Wilbur.

I'm tired. I think I'll go and look at the flowers and butterflies.

Joe.

Oh, come on!

Wilbur

You've got all my marbles, Joe, so you ought to be happy—I am.

Tim.

He's got all mine but two.

Wilbur

Oh, bother, what's it matter? I hate marbles, I do. I like to be in the woods.

Joe.

Sissy!

Wilbur.

I wish thing would happen to me like they do in books.

Tim.

Books are dreadful, I think.

Joe.

Oh bother books! Lookee here, Tim, I'll bet you  my top against your new knife—I match you. Got a penny?

Tim.

All right.

Joe.

And the winner takes the pennies!

Tim.

Sure.

(Tim wins)

Tim.

Double or quits?

Tim.

Isn't that a lot?

Joe.

Piker! You're making the lot, aren't you?

(Tim wins again)

Joe.

Double or quits?

(Tim reluctantly matches and loses)

Joe.

Now we start fair.

(Tim loses again)

Tim.

(hesitatingly) Double or quits?

Joe.

Nuttin' doin'! Hand over. (Tim begins to cry).

(Wilbur has gone away and is making curious gestures).

Joe.

Oh stuff that away, baby! Say Bill, what you doing?

Wilbur.

Oh, it's something I read in a book to make a fairy come. If I only had a dollar I c'ud buy a book to learn me to do it proper.

Joe.

Oh shucks!

Tim.

You're sure crazy, Bill.

(Behind them, ENTER a Fairy.

It is a lady, fashionably dressed, but very eccentric in manner. Her smile is sweet but satirical).

The Fairy.

Good afternoon, young gentlemen. (All stare agape). I understand that you wish to see me on—er—on business, I presume. Well, what can I do for you? I can grant you each one wish. You know, things are a little strained in Fairyland—war conditions—you know one can't give three as one used to. Well, my dear Sir, what will you have?

Wilbur.

(Still bent on his idea) My magic book! I want a dollar.

The Fairy.

Certainly, certainly. And you, young friend, will a little wish dry your tears? What shall it be, now?

Tim.

(After thought, very hesitatingly) I—I—er—I should like—er—a thousand dollars.

The Fairy.

By all means, by all means. And you, oh yes, you're dreaming—getting a little wish might steady your belief inn me perhaps—what shall it be?

Joe.

(aside) I'd better ask for not too much—if I can get a starter I can make more; surest thing, you know. Right you are. Miss, put me down for a million dollars.

The Fairy.

Quite so, I won't forget it. Now each of you shall get his wish three times but, owing to war conditions, none of you shall enjoy it—the third time!

Joe.

When will I get it? By the way, time's money to me, you know.

The Fairy.

Very sensible question. Oh, you'll get it the night of the big fire.

Tim.

(alarmed) The big fire?

The Fairy.

Yes, like this.

(She vanishes in a blaze. Wilbur left as reaching out his hands and arms in a wonder and ecstasy. Tim scared to death. Joe unmoved, with his finger to his nose, thinking hard).

Joe.

Sturdy, business suit, rather severe, earnest eyes, quick decisive gestures, stern voice, masterful, prosperous, somewhat secretive in manner, smokes cigars on the chain system. Age 21.

Wilbur.

Active, athletic, Bohemian, graceful, lounge suit with big black flowing bow tie, careless in manner, absorbed in himself. Smokes cigarettes and a carved meerschaum pipe. Age 21.

Blanche.

A haughty, robust blonde. Rosetti type. Age 20.

Adela.

Red hair, slim, slight, very pale. Age 20.

Emily.

A squat, brownish type, rather nondescript, no features. Age 20.

Pamela.

A bleached brunette, Jewish. Age 35.

Mrs. Harper.

A pompous dowager.

Editor of "The Phippsville Post".

A senile ass, fussy and voluble.

Doctor.

(Joe and Pamela working as the Scene rises. She is half dead with fatigue. He is walking up and down, smoking. His march is like an elephant on parade. It is 1:30 a.m.)

Joe.

(dictating) . . . . . a clean-cut merchandising proposition on a basis of genuine value. Point 14: the holders of the preferred stock . . . . .

Pamela.

Preferred or deferred, Mr. Davies?

Joe.

Preferred, of course. How could deferred make sense? How often have I told you to use your mind?

Pamela.

I'm sorry, Mr. Davies. It's rather late tonight.

Joe.

And I'm paying for overtime. Get on, please. The preferred of preferred . . .

Tim.

(at window) Hullo, Joe!

Joe.

What's up?

Tim.

Oh I've been working at the pit; accounts due tomorrow, I had to finish it up.

Joe.

Sort of a dog's life, eh Tim?

Tim.

Sure it is. If I could only save a thousand dollars I could start something.

Joe.

Never in those trousers, Tim! You aren't the sort.

Tim.

What's wrong?

Joe.

Nothing my boy, that's the trouble. You've got all the virtues. See that? (points to Pamela who has fallen asleep). That's costing me one fifty per hour. Sleep begins now. (snaps his watch). No work, no beer.

Tim.

Have you no heart, Joe?

Joe.

Haven't met the right kind of girl.

Tim.

I didn't mean that, but now you say it I think love will make another man of you.

Joe.

(considering) Have a cigar, Tim?

Tim.

You know I don't smoke or drink?

Joe.

I know, you poor fish. I forgot there were people like that. Girls now, well, the girl for me . . .

Tim.

Why not Miss Gopher and her five million bucks?

Joe.

Well said, my lad. I think that's my ticket . . . Jove!—Tim, I wish I had a million to grubstake me; I bet I could get her. But a poor man—small chance in that racket!

Tim.

Yes, I can hardly imagine "Sharper" Harper giving you his blessing.

Joe.

Damn the old fool! He's pushed the market way up again for all his stuff. I bet he cleared a million yesterday, the bears were running to cover like damned rabbits.

Tim.

And where were you?

Joe.

So rotten short, you couldn't see me with a microscope. It's all Harper's personal magnetism; they daren't buck him. But Longstaff and Workman are coming into the ring tomorrow; it'll need all his guts to beat 'em off. His stocks fell a quarter of a point on that news, just before closing time.

Tim.

I understand they recovered on the curb.

Joe.

Just a bit. But oh my God! to be in that scrap tomorrow, with a million in cash!

Tim.

Wishing won't bring it, Joe.

Joe.

Willing, will, Tim. Here, I must get this letter done. (shakes Pamela) Sorry, but we must get point 14, and you can go home, and bring me the transcript in the morning.

