Roper.
Imitating a shop-walker. Mr. Roper, forward!
Cooling.
Mrs. Stidulph! Lord Farncombe! Pointing to another table. Glynn, you’re there.
Bland.
Here you are, Daphne!
Roper.
At his table. Miss Kato, wanted!
De Castro.
Calling to Gabrielle. Gabth!
Nita.
Calling to Heneage. Stewie!
Cooling.
Baron—Enid——
Von Rettenmayer.
Aha!
Cooling.
To Stidulph. Over there, Colonel.
Fulkerson.
Wandering about. Where am I? Where am I?
Nita.
Pushing him aside. Oh, be off!
Lily.
Calling. Jimmie!
Cooling.
At his place at a table. Olga, you’re here. Mr. Grimwood!
Fulkerson.
Where am I?
Jimmie.
To Fulkerson. Next to me, worse luck. Screwing up her face at him. Ugh!
Roper.
Ladies’ mantles on the second-floor!
Cooling.
Where’s Sybil?
Daphne.
Calling. Syb! Syb!
The curtain falls, but the music of “Mind the Paint” continues for a while. Then it ceases and, after a short silence, the curtain rises again. The supper-tables have disappeared and the saloon is empty of people. The musicians and their music-stands and stools have also gone, and faintly from the distance comes the sound of a waltz. Two settees, matching the rest of the furniture, now stand in the centre of the saloon back-to-back, one of them facing the counter, the other facing the spectator. Lily’s bouquet lies on the nearer of the two settees, and upon the floor there is a fan, a red rose that has fallen from a lady’s corsage, and a pocket-handkerchief with a powder-puff peeping from it. On the counter there are carafes of lemonade, decanters of spirits and syphons of soda-water, a bowl of strawberries-and-cream, various dishes of cakes, boxes of cigars and cigarettes, a lighted spirit-lamp, and other adjuncts of a buffet. Colonel Stidulph wanders in through the double-door as the waltz comes to an end. Feebly and dejectedly he goes to the counter, takes a cigarette, and is lighting it when Luigi and the waiters enter the door on the left. Two of the waiters are carrying bottles of champagne in wine-coolers, another brings a tray on which are champagne-glasses and tumblers, and the bearded waiter follows with a large dish of sandwiches.
Luigi.
Behind the counter—to Stidulph, familiarly. Ain’t you dancing, Colonel?
Stidulph.
Dancing—I? Shaking his head. No.
Luigi.
Who speaks Cockney English with a slight foreign ascent—cutting the wire of a champagne bottle. Why, you used to be a regular slap-up dancing man when I first knew you.
Stidulph.
Nodding. Ah, ah; moving away my dancing days are done.
Luigi.
Done! Oh, I like that! I bet you ain’t sixty, come now, eh?
Stidulph.
What’s the time, Luigi? I haven’t a watch on.
Luigi.
Time, Colonel? Looking at his watch. Twenty to three.
Stidulph.
No later? Sitting on the settee on the right, with a sigh. Oh, dear!
One of the waiters goes out, in obedience to a direction from Luigi, at the door on the left as Heneage enters with Enid, Grimwood with Nita, and Von Rettenmayer with Mrs. Stidulph at the right-hand door at the back. A wisp of hair has fallen over Heneage’s forehead, Grimwood looks somewhat downcast, and Von Rettenmayer is obviously bored by Mrs. Stidulph.
Enid.
To Heneage, walking across to the left. Never been to Ostend! You’ve never been born, then. I’m counting the hours to my holiday. Sitting in the chair on the nearer side of the fireplace. Hôtel de la Plage. Why don’t you run over while I’m there?
Nita.
To Grimwood, following Enid. My dear boy, I give you my solemn word it wasn’t you. It was that fool Bertie. Anyhow, it’s a rotten old frock. Showing a small rent in her skirt to Enid, gaily. Pom, pa-ra, rom, pom, pom!
