berth—eighteen shillings a week!—at a wholesale bacon warehouse—Price and Moseley’s—still over the water; and I earned an extra five at a place in the Westminster Bridge Road, for pasting the gilt edges on to passe-partouts from nine a.m. till six in the evening.
Farncombe.
His head bowed again. Great heavens!
Lily.
Not a syllable against the passe-partouts! They were the making of me. It was the passe-partouts that brought me and Tedder together.
Farncombe.
Who?
Lily.
Tedder. In the house where I worked, a man of the name of Tedder—Ambrose Tedder—taught dancing—stage dancing—“Tedder’s Academy of Saltatory Art”—and every time I passed Tedder’s door, and heard his violin or piano, and the sound of the pupils’ feet, I—! Breaking off and throwing herself back. Oh, lor’, if once I——!
Farncombe.
Go on; go on.
Lily.
Well, ultimately Tedder took me and trained me—did it for nix—for what he hoped to get out of me in the future. Ah, and he hasn’t lost over me—poor old Ambrose! He collared a third of my salary for ever so long; and now that the old chap’s rheumaticky and worn out, I—oh, it’s not worth mentioning. Jumping up and walking away. My stars, he could teach, could Tedder! I began by going to him for the last twenty minutes of my dinner-hour. He wanted to stop that, because it was bad for me, he said, to practise on a full—a full—! Ha, ha, ha! On a full—! Behind the table, resting her two hands upon it and shaking with laughter. Ho, ho, ho! As if I ever had—in those days——!
Farncombe.
Writhing. Ah, don’t—don’t——!
Lily.
Brushing the tears from her eyes. I was a pupil of Tedder’s for twelve months, and then he got me on at the Canterbury; and from the Canterbury I went to Gatti’s, and from Gatti’s to the Lane, for a few lines in the pantomime and an understudy—my first appearance in the West End— singing “Oh, the West End is the best end!”—and from there I went to the old Strand, and there Morrie Cooling spotted me, and that led to me being engaged at the Pandora, where I ate my heart out, doing next to nothing, for two whole years. Then came the production of The Duchess of Brixton, and it was in The Duchess—thanks to Vincent Bland—that I sang the “Mind the Paint” song. He believed in me, did Vincent; he saw I was fit for something more than just prancing about, and airing my ankles, in a gay frock. By Jupiter, how he fought for me; how he fought for me, up to the final rehearsal! And to this day, whenever I indulge in a prayer, you bet Vincent Bland has a paragraph all to himself in it! Checking herself and coming to Farncombe. Oh, but—I needn’t inflict quite so much of my biography on you, need I? He rises. Sorry. I merely wanted to tell you enough to show you—to show you——
Farncombe.
Close to her, gazing into her eyes. To show me what a—what a marvel you are!
Lily.
Pleased. Ha, ha! Oh, I’m not chucking mud at myself really. Why should I! Many a woman ’ud feel as vain as a peacock in my shoes. Fancy! From the shop in Gladwin Street to— with a gesture to this! And from Tedder’s stuffy room in the Westminster Bridge Road to the stage of the Pandora, as principal girl!
Farncombe.
Tenderly. Wonderful!
Lily.
Carried away by her narration and putting her hands upon his shoulders familiarly. Yes, and all the schooling I’ve ever had, Eddie, was at a cheap, frowsy day-school in Kennington, with a tribe of other common, skinny-legged brats. Imagine it!
Farncombe.
Taking her hands. I can’t imagine it; I defy anybody to.
Lily.
Unthinkingly allowing him to retain her hands. Everything I’ve learned since—except my music, and that I owe to Tedder and Vincent—everything I’ve learned since, I’ve learned by sheer cuteness, from novels, the papers, the theatres, and by keeping my ears open like a cunning little parrot. Softly. Ha, ha! That’s what I am—a cunning little parrot!
Farncombe.
Laughing with her. Ha, ha!
Lily.
Tossing her head. Ho, I dare say, if I had the opportunity, I could imitate the fine lydies you mix with, so that in less than six months you’d hardly know the difference between them and me!
Farncombe.
Holding her hands to his breast. There is no difference already; there is none.
Lily.
Isn’t there! Almost nestling up to him. Ah, you should see me in one of my vile tempers. Wistfully. Then—then you wouldn’t—! Becoming conscious of her proximity to him, she backs away and stands rubbing the palms of her hands together in embarrassment. Anyhow—anyhow it isn’t my intention to give you a chance of comparing us.