Pamela.

Yes, Mr. Davies.

Wilbur.

(looking through the window, his hand on his shoulder) Aha! So we three meet again. There's something more than natural in this if our philosophy could find it out, which it can, for I'm just out for a midnight stroll to see the moonrise, saw your light, thought I would pass a festive minute. Come, fill the bowl.

Joe.

The fact is, I'm fearfully busy, Bill.

Wilbur.

So'm I, Joe. Busy like hell! Can't sell a picture: want a dollar.

Tim.

Why that's funny; it reminds me of that day we had the hallucination about the fairy, and Joe and I . . .

Joe.

Yes, by gum! We did just repeat our wishes . . .

Wilbur.

All hands present—except the big fire—and my dollar.

Joe.

Tut! You chaps are wasting my time. Sorry, but . . .

(They turn away)

Wilbur & Tim.

Night-night, Joe!

Joe.

(firmly) Point fourteen!

Wilbur.

(returning) Curious coincidence. There is a big fire tonight—looks like Harper's place. Fine old house, and lovely garden. Got leave to paint 'em once last summer, and the old donkey never bought a canvas. Yes, she's fairly ablaze.

Joe.

Oh, he's insured to his last box of cigars.

Tim.

It's afire I tell you, the house is afire!

Joe.

Well, we can't put it out, can we?

Tim.

We can HELP! (he rushes off).

Wilbur.

Nothing much lovelier than a house on fire, or a ship! I should like to see a ship, one with lots of powder aboard. Whoof!

Joe.

Lord! how you fellows waste time.

Wilbur.

Well, may I earn that dollar? Let me use your 'phone and ring up the Post while you get on with Point Fourteen.

Joe.

All right, use the hall 'phone. (Wilbur goes out). It's no use, Pamela, my mind's upset. You can go home and I'll finish in the morning. Nine sharp! (She says goodnight and goes out). I got to get this thing clear in my mind. Wonder if that's a trick of Sharpers. I don't believe a cuss like that would ever have an accident. Could it make any difference to the market? (He is pacing the floor and smoking savagely fast). No, I guess not. (He subsides into beatific calm).

Wilbur.

(returns) A rotten day, Bill.

Wilbur.

Not so, I've earned that dollar. Hope for you by the same token.

Joe.

Can't figure it, Bill, no how. Tim's got a better chance of that thousand.

Wilbur.

Oh cheer up! isn't that blaze magnificent? Two scarlet steeple of flame, and a purple wave of amethyst, like a cathedral of our Lord the Devil. I wish I had my paints.

Joe.

I wish I was on the other side of the market. It gives me a pain to think how hopping mad the old boy will be; and he'll take it out of us!

(Neighbours bring in Mrs. Harper, in hysterics, howling. They lay her on a couch—one runs for water, another for salts, etc.)

Joe.

(aside to Wilbur) Is this place a hospital?

(Presently Mrs. Harper grows calmer, and faints away).

Joe.

Leave he lay! Don't fuss, you fools. Never seen hysterics before?

(Tim rushes in bearing Blanche, in a dressing gown, on his shoulder).

Blanche.

Damn you, let me down. I can walk. Where's my maid?

Joe.

Welcome to my poor house, I fear there is no maid available, but anything I can do . . .

Blanche.

Let me use a room to tidy up, there's a good sport, then. Why, there's aunt, fainting as usual. Say, Mr.—— I don't know you're name—what is it?

Joe.

Joseph Davies, at your service. Let me show you the way. (He goes out with her and returns at once).

Tim.

It's horrible, horrible. Poor old Harper—burned alive!

Joe.

(shouts) What! Say that again!

Tim.

(stolidly) Poor old Harper's burned alive!

Joe.

(shaking him violently) You saw it—you saw it?

Tim.

I saw his face as I see yours now, but his body was mostly cinders.

(Joe turns away, masters himself, lights a fresh cigar, walks up and down).

Tim.

I must get back, there may be more work to do. (rushes out).

Joe.

Wilbur—help me out! Get these people out of the room; I've got to be alone for five minutes. Come on, put 'em all in my bedroom.

(They clear the room. Joe goes to the 'phone and sits thinking, takes off receiver).

Joe.

Long distance, please Miss . . . . . Is that long distance? . . . New York, 4319 Autumn . . . All right, be quick. (he sits looking at his watch and saying "Damn" every ten seconds or so.—The bell rings). That you, Blake? Never mind what the hell; get your clothes on and beat it to the Cable People. Don't trust the 'phone. Wire London in code to sell all Harper's stuff short on our account—no, I'm not crazy, I said SELL. Sell then cover; more wouldn't be safe. Sell, sure. Never mind why; I don't trust 'phones; you get in on it for your last cent. Matter with the street? Oh, get a move on; it's nearly nine o'clock in London now and the whole world will have my news in a couple of hours. For Christ's sake, don't lose a second. (he puts down the receiver). Thank God! if only I could stop the news from leaking here.

Wilbur.

(returns) Well, Joe, what's the joke, all alone at this witching hour? Conjuring demons of the pit, or is this mystic moment sacred to D-e-reams of Her?

Joe.

(trembling with excitement) Just a small business detail; Bill. (He leans back on couch, exhausted).

Tim.

(returns—he is badly burnt). Oh, what an awful, awful thing.

Joe.

All right for you, old chap. Rescued the blonde heiress, wedding bells, what ho!

Tim.

(earnestly) Joe, don't say such a thing. It's too terribly shocking.

Joe.

What is? The dressing gown? Suited her, I thought.

Tim.

I don't know if I ought to tell you.

Wilbur.

That means you want to—out with it.

Tim.

(beckons them, talks in a tragic whisper) When I climbed up into her bedroom—

Wilbur.

Oh, you gay Lothario.

Tim.

Hush, Bill, it's too awful. There was a man's clothes all over the room, and he was running out of the door all undressed.

Wilbur.

Tut, tut! who was it?

Tim.

It was Rocco, the chauffeur.

Wilbur.

Well, he won't talk, and we won't talk, and the clothes are burnt, so where's the harm?

Joe.

(with sudden anger). Mind you don't talk!

Tim.

I hope we are all gentlemen. (A pause).

Joe.

I've had enough excitement for one night. Beat it, boys, and be around in the morning to see these people somewhere; I'll be busy.

Wilbur.

Goodnight Joe, sleep well; may no ill dreams disturb thy rest, nor powers of darkness thee molest!