Heneage and Grimwood go to the counter, secure a waiter, and return with him to Enid and Nita. The waiter receives his orders and presently fetches the ladies glasses of lemonade.
Mrs. Stidulph.
Whispering to Von Rettenmayer. Well! Did you ever! Just fancy!
Von Rettenmayer.
Absently, looking at Enid. I beg your bardon?
Mrs. Stidulph.
Fancy those two girls walking into a room before us! Discovering the fan upon the floor. Oh, I do believe that’s my fan!
Von Rettenmayer restores the fan to Mrs. Stidulph as Roper and Gabrielle enter at the door on the left.
Gabrielle.
To Roper, in a low, complaining voice. It’s a shame of you; that’s what it is. You went and put Lily Parradell into rubber and enabled her to make a bit. She told us so.
Roper.
Yes; but how long ago?
Gabrielle.
That’s not the point. The point is, it’s always Lily Parradell with you; you never do anything for us other girls.
She sits upon the nearer settee in the centre and she and Roper, he standing by her, continue their conversation.
Mrs. Stidulph.
To Von Rettenmayer. No, thanks; I’m on a diet. Didn’t you notice me at supper? Moving to the settee on the right. Let’s sit. To Stidulph. Oh, get up. Stidulph rises quickly. Why aren’t you dancing? If you don’t dance, go home and put yourself to bed. You might, for all the good you’re doing here.
Stidulph.
With a forced, painful laugh. Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!
Von Rettenmayer.
As Mrs. Stidulph seats herself. Blenty of room for you too, Golonel.
Stidulph.
No, no; I won’t inconvenience you.
He moves away and Von Rettenmayer sits beside Mrs. Stidulph. The waiter who has previously gone out now returns at the door on the left with a tray of ices in paper cases. He goes to the counter for a supply of ice-spoons as Farncombe enters with Lily at the right-hand door at the back. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sparkling.
Roper.
All his attention suddenly directed to Lily and Farncombe. Here’s Lil!
Lily.
Excitedly, seizing Stidulph’s hand. You’re not dancing, Colonel Stidulph. Showing him her programme. Dance with me. I’ll make one of the others give up a dance for you.
Stidulph.
Going to the counter. No, no; I’m too old.
Lily.
Too old for dancing! I shall never be too old for dancing. Coming to the nearer settee in the centre, picking up her bouquet, and sitting beside Gabrielle. Ah-h-h-h!
Roper.
To Farncombe, who follows Lily. Hul-lo! Beaming. Jolly party, hey, Farncombe?
Farncombe.
Boyishly. Lovely! To Lily. May I bring you some lemonade—an ice——?
Lily.
Looking up at him. You may keep on bringing me ices till the music starts again. Farncombe leaves her. Gabby, wasn’t that waltz delicious!
Palk and Sybil enter at the door on the left. Sybil seats herself beside Nita on the fender-stool and Palk fetches her some refreshment.
Gabrielle.
To Lily, drearily. I say, Lil.
Lily.
What?
Gabrielle.
How much did you make out of rubber last year through Lal?
Lily.
Rubber, rubber, rubber? Br-r-r-rh! I don’t know. To Roper. How much?
Roper.
Four-fifty.
Gabrielle.
There!
Lily.
I did my house up with it—gave the job to young Charlie Ramsden who’s gone in for decorating——
Roper.
Yes, and blued the whole lot at one go!
Lily.
Laughing. Blued it completely. Ha, ha, ha! Singing. “What does the blue sea Whisper to me-ee—!” Farncombe appears at her side with the waiter carrying the ices. Ices!
Roper.
Leaving Gabrielle and, with his hands in his pockets, walking about exultingly. Ices, sweets or chocolates, full piano-score! Hul-lo, here! Ha, ha, ha!