Farncombe.
Under his breath. Oh—Miss Parradell——!
Lily.
Collecting herself. No, I—I’m not going to let you make a fool of yourself over me, if I can help it.
Farncombe.
Fool——!
Lily.
Facing him and speaking quietly but firmly. Recollect, however shrewd and apt I may be, and however straight I’ve managed to keep myself, still—I’m only a Pandora girl, and should always be remembered as one by your chums and belongings. Only a Pandora girl. Nothing can alter that, dear boy; and you mustn’t—you mustn’t handicap yourself by hanging me round your neck.
Farncombe.
Heavily. I—I shouldn’t be the first of my sort to marry a “Pandora girl,” not by half a dozen or more.
Lily.
No, but—without wishing to flatter you—I don’t quite put you on a level with Robbie Kinterton, and Glenroy, and Georgie Fawcus, and—that crew. Cheerfully. And so I mean to take care of you—to take care of you for your own sake and for your mammy’s and daddy’s. She turns from him and fetches his hat and coat and gives them to him. He receives them from her with a dazed look. Time’s up. After a silence during which neither stirs. Never mind. You’ll survive it. Another pause. Come along.
She passes him, to go to the door on the left. As she does so he flings his hat and coat on to the settee, and clasps her in his arms.
Farncombe.
Lily—Lily——!
Lily.
Ah, that’s not fair!
Farncombe.
Don’t—don’t send me away like this!
Lily.
Her hand against his breast. It isn’t fair of you!
Farncombe.
Say you’ll take time to consider.
Lily.
I hate you for it!
Farncombe.
Ask Roper’s advice—your mother’s——!
Lily.
I’ve trusted you!
Farncombe.
Ask Miss Birch——!
Lily.
Eddie! Lord Farncombe——! He releases her and they confront one another, she panting, he hanging his head guiltily. W-w-well, I—I have been mistaken in you.
Farncombe.
In despair. I—I—— Turning from her and hitting his temples with his fists. Forgive me. Forgive me.
Lily.
Ha! I—I thought you were such a quiet, bashful fellow.
Farncombe.
Forgive me. Forgive me.
She wavers and then slowly approaches him.
Lily.
Gently. Don’t—don’t fret about it. I forgive you. Touching his arm with her finger-tips. I’m to blame. Drawing a deep breath. All those dances——!
He seizes her hand and kisses it passionately.
Farncombe.
I may see you again? I may see you again? Lily—Lily—! Lily——!
Lily.
In a whisper, averting her head. N-no—we’d better not—— There is a low but distinct knocking at the door on the left. She withdraws her hand and they look at each other, he inquiringly, she with a calm face. The knocking is repeated. Mother. She goes to the door and speaks with her mouth close to it. That you, mother? She listens for a reply and again the knocking is heard. Who is it? She opens the door. Jeyes is outside. Nicko! Jeyes comes into the room. He has rid himself of his wig and beard and is wearing an overcoat buttoned up to his chin and a cap drawn down to his brows. His face is white and his jaws are set determinedly. How—how have you got in? He produces a bunch of keys and grimly displays a latch-key. Oh—oh——! Pulling off his cap, Jeyes advances to the table in the centre, glaring at Farncombe. Lily closes the door sharply and also advances, speaking volubly to Farncombe as she comes forward. Captain Jeyes is in the habit of bringing me home from the theatre after my work; and a long while ago I gave him a latch-key to carry on his key-ring, so that he could let me into my house whenever I’d forgotten my own key. He hasn’t the slightest right to use it at any other time; nobody knows that better than he does. It’s a confounded liberty! To Jeyes, hotly. What are you doing here at all at this hour of the morning?
Jeyes.
After an expressive glance at Farncombe. An odd question, in the circumstances.
Lily.
Answer me!
Jeyes.
Keeping an eye on you.
Lily.
Spying on me!
Jeyes.
On you— jerking his head towards Farncombe and——
Lily.
How dare you!
Jeyes.
I’ve been at it all night.
Lily.
All night!
Jeyes.
Yes; I was in the theatre while you were supping and dancing.
Lily.
You were!
Jeyes.
I meant to be there. You did your best to stop it——
Lily.
That’s a lie!