Tim.

Goodnight, Joe!

Joe.

(gruffly) 'night.

(He sits up, thinking hard, while the Scene drops).

(The same Morning).

(ENTER a doctor. Joe still sitting, though asleep).

Doctor.

Morning, Mr. Davies! Dropped in for another look at my patients.

Joe.

(yawns) Oh yes!

Doctor.

That chap Tim Jones is a hero if ever there was one. He had some shocking burns. Wasn't content with rescuing Miss Gopher; pulled out Emily, under-housemaid, and was caught badly. However, he'll do.

Mrs. Harper.

(ENTERS, very proud and dignified and self-possessed despite her attire). Good-morning, Mr. Davies. I presume I ought to thank you for your kind hospitality.

Hoe.

Not at all, Madam, glad if I have been of service.

Doctor.

I'll see to my other patients—nothing wrong with you.

Mrs. Harper.

I wonder if my companion, Miss Grey, is all right. She is a perfect treasure.

Joe.

I believe she may be in the next house. No one was burnt but your husband.

Mrs. Harper.

O yes, poor Samuel. I must catch the noon limited for New York for my blacks. Do you think his stocks will go down, Mr. Davies?

Joe.

Indeed no, Madam, just a point or two today and tomorrow, perhaps—but they're sound, they'll recover. They're based on genuine value. This bear attack of ours—I say ours, Madam—has been fundamentally——ah——factitious.

Mrs. Harper.

Oh! I'm so glad. Now where's Adela? I must give her some instructions.

Joe.

I think I hear footsteps. It is possibly her. (Goes to window). A slight, carroty girl?

Mrs. Harper.

That must be she (very strong on the "she").

Joe.

(opens door) Come in, everybody.

(Tim, bandaged, with Emily on his arm, comes in. Following them are the Editor of the Phippsville Post, a voluble, nosey, sniffy old man with the popular touch, and Adela Grey).

Editor.

Ah! Mrs. Harper, so glad to see you so well. Terrible, terrible, bereavement, leading citizen, recent activities in the market, terrible. Three column splash. I have been questioning Miss Grey about some of the details, wished to avoid harrowing your feelings, Mrs. Harper. Ah! good morning, Mr. Davies, how's business? Great news this morning for the bears, eh? Now Mrs. Harper perhaps—do recline, Madam!—perhaps you might give me a few—

Mrs. Harper.

Please ask Miss Grey in her spare time! Adela, send someone at once to town for some clothes; book a section of the Noon Limited for New York; call up my hairdresser and have an appointment made as soon as she opens; tell Rocco to bring a car out here from the garage—the Rolls Royce—the black, of course. Why didn't you think of all this yourself?

Adela.

I did, Mrs. Harper, everything will be here in a few minutes.

Mrs. Harper.

(to Joe) There, I told you she was a treasure.

Wilbur.

(ENTERS by window) Treasure seekers! Wrecked on Joe Davies, Pirate Island—Hullo! (he breaks off, astounded at seeing Adela).

Mrs. Harper.

I don't know who you are, sir. Do you know Miss Grey?

Wilbur.

This—(goes to Adela) Never saw her before. Miss Grey, no! Miss Madder Lake and Cadmium Orange!

(Adela goes impulsively to him, they shake hands).

Editor.

(feeling he's losing the stage) Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen, I think this the propitious moment—I say it in no spirit of idle camouflage—the propitious moment, I say to give expression to your very right and very natural feelings in the matter of our local hero, Timothy Jones. I need not dilate upon the magnificent services which he rendered in view of the total and most lamentable—and I say it with all due reserve—most reprehensible failure of the local fire brigade politics! how many crimes are committed in the name-leader on that by the way. Timothy Jones, I repeat, the gallant rescuer, the wounded soldier of humanity, the merciful knight, the stainless chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. Now as I say, such men should have statues, should be sung by poets, painted by painters—

Wilbur.

(interrupting) God forbid!

Editor.

Don't interrupt, sir. You gave me the first news of the fire, and here's the dollar I promised you. (Flings it at him). And now begone. Ladies and Gentlemen, I feel all too deeply the unworthiness, the inadequacy, of any words of mine to do justice to Timothy Jones. I can but propose that our admiration take the ah . . . highly practical form of a testimonial collected on the spot. Now then, everybody.

(He goes around, getting offers quietly. Mrs. Harper shrugs shoulders).

Mrs. Harper.

What a bore these persons are.

Blanche.

(entering) There seems to be quite a crowd. I came to Phippsville for peace, too. Horrid place! Oh, Mr. Davies, good morning. (very supercilious).

Joe.

I trust you slept well, Miss Gopher?

Blanche.

(ignoring him) Where's that nice painter man?—Whew.

(She sees Wilbur, who has gone into a corner with Adela. They are kissing).

Mrs. Harper.

(turns and sees them) Miss Grey, what on earth does this mean? Quit my service this instant.

Adela.

I did, Mrs. Harper. I am going to Paris to live with Mr.—Mr.—this gentleman.

Mrs. Harper.

What!

Editor.

Now, Miss Gopher, what may I put down for—?

Blanche.

I make it up—whatever it is—to a thousand dollars.

Tim.

Then Emily will be mine.

Mrs. Harper.

Emily! are you all mad?

Emily.

Begging your pardon, Ma'am, this gentleman saved my life, and the least I can do is to make him happy. So, when he asked me to marry him, I said I would.

Mrs. Harper.

Good gracious—two marriages! What next?

Adela.

Excuse me, Mrs. Harper, but Wilbur and I do not mean to get married.

Wilbur.

It's just an ordinary love affair. The regular thing.

Mrs. Harper.

Mr. Davies! am I to be subjected top these insults in your house?

Joe.

(bewildered) I think it must be a joke, Mrs. Harper.

Mrs. Harper.

And abominably bad taste!

Joe.

You don't take stock in anything but pictures, do you, Bill?

Wilbur.

You said it. This is my favourite Titian. This is Rembrandt's wife, and Rosetti's, this is Leonardo's ideal, and Whistler's mistress. This is colour and form incarnate for a second in one image of love. I only live for love; I am love's servant, gentle page of Lady Aphrodite foam-born, glaucous, inaccessible for ever to all men, but most of all to those who have possessed her!

Adela.

This is—just—my—man. I've been looking for one, strange as it may appear to you.

Mrs. Harper.

Please turn these creatures out!

Joe.

Here is your car, Mrs. Harper.