Glynn and Olga and de Castro and Evangeline have entered at the right-hand door at the back. Olga and Evangeline seat themselves upon the further settee in the centre and Glynn and de Castro summon a waiter to attend upon them. Shirley and Flo now enter at the door on the left and go to the counter. At the same moment Smythe, Cooling, and Tavish enter at the right-hand door at the back, Smythe smoking a huge cigar. They also stand at the counter and are served with drinks by Luigi. Lily and Gabrielle having each taken an ice, the waiter with the ices moves away and offers his ices to the other ladies. Another waiter carries round a tray on which are a box of cigarettes and the spirit-lamp, and the bearded waiter moves about with the dish of sandwiches. Some of the ladies light cigarettes, a few of the men take sandwiches.
Cooling.
As he enters with Smythe and Tavish. Haw, haw, haw! You’re wonderful, Chief. To Tavish. The Chief’s in great form, Willy. To Stidulph. Colonel, listen to the Chief.
Mrs. Stidulph.
To Von Rettenmayer, confidentially. Of course, this is strictly between ourselves—though I almost hinted as much to Smythe—but the fact is the Pandora isn’t in the least what it was, Karl.
Von Rettenmayer.
Noding is what it was, my dear Dolly, and nobody.
Mrs. Stidulph.
Fanning herself. I suppose he can’t find the artists; that’s it. If you don’t have the artists—! Shutting up her fan. You recollect my “Polly Taggart” in The Merry Milliner?
Von Rettenmayer.
Stifling a yawn. Gharming; gharming.
Farncombe is bending over Lily while she is eating her ice and they are talking lightly but intently. Gabrielle, finding that she is “out of it,” rises with a pout and, carrying her plate, joins the ladies and men who are at the fireplace. Bland enters with Jimmie at the door on the left.
Mrs. Stidulph.
To Von Rettenmayer. I hate blowing my own trumpet, but I was looking through my press-cuttings only yesterday. I’ve never seen such notices as I had for “Polly Taggart.”
Von Rettenmayer.
Closing his eyes. Vavourable?
Mrs. Stidulph.
Favourable! They make me blush to read them. Stupid of me; but they make me blush, positively.
Jimmie comes to Lily, Bland following her. On her way she sees the handkerchief and powder-puff lying upon the floor.
Jimmie.
Why, there it is! Picking up the handkerchief and puff, and rubbing the puff, which is an extremely ragged one, over her nose—singing sentimentally. “There are no friends like the old friends, The constant, tried, and true;—” Sitting beside Lily. Room for a little ’un?
Lily, without interrupting her talk with Farncombe, lays her hand on Jimmie’s for a moment.
Bland.
To Jimmie. Bring you anything?
Jimmie.
Wrapping the puff in the handkerchief tenderly and slipping it into her bosom. A liqueur of petrol and a lucifer-match.
Bland.
Leaving her. Oh, go on!
Mrs. Stidulph.
To Von Rettenmayer. And then to give it all up, as I was idiot enough to do when I married, and for a life as dull as ditch-water! If ever a woman sacrificed herself in this world——!
Fulkerson and Daphne enter at the door on the left and hurry to the counter.
Fulkerson.
Boisterously. Time! Time! To those standing at the counter. ’Low me. ’Low me. To Luigi. Glass o’ lemonade and a whiskey-and-soda. Quick with the whiskey-and-soda.
Mrs. Stidulph.
To Von Rettenmayer. But I don’t intend to stick to that arrangement. If I can’t get back into the theatres, there are the halls! I was telling the Colonel this morning——
Roper.
Appearing before Mrs. Stidulph, his programme in his hand. Ours, Dolly.
Von Rettenmayer.
Rising with alacrity. Aha! Bowing to Mrs. Stidulph. I yield with relugtance.
Roper sits beside Mrs. Stidulph and Von Rettenmayer hastens to Enid.
Roper.
To Mrs. Stidulph. Another waltz.
Daphne.
To Heneage, who is claiming her. Wait till I’ve finished my drink, Stewie.
Bland.
To Nita. Nita.
Nita.
No; this is with Douglas.
Bland.
Nothing o’ the sort.
Nita.
Referring to her programme. You’re correct; my mistake.