Jeyes.
So that you could enjoy yourself thoroughly— glancing at Farncombe again with——
Lily.
A lie!
Jeyes.
I didn’t leave till past three. You and— with another motion of the head towards Farncombe had just had your fifth dance together, and they were hauling you round the building.
Lily.
Where were you? Who——?
Jeyes.
Excuse me; that’s my business. Then I went back to Jermyn Street, and it suddenly struck me I’d like to see how your escort was composed.
Lily.
You’ve been watching outside?
Jeyes.
Since a quarter-to-four—under the portico at the corner.
Lily.
Contemptuously. You——!
Jeyes.
Yes, but, by God, I wasn’t quite prepared for this!
Lily.
This!
Jeyes.
Cramming his cap into his overcoat-pocket and coming to Farncombe. What the hell’s your game? You’ve got some accommodating friends, both of you, in that blackguard Roper and that slut Jimmie Birch!
Lily.
Oh—! Approaching Jeyes with clenched fists. Ah, you cur——!
Farncombe.
Holding up his hand to her appealingly. Miss Parradell——!
Lily.
To Jeyes. You cur! Mother’s been told that Lord Farncombe’s with me. I sent Jimmie up to tell her.
Jeyes.
Where is your mother?
Lily.
In bed, of course.
Jeyes.
Snoring! Ha, ha, ha! Faugh, there’s an ugly name, my girl, for such mothers as yours!
Lily.
Ah—! Raising her fist. Ah-h-h-h——!
Farncombe.
Miss Parradell——!
Lily.
Restraining herself with difficulty and pacing the room. Oh, the cur! The cur! The cur!
Farncombe.
To Jeyes, looking at him steadily. Captain Jeyes——
Lily.
The low cur!
Farncombe.
Captain Jeyes, do you happen to know where I lodge?
Jeyes.
No; I don’t know where your sty is.
Farncombe.
St. James’s Place—forty-seven. I shall be in at twelve o’clock. Picking up his hat and overcoat. From the tone this gentleman adopts, Miss Parradell, I assume that he considers himself entitled to concern himself in your affairs. Moving over to the left where Lily joins him. Perhaps it will make it easier for you if I——
Lily.
Clutching his arm. Ah, I’m so indignant, Eddie! I—I—I——!
Jeyes.
Eddie! Eddie!
Lily.
Turning upon Jeyes in a fury. Yes, you cad—Eddie, Eddie, Eddie! You cad! You sneak! You idler! You waster! I’ve stood it long enough. This is the last straw! I’ve done with you! I’m sick to death of you! How I’ve tolerated you all these years is a mystery to me! After this, get out of my sight and never show yourself to me again!
Jeyes.
Grasping her wrist, fiercely. Lily——!
Lily.
Wrenching herself free. What! Losing control over herself utterly. You’ll spy on me, will you, you shabby loafer! You’ll peep at me while I’m eating my supper, and count the dances I choose to give that boy over there, will you! And then you’ll break into my house, and insult my friends behind their backs, and insinuate foul things against my poor old mother—you damned coward!—and against me, pointing to Farncombe and him! Why, you’re not fit to black his boots, and you never were—never—you—you—you scum! Here! Taking Farncombe’s note from her bosom and thrusting it at Jeyes. Read that! Sitting in the arm-chair by the centre table. Read it! Read it! Read it! Jeyes reads to himself. Out loud!
Jeyes.
Mumbling. “Dear Miss Parradell. Will you allow me——?”
Lily.
Louder!
Jeyes.
“Will you allow me to remain behind for a few minutes with Miss Jimmie after the others have gone? I know I am presuming a lot, but I cannot leave you till I have asked you the most important question a man can put to a woman. Farncombe.”
Lily.
Breathless. Written here—on my note-paper—while I was out of the room! It came on me like a thunder-clap! Ah! Ah! Ah! Jeyes sits upon the settee, staring at the carpet. And Morrie Cooling and Lal will tell you that I hadn’t a notion that Lord Farncombe was to be at the supper last night, or any of the boys; not a notion. I blackguarded ’em both for deceiving me, and causing me to deceive you. Taking the scent-atomizer from the table and spraying her face with it. Now! What have you to say now! Ah! Ah! Ah!
Jeyes.
Huskily. Why—why the devil did you let Jimmie go? Why did you let her go? It was knowing that you and Farncombe were alone that—that made me——
Lily.