Mrs. Harper.

In high time.

(Wilbur and Adela go off dancing. The Editor, overwhelmed by events, stumbles out, helping Mrs. Harper. Tim follows arm-in-arm with Emily.)

Blanche.

Coming, Aunt (To Joe.) I must thank you for your hospitality, my good man; I shall endeavour not to forget it.

(Joe smiles impudently).

Blanche.

Well, what is it?

Joe.

Four words with you.

Blanche.

That's four.

Joe.

Four more, then.

Blanche.

You're a presuming person. (calls) Drive home, Aunt, and send Rocco back for me. I've something to say to Mr. Davies.

Mrs. Harper.

(without) All right; in about forty minutes.

Blanche.

Well now? (Bell rings)

Joe.

Excuse me a moment, Miss Gopher, but I know what the call is, and I've a hunch it's all right. (Goes to 'phone). Pamela? Yes, speaking . . . . . Good; I thought so. I'll be down in an hour or thereabouts. (Rings off). Sold Harper's stuff short on the first news of his death; covered at once, cleaned up a million dollars.

Blanche.

Is that what you had to say to me?

Joe.

No.

Blanche.

What then?

Joe.

In four words—Will you marry me?

Blanche.

You impudent puppy. Take your million and buy yourself a shopgirl.

Joe.

No, it's you, Miss Gopher. Yes or no?

Blanche.

In four words—No, no, no, no, why did I wait to hear this nonsense?

Joe.

Four words more. Rocco has confessed everything. (a pause).

Blanche.

Pah! How much do you want?

Joe.

Just you.

Blanche.

And my five millions.

Joe.

It will be useful.

Blanche.

You low dirty dog.

Joe.

Look here, Miss Gopher, no more of that. It doesn't get anywhere; it's not business. Now, Blanche—

Blanche.

Merde.

Joe.

I don't talk German. Here, I told you a lie, and it's bad policy, always. Here's the straight story. Timothy Jones told me and Wilbur. Wilbur is off to Paris and has forgotten it by now, and wouldn't talk anyway. Tim won't talk; besides, I'll take him into the house at a thousand a year. Rocco won't talk; you can keep him on to run the cars, if you like—d'you think I care, you low slut. But I will talk, you bet your sweet life, unless you marry me. Now, think it over; isn't that a clean, sweet airtight, copper-riveted business proposition?

Blanche.

(very slowly) You low dirty dog.

Joe.

I warned you once. (he takes her arm and begins twisting it. Slowly as he twists) Will you marry me?

(Blanche endures the agony, biting her lips).

Joe.

Will you marry me?

(Blanche begins to moan).

Joe.

Will you marry me?

Blanche.

(turns and strikes him in the face with clenched fist) Yes, I will, you swine.

(Joe clutches her, kisses her savagely, flings her on the sofa).

Joe.

(rings 'phone). Main 298. That you, Pamela? Davies speaking. Ring up some wide-awake church, will you, and have 'em send round a minister quicker'n the devil.

(Rings off, sits on sofa, lights cigar. Both remain absolutely quiet while the curtain falls very slowly).

ACT II.

A. A.

Stairs to gallery and bedroom.

B.

Stove to warm models.

C. C.

Windows—top lights.

D.

Fireplace.

E.

Door.

F.

Easel.

G. G. G.

Divans beneath stairs and before fire.

H.

Armchair.

I.

Stool.

J.

Dais for models.

Rough chalk sketch begun on easel; many canvases and a frame or two round walls. No pictures of any sort to be shown.

(Joe is in vigorous prime, smartly dressed in a lounge suit. Age 35.)

(Tim is fat, middle-aged, looking more servile than ever. Age 35.)

(Wilbur is hardly changed from Act I. Age 35.)

(Blanche is over-dressed and bejewelled, in a very daring evening frock. She is much painted, tending to over-plumpness, but still of brilliant beauty. She is fairly drunk.)

(Emily is thin, fallen away, faded, in middle-class, motherly dress.)

(Adela is dressed in a black frock, as worn by the market girls of Paris. She looks no more than 25; radiantly beautiful in the most perfect taste.)

(Wilbur's studio in Montmartre. A large room, a poor man's room, but made cunningly comfortable. After dinner, Joe, Tim, and Wilbur, with Blanche, Emily and Adela Grey).

Joe.

Well, Bill, I'll say this: I never ate a better dinner.

Wilbur.

Oh, yes you did! The food wasn't specially good; what you enjoyed was appetite, and that came from the walk up the Butte, and the view!

Tim.

Yes, these are the compensations of the poor.

Wilbur.

Rich, Tim, rich as Joe! What can all this money show him finer that Paris town? There, to the right, the Trocadero and the Eiffel Tower; then the Invalides, the greatest tomb in Christendom, crowned by the Lion de Belfort, the unconquered of 1870, who was to wake again and be avenged in 1918. Then the eye catches the Observatoire, and the long avenue and garden, like a poem of Verlaine's to the Luxembourg and the Pantheon, where France has laid her mightiest dead. There is the Latin Quarter, where unknown great men live and love their lives away. There's Saint-Sulpice, whose architect threw himself in despair from the tower of his unfinished master-work, and Saint-Germain-des-Pres, God-house of ancient cloistered fame. Now through it all the Seine winds like a silver snake among dark pebbles, and leads the eye to Notre-Dame, wonder and glory of the world!

Adela.

You must excuse the bad boy; he takes these fits at times.

(Blanche is gazing at Wilbur, enthralled, obsessed).

Joe.

I think it was a very striking speech. I didn't know people felt like that.

Wilbur.

What has your life to offer in comparison?

Joe.

I suppose the bottom of it is that I like to see my will prevail.

Adela.

Then you should never have married.

Blanche.

Laughter and applause.

Adela.

I admit it was a silly thing to say. I am sure you are a model wife.

Blanche.

I understand that you are yourself—a model.

Adela.

But I pose comparatively little, and I don't paint at all.

Blanche.

Sallow skins don't take it well.

Adela.

And white ones show it too much.

Joe.

(very vigorously) As you were saying, Bill, that's a bully view. What did you think of it, Tim?

Tim.

Oh, I couldn't see much of it, sir—Joe. It was all very pretty, of course, but I could only see that dreadful fire in the big store.

Wilbur.

Yes, by Jove.

Joe.

Yes what?

Wilbur.

Why, it sprang into my mind that the last time we six were under one roof was the night of the big fire.

Blanche.