De Castro.
Coming to Gabrielle who is talking to Sybil. Gabth.
Gabrielle.
Dolefully. Oh, you again!
De Castro.
Mortified. Afraid tho.
The sound of distant music is again heard, and there is a great deal of bustle as the men claim their partners. Tavish goes to Evangeline, Grimwood to, Flo, Palk and Glynn to Olga and Sybil, and gradually the assemblage melts away.
Fulkerson.
Coming to Jimmie, who is conning her programme, and standing before her—reading from his programme. “Vawlse. Cry dee cure.”
Jimmie.
With withering accuracy. “Valse. Cri de cœur.”
Fulkerson.
Wagging his head. Very likely. Come along, Jimmie.
Jimmie.
Rising and shaking herself out. Jane to you, if you please.
Fulkerson.
Tosh!
Jimmie.
I was christened Jane, Herbert.
Fulkerson.
Well, I wasn’t at the christening, see.
Jimmie.
No; but if you are not more careful of those feet of yours while you’re waltzing, you will be at my funeral.
She takes his arm and they go out at the door on the left. Smythe, Stidulph, Cooling, and Shirley follow, talking together. All the couples have now disappeared except Von Rettenmayer and Enid and Farncombe and Lily. Von Rettenmayer and Enid are at the counter, where Luigi is giving Von Rettenmayer a glass of champagne, and the waiters are busying themselves in collecting the soiled glasses, plates, etc., which have been left upon the mantel-piece and chairs. The bearded waiter comes to Lily and she hands him her plate.
Farncombe.
To Lily. Shall we go down?
She rises, leaving her bouquet upon the settee, and is about to put her arm through Farncombe’s when she checks herself and looks at her programme.
Lily.
Frowning. Tsss!
Farncombe.
Eh?
Lily.
In a low voice. One, two, three, four—! Why, this—this is our fifth dance!
Farncombe.
Softly. Yes.
Lily.
Five out of eight!
Farncombe.
Looking at his programme. And 10, 12, and 14 are mine, too.
Lily.
With a movement of her shoulders, accepting his arm. How unfair!
Farncombe.
As they go to the right-hand door at the back. Unfair?
Lily.
To the others. I can’t think what made me so thoughtless.
They disappear. Two of the waiters carry out the soiled glasses, etc.; another follows with the ices, and the bearded waiter with the strawberries-and-cream. After a while, Luigi also withdraws.
Enid.
Leaving the counter with Von Rettenmayer. Well, what did you say to him?
Von Rettenmayer.
I told him the biece wants lifding in the zecond aggd and that he ought to gif you anoder dance.
Enid.
On the right. What did he say?
Von Rettenmayer.
He will think it over!
Enid.
Scornfully. Ha! That’s Smythe’s invariable formula, cunning old fox!
Von Rettenmayer.
But we are to dalk aboud it lader. I am waiding to ged him alone.
Enid.
Pff! You won’t get him alone, you stupid; he’ll take precious good care of that. Finding that Luigi and the waiters have departed, and walking across to the left. Ah, but it isn’t dancing my mind’s dwelling on just now, dear boy.
Von Rettenmayer.
Following her. Nod?
Enid.
It’s rest I’m yearning for—my holiday!—rest for my weary bones. Turning to him without a sign of disturbance. Karl, I’m simply bursting with rage.
Von Rettenmayer.
Rage?
Enid.
That wretched hotel at Ostend—the Plage! They’ve the confounded impudence to ask me a hundred-and-twenty-five francs a day for two cubby-holes on the third floor, for my aunt and me.
Von Rettenmayer.
Monsdrous. With a shrug. But Ostend is—Ostend.
Enid.
Thanks for the information. Is that all the sympathy you can offer?
Von Rettenmayer.
Bardon. Humbly. There may be gheaper hodels.
Enid.