Oh, if I’d suspected that a private detective was hovering around, I’d have kept the whole lot of my friends! As it was, Jimmie was looking dead, and—! in disdain. Pah!
There is a pause and then Jeyes sits upright and draws his hand wearily across his eyes.
Jeyes.
To Lily. Well, I—I beg your pardon. Lily continues to spray herself energetically. I’m not so completely scum as not to see that I ought to beg your pardon. Humbly. I beg your pardon.
Lily.
Softening by degrees. You—you drive me mad sometimes—positively frantic!
Jeyes.
Partly to himself. Mad! To Farncombe. And you, Farncombe—I hope you’ll accept my apologies. I offer them unreservedly.
Farncombe bows, somewhat stiffly.
Lily.
To Jeyes, protruding her lower lip. I—I didn’t mean half I said, Nicko; I didn’t mean half of it. Eyeing Farncombe askance as she replaces the atomizer. And I—I’m ashamed of myself for losing my self-control as I did. There is another pause and then Jeyes gets to his feet and silently returns the note to Lily. She looks up at him piteously and puts the note back into her bosom. Then he takes out his key-ring, removes the latch key from it, and throws the key on to the table. Having done this, he drags his cap from his pocket and makes for the door on the left. As he passes Lily, she rises and gently plucks at his sleeve. Nicko—Nicko——
Jeyes.
In a thick voice. Eh?
Lily.
Won’t you—won’t you give Lord Farncombe—some explanation——?
Jeyes.
Explanation——?
Lily.
Of the sort of terms we’ve been on, you and I, He—he must be—rather puzzled— turning away to the table. Oh, it’s due to you as well as to me!
Jeyes.
Dully. Just as you please. With a hard laugh. Ho, ho! Yes, perhaps it is due to me that he should learn a little more about me than he’s been able to gather from personal observation—and from your eloquent but summary description. Under his breath, screwing up his cap. Idler—waster—loafer——!
Lily.
Penitently. Nicko!
Jeyes.
To Farncombe, quietly. Oh, it’s a true bill, Farncombe. And yet, a very few years back—she won’t dispute it—I was one of the smartest chaps going, good at my job, with prospects as rosy as any man’s in my regiment. There wasn’t a cloud the size of your hand, apparently, in my particular bit of sky at the time I speak of; not a speck! Then I met this young lady, and— pointing to the box-ottoman well, since we’re in for it——!
Farncombe.
Oh, Captain Jeyes——
Jeyes.
No, no; she wishes you to understand the exact nature of the friendship between her and me. I’m obeying instructions. Farncombe sits on the ottoman, nursing his hat and overcoat. Then Jeyes sits in the arm-chair by the centre table, first turning the chair so that it faces Farncombe. Farncombe, I was under thirty, and still a subaltern, when I made Miss Parradell’s acquaintance. Like most of my pals, I was spending my nights, whenever I could get away from Aldershot, in the stalls at the Pandora—much the same as you’ve been doing recently, and as a certain class of young man’ll go on doing as long as the Pandora, and similar shops, continue to flourish. Ha! How honoured we felt, we men, in those days, at knowing some of the Pandora girls, and having the privilege of supping ’em and standing ’em dinner on Sunday evenings! If they’d been royal princesses we couldn’t have been more elated. With a gesture. Don’t jump at conclusions. It generally ended there, or with our running into debt at a jeweller’s. We were young, they were beautiful—or we thought ’em so; but the majority of us weren’t vicious, any more than the majority of the girls were—though many of ’em were mighty calculating. It would have been better for us men if all the girls had been wicked; the glamour, the infatuation, the folly, would have been sooner over, and one of us at least would have had a different tale to tell.
Jeyes pauses, gazing at the floor, Farncombe moves impatiently on the ottoman and Lily seats herself upon the settee.
Lily.
Plaintively. Nicko—Nicko—I merely wanted you to——
Jeyes.
Rousing himself and speaking to Lily over his shoulder. Who was it introduced us?
Lily.
Miss Du Cane—Aggie Du Cane.
Jeyes.
Agnes Du Cane. She’s gone under. To Lily. Outside Buckley’s oyster-bar, wasn’t it?
Lily.
Not outside; in the parlour.
Jeyes.