Did you expect me to forget that?

(Wilbur startled at her earnest tone).

Adela.

It was the night before I met my lover.

Joe.

(anxiously) Well, what of it?

Wilbur.

What of it? That's the night we got our Three Wishes (mischievously)—and our three wives.

Blanche.

Two of you.

Joe.

Come on, Bill, what's the big idea?

Wilbur.

I was just wondering if that wish business would be repeated. Three time, the fairy said.

Joe.

Bill, you don't for one moment seriously believe in that sort of stuff, do you?

Wilbur.

Joe, I do. In this corrupt age there is no way for a man to prove his faith except by betting on it. Therefore, I hereby (a) which for the sum of One Dollar and (b) propose to earn it by betting you that sum that you make a million dollars between now and midnight.

Joe.

You silly ass. It's impossible, You can't make money where there isn't any money to make.

Wilbur.

Never mind: only one proviso, that you take a chance if it comes.

Joe.

Sure, but it's impossible. Nobody even knows I'm here.

Wilbur.

Is it a bet?

Joe.

If you say so. (They shake hands).

Adela.

He certainly is game to take a chance.

Blanche.

Some people will grab anything.

Adela.

Some people are sorry when they've got what they grabbed.

Blanche.

Some people have sense enough to let it go again.

Joe.

What in the Devil's name is the matter with you two women?

Blanche.

A matter of taste.

Adela.

No matter.

Joe.

It's a mystery to me.

Blanche.

Most things are.

Joe.

Now what does she mean by that?

Adela.

Mischief.

Wilbur.

Now listen, Joe. Mrs. Davies said a whole lot then. Most things are a mystery to him. Do you know that there is a definite equation between time and greatness? The earth seems to be always changing its place, but time shows that it moves in a more or less unchanging cycle. So do the fixed stars, if you take a long enough period. Now you can only recognise a cycle as such by repeated observation of it. We only know a thing when we have gone round and round it, and round again. Joe understands very well indeed the movements in his tiny circle of business. I, in the immense cycle of art, am still half lost in wonder as each new phenomenon bursts upon my gaze. It will take countless centuries for me to be the master of my cycle as Joe is today of his. This low man goes on adding one to one, his hundred's soon hit; that high man, aiming at a million, misses a unit.

Joe.

Ah, I aimed at a million, and Bill at a unit. Ha, Ha!

Blanche.

You poor fool.

Wilbur.

Can't get outside that cycle, Mrs. Davies.

Blanche.

Thank the Lord I was never in it.

Adela.

We of finer clay feel otherwise, don't we, Mrs. Davies?

Blanche.

We artistic people.

Joe.

(desperately) I don't see my million tonight, anyhow.

Tim.

(anxious to help keep peace) And shall I get my thousand?

Blanche.

You're always in debt; it's incomprehensible to me; a thousand a year and all found and you're in debt.

Tim.

It's the children, madam.

Joe.

Damn it, Blanche, you're always in debt, too!

Adela.

How lucky to have a millionaire for a husband!

Wilbur.

Oh, it's nature's way. It's the children of the Tim's that make the millions for the Joes. Why Tim himself founded your fortune, old boy! He brought the news of Harper's death.

Joe.

He didn't know how to use it. But I was grateful; I gave him a competence for life.

Wilbur.

How do you feel about it, Tim?

Tim.

I'm very comfortable, thank you, sir. (A knock).

Wilbur.

Now, by my fay, who knocks so late?

Walter Nevill.

(without) May I come in for a second, Wilbur?

Wilbur.

Sure thing. (aside) Walter Nevill from the Embassy. (open door).

(ENTER Blanche. Introductions—for Joe is in the corner in the dark. He comes forward).

Nevill.

Mr. Davies! This is plain providence. Do you know, Mr. Davies, I have ten messenger boys out this minute looking for you. (takes out watch). At the eleventh hour—and twenty minutes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm going to be most awfully rude. Do excuse Mr. Davies and myself for about five minutes. It's life and death.

(All retire, Wilbur smoking his pipe on the settee, Blanche gazing at him eagerly. Adela quietly embroidering, Tim and Emily blotted out as ever).

Joe.

Well, Nevill, what's the news?

Nevill.

Oh, it's an option on building lots. Half a million dollars—expires at midnight. My man got cold feet this morning, or he's really strapped, as he says. I offered the man, Gans, the banker, ten thousand francs for a three-days extension and he turned me down. The secret is—the Government want those lots for barracks—we've been working secretly for it, you understand, and Gans has got wise to it. I can sell at a big profit tomorrow.

Joe.

Where do I come in?

Nevill.

You help me to take up option—four hundred thousand is wanted—and . . .

Joe.

I clear?

Nevill.

(figures on paper) A million dollars.

Joe.

I know you, Nevill, but if you were the most obvious con man in the profession I should write you a cheque. (mysteriously) This is the night of the big fire.

(Nevill, misunderstanding, laughs).

Wilbur.

Converted, by Jove!

Joe.

(takes out notebook and cheque book). Put it there.

(Nevill writes contract and Joe cheque. They exchange).

Nevill.

But, damn it, how can I get there before twelve? Gans lives at 96 Boulevard Haussman, but there's no taxi within a mile of here, and the brutes won't come up the hill.

Tim.

(advances) Excuse me, sir, but I, that is, Emily thought Mrs. Davies might be tired and I took the liberty of having the Napier sent to the door.

Emily.

(at window) Yes, sir, she's there now.

Joe.

Tim, you've done it again! Here and now I announce publicly my belief in fairies, and I present you with the sum of 1,000 dollars. (pulls it from his wallet). Now Tim, put Mr. Nevill in the car—plenty of time!

Emily.

Perhaps Tim and I had better go home to see if all's right in the house, madam.

Blanche.

Yes, you had.

Joe.

And more solemnly still, O Wilbur Owen, I present you with this dollar, won in honest betting.

Nevill.

A thousand thanks, Davies. I'll be off. By the way, Wilbur, I nearly forgot what I came up for. I want you to drop in at the Embassy first chance. The Government are making you their expert in that art business—so you're a dollar a year man now.

Wilbur.

The Three Wishes!

Nevill.

(misunderstanding) Health, Wealth and Happiness!

(He takes his leave and goes out with Tim and Emily).

Blanche.

(very slowly and clearly) I've been wishing too, wishing I had come in that room about ten minutes before I did.

Joe.

Damn it, Blanche, are you making love to the man before my eyes?

Blanche.