Where the common people pay for their beds and meals with Cook’s coupons! Sitting upon the arm of the further settee in the centre and swinging her feet. Oh, it doesn’t matter. I suppose it’ll have to be Swanage, or some brisk resort of that description. Sighing. So be it! Humming. Tra, lal, lal, la——!
Von Rettenmayer.
Sitting on the nearer settee in the centre, close to her, with an anxious expression. A hundred-and-twendy-five frangks a day?
Enid.
Including nothing—absolutely nothing!
Von Rettenmayer.
Biting his nails. Prezisely! There’s the eading and dringking.
Enid.
One can’t starve, that’s certain.
Von Rettenmayer.
Which would amound to——?
Enid.
Watching him out of the corner of her eye. I believe aunt and I could manage to feed ourselves on forty francs a day—or fifty—at a pinch.
Von Rettenmayer.
His face growing longer and longer. A hundred-and-twendy-five—and fifdy——
Enid.
A hundred-and-seventy-five. Stroking his hair with a finger. Call it two hundred.
Von Rettenmayer.
Leaning back appalled. Fifdy-sigs bounds a weeg!
Enid.
Sixty, in round figures.
Von Rettenmayer.
For a fordnight?
Enid.
Oh, no, dear; a fortnight’s no use.
Von Rettenmayer.
But one begomes sig of a blace afder a fordnight.
Enid.
If you only go for enjoyment; not if you go for rest—rest.
Von Rettenmayer.
Three weegs, then?
Enid.
A month. Smythe gives me the whole of August.
Von Rettenmayer.
Passing his hand across his forehead. A month!
Enid.
Rising and carefully picking a piece of fluff from her skirt. We’re losing this dance. Shall we have a turn?
He gets to his feet with some difficulty and then faces her.
Von Rettenmayer.
Breathing heavily. Enid——
Enid.
Guilelessly. Yes?
Von Rettenmayer.
Putting his heels together and bowing to her. If you would permid me to be your bangker during your sday at Ostend—four weegs——
Enid.
Karl——
Von Rettenmayer.
I should be mosd gradified.
Enid.
Going to him. I couldn’t. Such an obligation!
Von Rettenmayer.
Bowing again. On my side.
Enid.
Giving him her hands. Of course, I’d defray my travelling expenses, and tips and incidentals——
Von Rettenmayer.
Raising her hands to his lips. Ah!——
Enid.
Not a penny of those should fall on you. Withdrawing her hands quickly and backing away from him. H’sh!
Stidulph enters at the door on the left and again wanders to the counter.
Stidulph.
Taking another cigarette. You’re missing a very pretty waltz, Miss Moncreiff.
Enid.
Going to the door on the left, Von Rettenmayer following her. I was just saying so to the Baron.
Enid and Von Rettenmayer disappear. Stidulph lights his cigarette and is leaving the counter when Gabrielle and de Castro enter at the right-hand door at the back, de Castro looking exceedingly sulky.
Stidulph.
To Gabrielle and de Castro. Ah, Miss Kato; ah, Sam! A pleasant party, eh?
De Castro.
Shortly. Yeth. Stidulph goes out at the right-hand door at the back. De Castro crosses to the left and then turns to Gabrielle. Dam pleathant party!
Gabrielle.
Dolefully. Well, don’t make a scene.
De Castro.
Thene! I’m not makin’ a thene. Walkin’ away from me in the middle of a danthe and leavin’ me thtandin’ thtarin’ after you like a detherted child! You’re makin’ the thene!
Gabrielle.
I’m very sorry.
De Castro.
I’m jutht ath good a waltzther ath anyone here, and better than motht. Waving his arms. If you’re tired of me, announthe the fact quietly. Don’t go and wipe your bootth on me in public, becauthe that hurtth my pride.
Gabrielle.
With a little twist of her body. I can’t do more than apologise. First time I’ve ever done that to a man.
De Castro.
Coming to her, mollified. I don’t athk it, Gabth; I don’t athk it. All I athk——
Gabrielle.
Sitting on the nearer settee in the centre. If I’m rude, it’s owing to my low spirits. I’m so shockingly low-spirited.