To Farncombe. Lily had only lately come to the Pandora—a pale-faced slip of a thing. To Lily. Eighteen, weren’t you?
Lily.
Nodding. Eighteen.
Jeyes.
I confess I wasn’t overwhelmingly attracted by her at first; she was so unlike the rest. Laughing bitterly. Ha, ha, ha!
Lily.
Weakly. Ha, ha, ha! Wasn’t I dowdy!
Jeyes.
But she was humble, and naïve, and confiding; and my vanity was tickled by her delight at the little treats I gave her, and by her gratitude for a tuppeny-ha’penny present or two. Nobody, I believe, with any pretensions to being a gentleman, had paid her much attention before I arrived on the scene.
Lily.
In a murmur. No; nobody.
Jeyes.
I didn’t find out that I was in love with her—you guess it’s a love story, don’t you?——
Farncombe.
Delicately. My dear Captain Jeyes——
Jeyes.
I didn’t find out that I was neck and heels in love with her until nearly a year afterwards, when my regiment went to the Curragh. That did it—separation! What I suffered in that hole, thinking of her, starving for her! In less than three months I was in London again, on leave, and in my old stall at the Pandora. But even then, Farncombe, I hadn’t your pluck.
Farncombe.
Pluck?
Jeyes.
The pluck to snap my fingers at the world and propose marriage to a Pandora girl. Besides, my mother was alive then, and— abruptly, with a wild look would you like to know what she used to call these Pandora women, Farncombe? Bending forward, his hands tightly clenched. She used to call them a menace to society. With their beauty, and their flagrant opportunities for displaying it, they are a living curse, she used to say—a source of constant dread to mothers whose hope it is to see their sons safely mated to modest, maidenly girls of the typical English pattern. She told us once—my brothers and me—frightened as to where we were drifting, that she was one of many mothers who prayed on their knees daily that their boys might be spared from being drawn into the net woven by their own weaknesses and passions—drawn into it by these—these——! He breaks off, stares about him for a moment, and then rises. Oh, but I oughtn’t to have repeated this to you. Pardon. Walking away unsteadily. Ho, damned bad taste! Behind the table, supporting himself by leaning upon it. Where was I? Back from the Curragh! Confused. Yes—yes—and so things went on for a couple o’ years—I trailing after Lily closer than ever—and at last—at last I did ask her to be my wife.
Lily.
Who has been listening to Jeyes with parted lips and wide-open eyes—appealingly. Don’t! Don’t, Nicko; don’t!
Jeyes.
Oblivious of her interruption. But I’d left it too late. The novelty of me had worn off; she’d scores of friends by that time; she’d made her big hit, and followed it with another, and was the talk o’ the town. And she’d money; she wasn’t dependent on me any longer for her gloves and her trips and outings!
Lily.
Her head drooping. Oh! Oh! Wringing her hands. Oh, that’s beastly of you; beastly!
Jeyes.
She was kind to me too, in a way—kind and cruel. She didn’t want to marry me; she didn’t want to marry anybody; she was in love with herself, and her success, and what it was bringing her. But she wouldn’t give me the kick. No, she wouldn’t do that; I had been something to her. And there’s where the kindness came in—and the merciless cruelty. Sitting upon the fauteuil-stool rigidly. God, if only she’d broken with me then, firmly and finally—if only she’d broken with me then—she—she might have saved me!
Lily.
Struggling with her tears. Oh, Nicko, Nicko!
Jeyes.
Twelve months ago she did throw me a bone. The regiment was under orders for India, and of course I sent in my papers; and out of pity, I suppose—and because I was always pestering her—she promised to become engaged to me if I’d get other work to do. Work! I wonder whether really she was grinning to herself when she made the stipulation!
Lily.
Oh—oh——!
Jeyes.
Work! All the spunk, all the energy, had been sapped out of me long before, and even her promise couldn’t revive it. My search for a berth wasn’t much more than a sham. At the back of my head I knew very well what I’d come to. The only work I was capable of was dancing attendance on her, and filling in what remained of the day and night at a rotten restaurant, a Bohemian club, and the bar of the theatre. And that’s been my sole employment for the past year—nothing but that. Pretty, for a man who started life as swimmingly as I did! His voice dying away. Pretty—pretty—pretty—pretty——!
Lily.
After a profound stillness. I—I don’t think you’ve ever—put the case to me—quite so plainly as this, Nicko.