Now that you have exhibited your well-known force of character, perhaps you will rest the afflicted part. So if you've got anything else to say, shut up!

Joe.

Remember where you are.

Blanche.

I've borne too much; tonight I'll cut loose.

Joe.

Borne? What have I borne? Constant intrigues with Dagoes, Niggers, Airmen, Pianists, Tango-lizards—

Blanche.

Never with you!

Joe.

Do I care? What did I want you for?

Blanche.

My money!

Joe.

Your lawyers looked damned well after that. And yet you're always running after me for money. What do I pay it for? Blackmail!

Blanche.

More reason and justice for you to pay it—the blackmailer blackmailed!

Joe.

Was there any other man you could get? When the night before our marriage you were caught with a wop chauffeur!

Blanche.

Only a blackmailer.

Joe.

Quit that, you dirty dyed street walker!

Blanche.

You low—dirty—dog!

Joe.

(he catches her arm). You can't do it again and get away with it.

Blanche.

Nor can you, now that I know what the Law is. (She brings out a gun and points it at him). I should love to put a slug in your greasy guts, you hound!

Wilbur.

Please don't, Mrs. Davies, not here. They are crazy about these things in France—no end of trouble if you shoot a man. Go to Long Island!

Blanche.

(wrenches herself away) Hell!

Adela.

Tim and Emily would say that money does not always bring happiness.

Wilbur.

Yes, but it brings about some amusing scenes.

Blanche.

I wish! I wish—oh, if I'd been in that room ten minutes earlier.

Adela.

The early bird again Blanche, dearest.

Blanche.

My sweet Adela, the early sportsman sometimes catches the early bird.

Wilbur.

Excuse me, ladies, but I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. Who got into what room and why, and what would have happened if there had been a Daylight Saving Act?

Blanche.

Joe's room, you blind man!

Adela.

None so blind as those who won't see.

Wilbur.

Leave her alone.

Blanche.

If I'd been in that room when you came in that morning, you'd never have noticed that sly quiet cat!

Wilbur.

I rather like these red Persians, don't you know.

Blanche.

I would have loved you all your life—passionately.

Joe.

She'll be sober in an hour—I hope; meanwhile I'll smoke.

Wilbur.

That is a long time, and an exhausting manner.

Blanche.

Are you absolutely callous? Don't you see what shame I've put on myself? But I just had to speak—I've loved you all these years. You've haunted my dreams, you've become between me and the—

Joe.

Chauffeurs?

(Blanche pulls out her pistol; Wilbur jumps in, disarms her and puts the gun out of reach).

Wilbur.

Don't spoil our nice quiet chat! These reminiscences of childhood's happy days. I never had playmates, I have had companions.

Joe.

(chuckling) That's blown a tyre!

Blanche.

Oh, never mind; you can't spoil it like that. I love you, I've never loved anyone else—all these years I've wanted you.

Wilbur.

That's absurd, really; you never gave me a thought till we met by chance yesterday on the Boulevard.

Blanche.

Ah, you may believe it; perhaps I didn't know it myself.

Wilbur.

Now we're getting a but nearer; we can never tell what the subconscious is after; and I am awfully, beastly, jolly lovable, of course. But, that's no reason for me to love you.

Blanche.

Don't you admire me—am I not beautiful?

Wilbur.

I admire the Cloth Hall at Ypres—it is beautiful.

Blanche.

Oh you low dirty dog. I'm of an age with Adela—twenty-eight.

Adela.

I'm thirty-four.

Wilbur.

Pardon me, no; she is of no age. She is older than the Sphinx, and a long sight more mysterious.

Blanche.

These skinny rats look young till they're fifty and then they wither.

Adela.

These white guinea-pigs look fifty when they're thirty-four.

Joe.

(begins to be thoroughly amused) Had you there, Blanchy!

Blanche.

Shut up! Shut up! Will! my Will—you are my Will—I'll give you a million dollars if you'll come and live with me six months.

Joe.

Here, you're getting the wishes mixed!

Blanche.

Grrr!

Wilbur.

Thank you very much, Blanche, but I'm afraid I might get to like the taste—

Adela.

Of money?

Wilbur.

Exactly. As I was about to say when I was rudely interrupted, I might get to like money—the taste of it—and lose my art. Do you see, Blanche, when I wished for that dollar, it was to buy a book of magic spells to conjure beauty. And I bought it. It was a book of art, inexhaustible well of joy. And I bought it. Did Joe buy better value for his million? I haven't repented my choice; I dine sumptuously every day—or nearly every day—on air and exercise. I have the greatest gallery of pictures in the world. I have Adela.

Blanche.

Aren't you ever tired of Adela?

Wilbur.

Now and again; as one tires of Goya, Leonardo, Greuze, now and again.

Blanche.

I wouldn't tire of you———I daresay you're right, and I only want you for a little while.

Wilbur.

Six months I think you said. Three I might manage.

Blanche.

Three minutes would be paradise.

Adela.

Some snake.

Wilbur.

Hush, Adela, you've been cattish about this all the evening. I must say it isn't like you.

Adela.

I'm sorry. I beg your pardon, Blanche, will you kiss me?

Blanche.

One more or less doesn't matter. (They kiss).

Adela.

Now I ought to have said that.

Blanche.

Oh, my dear, I'm a fool. I ought to be glad you've found a great man to love, to be true to.

Wilbur.

Wait, wait, you're all in too much of a hurry.

Blanche.

I'm sorry, Will, I loved you. I couldn't help telling you. I love you more than ever for that speech about the million.

Wilbur.

Well, that certainly was a stumbling block and a rock of offence. I think we'll cut that out, but I'll go with you.

Blanche.

Rate! That's cruel, for I'm serious.

(Adela sits down, and suddenly begins to cry, for she believes him).

Wilbur.

Adela, this is Freudian. You have a complex, you are jealous only because you were subconsciously envious of Blanche years ago. You haven't been jealous of fifty other women where cause existed, as it does not here—at present.

Adela.

Thanks, Bill, I was a fool. Go to it.

Blanche.

Wh—a—t? Do you mean— (pause. Joe chuckles, thinking Blanche is being made a fool of).

Wilbur.

     I mean what I say. I, Wilbur Owen, do take thee, Blanche Davis, to have and to hold, for richer or poorer, till three months do us part.

     You remind me of an over-ripe Camembert cheese—which I love most of all cheeses—and therefore do I love you.

     You remind me of the leaves, as they turn orange and flamingo at the fall—and therefore do I love you!