De Castro.
I know you are, and I make allowanthes for yer. I repeat, all I athk——
Gabrielle.
Gazing at vacancy. Mine’s a strange nature. On the stage, I’m liveliness itself——!
De Castro.
A perfect little lump o’ talent! I’ve been tellin’ Carlton tho—perthuadin’ him to introduthe an extra thong for you in Act Two.
Gabrielle.
Looking at de Castro. You have?
De Castro.
Yeth.
Gabrielle.
Did he promise to think it over?
De Castro.
Hith exthact wordth!
Gabrielle.
With a hollow laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Resuming her former attitude. As I was remarking, I’m a mass of inconsistency. On the stage the embodiment of elfish fun——
De Castro.
That wath in the Mail.
Gabrielle.
Nodding. In the Mail. Off the stage, I’m a sufferer from what’s called the artistic temperature—no—temperament——
De Castro.
Uncomfortably, patting her shoulder. Po’ little girl; po’ little girl!
Gabrielle.
Her melancholy increasing. Sometimes I’ve an idea that if I had a motor-car of my own I should feel easier and happier.
De Castro.
With a change of tone. What d’ye mean—motor-car of yer own? Mine’th alwayth at your dithpothal, ithn’t it?
Gabrielle.
Shaking her head. That’s not the same thing. Whenever I have yours out, I’m weighed down by a sense of borrowing.
De Castro.
Well, if I gave you a new car, you’d be weighed down by a thenthe of my havin’ paid for it.
Gabrielle.
At first I should, but not for long. Seeing my family crest on the door-panels, instead of your monogram, ’ud help me to forget you’d had anything to do with it. Gloomily. Of course, it ’ud only be an experiment. It might cheer me up, or it mightn’t.
The music ceases. A waiter carrying a tray enters at the door on the left, goes behind the counter, and mixes some drinks.
De Castro.
After a pause, loosening his collar—in a low voice. Here! We’d better dithcuth thith experiment. Glancing over his shoulder at the waiter. Let’th come and thit in the pit.
Gabrielle.
Rising. I can’t argue; my head’s too bad for that.
De Castro.
Leading her to the double-door. I don’t want to argue; I thimply want to arrive at an underthtandin’. Thuppothin’ I buy you a car, am I to be made an arth of at the nexth danthe we happen to meet at—yeth or no?——
They go out on to the landing and disappear as Fulkerson hurries in at the right-hand door at the back. His eyes are rather glassy and his utterance is a little thick.
Fulkerson.
To the waiter, joining him behind the counter. Hi! Wake up, there! Gla’sodawa’erf’misspirch’nth’stage. Distinctly. Misspirch—on th’stage—gla’—sodawa’er. I’ll have a whiskey. Wh’sthwhiskey? Which—is—the—whiskey? Than’g. Pouring some whiskey into a tumbler. You take sodaw’er t’ Misspirch; I’ll mix m’own whiskey. Loo’ sharp, sodaw’er Misspirch. The waiter goes out with the drinks and Fulkerson, glass in hand, comes to the nearer side of the counter. He swallows his drink greedily, singing to himself between the gulps. “Oh, the gals! Oh, the gals! I am awfully fond of the gals! Putting his empty glass upon the counter and making for the door on the left. Be they ebon or blond, Of the gals I am fond; I am dreadfully fond of the gals!”
He vanishes as Farncombe and Lily enter at the right-hand door at the back. There is an air of constraint and uneasiness about the girl. She comes to the nearer settee in the centre and again picks up her bouquet. Farncombe follows her. They talk in subdued voices and with frequent pauses.
Farncombe.
Another ice?
Lily.
Rearranging a rose, almost inaudibly. No, thanks.
Farncombe.
After a pause. I—I wish I had given you a bouquet instead of a big, ugly basket.
Lily.
Why?
Farncombe.
You—you might have brought it to the theatre, as you have that one, and carried it about with you.