Jeyes.
I—I don’t think I’ve ever put it quite so plainly—to myself.
Lily.
Her lip trembling. You—you won’t believe me——
Jeyes.
What?
Lily.
I—I’ve never fully realised it till now—the harm I’ve done you. I declare to God I’ve never realised it till now. Faintly. Nicko——!
Jeyes.
After a further pause. Ah, well—! With a deep sigh. Ah, well! To Farncombe, resignedly. Farncombe, I—I’m afraid I’m a shocking brute. I—I got carried away. Forget—forget the things I’ve said of this girl. Forget ’em, will yer? Starting to his feet. And look here! A man who isn’t a sportsman deserves to be shot. You’ve won her; I’ve lost her. Congratulate yer, old chap; congratulate yer! Pulling on his cap. Take care of her, that’s all; m-m-mind you take care of her!
He turns towards the door and she jumps up and runs to him and seizes his arm. Farncombe also rises.
Lily.
No, no, Nicko! Nicko—! Giving Farncombe a half frightened, half imploring look. Nicko, I can’t undo the mischief I’ve done; I can’t do that. But I can try to make it up to you—some of it—and I will, if you’ll let me. Putting her arms round his shoulders. Nicko——!
Jeyes.
Roughly. Make it—up to me?
Lily.
Her face close to his. You know what I mean! As soon as possible—next month, if you like—next week—quietly—! He grips her arms and stares at her blankly. Ha, ha! Yes, you’ve been in too great a hurry to settle matters, you have. Lord Farncombe and I—we—we’re not going to be married. I’ve refused him. Wildly. I—I’ve ruined you, Nicko; but I—I’ve told him—I’m not going to draw him into my net! Clinging to Jeyes and burying her face in the breast of his coat, crying. Oh! Oh! Oh! I’m not going to draw him into my net!
Again there is a pause and then Jeyes turns to Farncombe, dazed.
Jeyes.
Farncombe——?
Farncombe.
Inclining his head. Yes—yes——
Jeyes.
With feeling. My dear fellow, I—I——!
Lily.
Raising her head and speaking through her tears—to Jeyes. Nicko, I—I want to have one more word with Lord Farncombe—just one more word. He nods understandingly and goes to the door on the left. She follows him. Only a minute; he opens the door and then you must walk away together, you and he, and part good friends. He goes out on to the landing and she closes the door and stands with her back to it, drying her eyes with her handkerchief. Farncombe, still carrying his hat and overcoat, has crossed to the settee, a forlorn figure. W-w-well, you—you have had a lucky escape, haven’t you?
Farncombe.
Heavily. Escape?
Lily.
Leaving the door and advancing. You—you’ve heard what a cold-blooded, selfish wretch I am—how I’ve treated Nicko!
Farncombe.
Waving the idea away. Oh——!
Lily.
Coming to him. And you’ve seen what I’m like when I’m in a rage; you’ve seen what the genuine Lily Margaret Upjohn is, without her disguise. Looking up into his face pathetically. Yes, that was me, Eddie, under the crust. Common as dirt, dear; common as dirt! Holding the lapels of his coat. Oh! Oh, you’ll always remember me, with my eyes starting out of my head, spitting at Nicko! You’ll always picture that horrible sight when you think of me.
Farncombe.
You—you were provoked; I—I admired you for it.
Lily.
Tenderly. Ah, you dear boy! In an altered tone. Eddie——
Farncombe.
Yes?
Lily.
Had you—a little hope—that, after all, I might turn your offer over in my mind and—and eventually——?
Farncombe.
Yes—yes.
Lily.
With a catch in her breath. Ah——! In a whisper. I—I’ll tell you something.
Farncombe.
What?
Lily.
In his ear. I might have, if—if you’d persisted.
Farncombe.
Groaning. Oh-h-h-h!
Lily.