     You are hot, spicy, fishy—and thereby remind me of prawn curry, the best dish of Singapore—and therefore do I love you.

     You remind me of strawberry shortcake with vanilla ice all over the top—and therefore do I love you.

     You are dressed like a peacock—a peacock with a white body—and therefore do I love you.

     You smell of musk and patchouli and Trefle Incarnat and onions and old brandy—and therefore do I love you.

     End of epithalamium: exeunt. So long, Addie, you see me this day three months; so long, Joe, take care of yourself—I'm giving you a chance! Now then, all things being accomplished by the blessing of God, I will embrace my lady, and we will walk forth on our adventure under a starry night!

(They come together and kiss long, voluptuously, intensely).

Joe.

(on his feet) Can you stand this?

Adela.

Why not? It often happens.

Joe.

That's so (bitterly). Even in my limited circle, that's so.

Adela.

Take no notice; keep right on with the business of life. Follow your own star; don't worry about eccentricities—real or apparent—of other people's orbits.

Joe.

By jove, that's wisdom! What a business women you would have made!

Adela.

Perhaps I am one . . . Here, Bill, break away; what if anyone should come in your absence to buy a picture?

Wilbur.

(releases Blanche) Don't let me hear; I might believe it, and then I'd know for sure I was asleep.

Joe.

Bill! do you mean that? Do you mean to tell me that in all these years you've never sold a picture?

Wilbur.

Not yet. But tomorrow is also a day. I live in hope. What with the high cost of living and the strenuous life, and trying to make out what the President's manifestoes mean, so many people are going insane that I might sell one any day—and so, fare thee well, my boyhood's friend!

Adela.

You'll want some things to take with you.

Wilbur.

Perish the thought, kindly though it be. Blanche and I are going to walk from this spot, without money or baggage, to Gibraltar.

Blanche.

Indeed I'm not!

Wilbur.

The less need for preparation.

Blanche.

I'll go with you to Hell!

(They blow kisses to the others, and walk out).

Joe.

Jesus Christ! Tamed that wild cat with a word. Am I going crazy?

Adela.

Not at all, Mr. Davies, it's all perfectly natural. Let me mix you another grog.

Joe.

Thanks, I guess I will. D'ye know, this is funny—both of us left grass-widows, as you may say.

Adela.

So you are about to propose to take a villa for me at Deauville?

Joe.

Say, how d'ye know what I'm thinking? Never heard of Dougliville—sounds good, but it was sure my idea.

Adela.

I know because you're hurt. God knows why—and that would be about your primitive idea of getting even.

Joe.

I suppose that's it. But you're a damned pretty woman, and I like your style. Call it on?

Adela.

Who taught you to woo so exquisite?

Joe.

Look here, that's not fair. I never had no education.

Adela.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that; but you complained.

Joe.

Yes, by God, I do complain. Here am I, not bad looking, strong as a bull, healthy as a baby, money to burn, a power all over the world; and I can't do a thing with two women who'll just howl with joy for Bill Owen to tread on them!

Adela.

It's that cycle, Joe. You believe there are such things as women. He doesn't. We're only the moths fluttering round his big light. He's busy with other things; women are an accidental to his art. He doesn't take us seriously. That piques us; we go too often, we go for wool and come back shorn. But it's worth it.

Joe.

All the same, what about Deauville?

Adela.

Quite impossible, I fear. There's an unexpected rush of certain Government business which keeps two of my paramours in Paris all summer.

Joe.

(his jaw drops) Mrs. Owen!

Adela.

Miss Grey, please; or Adela, if you like.

Joe.

Good God! And here I've been assuming you were true to Bill!

Adela.

So I am.

Joe.

What did I hear you say.

Adela.

I fancy I might have mentioned paramours.

Joe.

Yes, paramours; how does that go with being with Bill.

Adela.

Truth is the love of heart and soul. Body goes with them, but its appetites are occasionally eccentric. Am I unfaithful to mutton when I eat beef or commit suicide when I blow my nose? I live for him, I'd die for him, but I don't see why I should starve myself, and get into a groove and be dull, and grow old and ugly, and have him hate me for it when it wouldn't even please him at the time. Why amourettes make conversation!

Joe.

I find this a little hard to follow.

Adela.

It's the mountain air of Montmartre, Joe! Air of freedom! Air of art! Air of beauty, health, good sense. Damn it, everybody does it who can; only some of us don't say so and those who can't kick up a fuss—sour grapes!

Joe.

But society . . .

Adela.

Society the Four Hundred and Forty Artists and the big four does it. Leave it for Tim to say that the foundations of human intercourse quake when a married lady winks.

Joe.

That is true, too, now you say it. But what about my question, why don't women love me? Say, I'll tell you a secret. I blackmailed Blanchy into marriage for her money. Then I fell in love with her; and I never got anything but contempt.

Adela.

Bill not only takes no notice of me, he expects me to take no notice of him. He treats me as if I were a man, fully responsible of all importance to my own life, none at all to his. So we can be friends and lovers, and live on together. O these ten, twelve years since passion died!

Joe.

Blanchy knows all this, too?

Adela.

Every woman know this, either consciously or instinctively. Every man who knows it takes his pick of us. Notice how often the toy man, half men, homosexuals, attract women? That's because they understand feminine psychology. You did a perfectly foolish thing tonight, we were both in a diminuendo passage of our lives, we ought to have been polite and parted coolly. You can only make love successfully on the crescendo passages. I should have thought that Nature herself might have taught you that.

Joe.

(shakes his head sadly) Yep, by heck, some falling market. The wise guys buy at the bottom, and wait for the rise.

Adela.

That's better, Joe, I think I could teach you. You've got the essence of the thing—manhood. But, you're clumsy, you twist people's arms on a falling market. Look here! Blanche wrote me the story of your tactful marriage proposal. Low dirty dog is what you were. But all women love dirty dogs. Hence, by the way, various legends of the Parzival type. But you got her, not from scare, but because you tortured her when the market was rising. She was raging at having her affair with Rocco interrupted by the fire. She was sexually wild; so she slapped you and said, “I will, you swine,” which is actually honest English for the romantic “Darling, I love you.” If you had raped her, then and there, she would have loved you. Instead, you showed that you cared for nothing but her money. She would have forgotten that if you had let her.

Joe.

I see; I ought to have caught her on the rising market.

Adela.