Retreating a step or two. Thank God Nicko came along! Thank God Nicko came along! What was it his mother called us girls? A menace to society; creatures to be dreaded, and prayed against! You see I was right in wishing to protect you for your mammy’s sake as well as your own. But, oh—thank God Nicko came along! He sits suddenly upon the settee and covers his face with his hands. She returns to him quickly. Ah, don’t do that; don’t do that! Touching his hands. Eddie! Eddie! I’m not worth it. Eddie! With an effort, he lifts his head. Listen. This is what I want to say to you. Don’t come near me any more; you mustn’t. And don’t come to the theatre again either. If I thought you were sitting in front, I—I’m sure I couldn’t——! Entreatingly. Swear—swear you’ll keep away from me, and from the theatre! He nods. And you’ll never go to any supper or dinner or dance where you’re likely to meet the other girls, will you? Eddie! He shakes his head. Swear! He rises and, as he does so, she grips the lapels of his coat again, her eyes blazing fiercely. Oh! Oh! If one of the other girls ever got hold of you, I—I— hissing into his face I’d kill her! She leaves him and goes to the door on the left and opens it. Nicko! Jeyes enters the room. March, both of you! Exhausted. I—I’m pretty well baked. Farncombe joins Lily and Jeyes at the door and she stands between the two men looking from one to the other and taking a hand of each. Ha, ha, ha! I’ve made the pair of you precious miserable, if you only knew it. To Jeyes. The difference is that he’ll soon forget me, and you, with me for a wife, are doomed for life. Putting her hands upon Jeyes’ shoulders. Nicko——! She kisses him lightly and, having done so, asks him a question with her eyes. Jeyes turns aside and she faces Farncombe and offers him her lips. They kiss. Good-bye. After a moment’s pause, to both of them. Away with you! The two men go out and she follows them to the top of the stairs and watches them descend. Then she slowly comes back into the room and stands listening at the door. There is a distant sound. Ah! Partly closing the door, she wanders about the room aimlessly for a while. Then, impulsively, she runs to the further window, lifts the sash, and looks below. Ah!... Ah!... Drawing back. Ah-h-h-h——!
She shuts the window and comes to the settee and, sitting there, takes off her shoes. Then she goes down upon the floor inelegantly, hunts for her slippers, and puts them on. As she rises, the door on the left is pushed open and Mrs. Upjohn peeps in cautiously.
Mrs. Upjohn.
In a dressing-gown and with her hair, now very scanty, tightly screwed up. Lil——?
Lily.
Stiffening herself and speaking in a cold, level voice. Oh, I was just coming up to you, mother, to get you to undo me.
Mrs. Upjohn.
Bustling to Lily. I didn’t mean to, but I fell off. Unhooking Lily’s dress. It was the front-door I ’eard a minute ago, then? It gave me sech a start. In difficulties with the hooks. Turn more to the light, dearie. These dressmakers do it a’ purpose, I b’lieve. The ’ooks on that noo gown o’ mine are a perfect myst’ry. Wot’s this?
Lily.
Twisting her body. Oh, don’t fiddle so, mother!
Mrs. Upjohn.
You did let ’im stay a time, Lil. ’Eaps to talk over, eh?
Lily.
Stonily. Heaps. Trying to assist Mrs. Upjohn. Oh——!
Mrs. Upjohn.
Well, dear; well, well! Tell me wot’s took place. Don’t keep me in suspense.
Lily.
I shan’t tell you anything, mother, till I’ve had a sleep. I must go through the sheets first. Stamping her foot. Oh, tear the thing; tear it!
Mrs. Upjohn.
’Ave you consented to make ’im ’appy, poor young gentleman? That’s all I want to know, Lil. Overcoming a hook. There!
Lily.
Thank you, mother. Slipping her arms out of her dress. I can manage the rest.
Mrs. Upjohn.
But, Lil, dearie——!
Lily.
Oh, for mercy’s sake, leave me alone! Violently. Why can’t you leave me alone!
Mrs. Upjohn.
Ho! Very good! Moving away indignantly as Lily, with shaking fingers, unfastens a necklace. This is my reward for layin’ awake ’alf the night, is it, an’ for thinkin’ of you, an’ wonderin’ about you! Ungrateful little puss, you! Going towards the door. After this, you can keep your affairs to yourself for as long as ever you choose. Don’t you expect me——!
Lily.
Suddenly, sitting upon the settee. Mother——!
Mrs. Upjohn.
Sharply. Yes?
Lily.
Her hand to her brow. Oh, mother——!
Mrs. Upjohn.
Hurrying to Lily. Wot is it?
Lily.
Swaying. At last—at last——!
Mrs. Upjohn.
At last——?
Lily.
Clinging to Mrs. Upjohn. I’m in love, mother—I’m in love—in love—in love——!