See how Bill worked Blanche. He began by contemptuous indifference, that put her on her mettle, and all the time he was exciting her by long romantic speeches, the artist's point of view, and all that when he saw how she sucked down the bait. Once he got her going, he whipped her with insults even bad ones like ber being old till he made her mad to the limit. Then he swung round suddenly and snatched her. Je just tested his sword with that walk to Gibraltar; it's true tempered steel, he sheathes it and whistles. She's his spaniel bitch.

Joe.

Sometimes I think I'm in a mad house, only all the time there's something tells me you're right.

Adela.

Well that's enough: lesson one for my big dunce. Let's go to bed.

Joe.

Why, Miss Grey, I'm awfully sorry to have kept you up to such an unconscionable hour. (takes hat and cane) Goodnight.

Adela.

(sweetly) Goodnight, Mr. Davies, so dear of you to have looked us up.

Joe.

I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing you again shortly.

Adela.

Indeed, I trust it may be so. (he is at the door). Didn't you hear what I said?

Joe.

(turns sharply) Hear what you said?

Adela.

Four words.

Joe.

Four words?

Adela.

Let us go to bed.

Joe.

What d'ye mean?

Adela.

What I say.

Joe.

I drank too much, I'm dizzy.

Adela.

It's merely that I pity your ignorance: I should like to teach you how to win Blanche, for her sake, poor darling; and that can only be done by person instruction. I don't love you at all.

Joe.

(peeved) Nor do I you, Miss Grey.

Adela.

Very good, very good. You see, to men you may seem a power, a monarch, a monster, a—oh! all sorts of terrible things. To women you are a big, simple-hearted fool.

Joe.

(angrily) Am I?

Adela.

One can take you seriously, can one?

Joe.

I'll make 'em.

Adela.

Good, very good, in theory. Beware of theorising, Joe, my Joe!

Joe.

Yes (sits down) Yes, there's something radically wrong with me. What's lacking?

Adela.

Possibly what the late J.M.W. Turner used to mix his paints with.

Joe.

What's that?

Adela.

Brains, Madam, brains.

Joe.

Damnation!

Adela.

Well, shall I mix you another grog? A stiff one?

Joe.

Stiff nothing.

Adela.

I'm sorry. Joe . . . I didn't mean to make you angry.

Joe.

I'm not angry, I'm just down and out. I don't know anything any more.

Adela.

You're tired. Let's go to bed.

Joe.

I'm damned if I do!

(rushes out of the door and slams it. Adela takes out her watch and counts the seconds).

Adela.

One . . . two . . . (up to forty four).

(Joe rushes in: flings his hat and cane down).

Joe.

I'm damned if I don't!

Adela.

Small chance of salvation in that case, Joe. You get it coming and you get it going!

Joe.

Adela, I love you, I'd die for you. I never knew what it was to love before. Come over here!

Adela.

(in his arms; very sadly and seriously) Oh Joe, I'm so sorry. I've played with you, I never thought you'd stay. It's utterly, absolutely impossible—really and truly. Yes, you understand, I'm sure. Take me to dinner two nights from now—will you?

Joe.

(very affected, drooping, kissing her listlessly) Sure, I understand, sweetheart. I'll be here at six o'clock. Take care of yourself, Honey! Sleep well.

(He kisses her again, patronizingly, and goes out).

Adela.

And I quite forgot to mention that I'm going to Deauville with Mimi Lalangue tomorrow morning! (she breaks into fit after fit of laughter) I must . . . I really must. The end of a perfect day! (goes to 'phone)

Clichy 31—69 . . . . .

Non 31—69 . . . . .

Qui! moi-meme . . . . .

Je suis seule! . . . . .

Bon.

(rings off; goes to door and leaves it ajar, begins to undress, humming a love song).

THE CURTAIN FALLS

ACT 3.

Joe.

(age 50) is old, poucy, haggard, nervous, bloated, bald, very red-faced.

Tim.

old, fat, stupid, cringing, white hair.

Blanche.

a complete ruin newly decorated by a bad firm.

Emily.

dowdier than ever.

Adela.

hardly older than before, looks at most 35. In rich dark ivy green and lilac.

The breakfast-room at Joe's palace on Fifth Avenue. It is over-loaded with bad pictures, statuary and objets d'art. The table is a mass of chafing dishes and gold plate.

Joe.

going through pile of letters.

Blanche.

smoking, in an extravagant negligee.

Emily.

waiting at table.

Tim.

as secretary.

Joe.

(passing letters to Tim).

Holz answers that.

No.

No.

Send him a statement.

I'll talk this over with Holz.

Gol darn it, this is awful. Look here, Blanchy, you better cut out that violinist. Do you realize we're paupers? Income tax, property tax, supertax, assessments; I'll dies in the workhouse. It's abominable.

Blanche.

(Languidly but acidly) There's always my five millions.

Joe.

Which I made into thirty-five, don't forget that.

Blanche.

Well, I suppose I can have a cheque for the cat's meat man on Saturday.

Joe.

I guess so. Fact is, they haven't got on to some of my profits yet. I move a bit too quick, may be, for the old one-eyed mules in Washington.

Blanche.

You were always quick on the draw.

Joe.

Yes, I've done well. What's this? Adela Grey? That's that red-headed wench of Bill's. Wants to come up and see me this morning—exhibition over here—can I help arrange it? Sure, I will. Poor old Bill. God! what a rotten mess that chap made of his life! Had brains too, and he never sold one picture, and died in absolute penury. 'Phone her at the hotel, Tim, she can come here at ten. Wonder what she looks like at fifty.

Blanche.

(sharply) She's not fifty yet, and she look pretty good, I guess. She had a real man to love her.

Joe.

Going through letters again). Send this on to McGrath. I'll answer this, and this. Tell Holz never to bother me with this kind again. No. Yes: Tell him to call. All right, send Mrs. Brown to the library. I'll be along.

(Tim goes out with the letters).

Joe.

Oh yes: Wonder what that fool president said at the Bankers' Association last night.

(picks up paper, reads and comments).

“President scores wealth”

Joe.

     He would want the Bolshevik vote in the fall.

     “Intolerable tyranny—malefactors of great wealth—find no criminal is above the law—organized robbery and oppression—a treacherous and I believe suicidal policy—”

     Lord, what a topsy-turvy world we're drifting into for lack of a little firmness—and vote-catching, damn his eyes!

     “Retribution is imminent. May I not—”

     May he not? He'll get what the camel got, right in the place where the camel got it.

     “We must tax the insidious traitors to death; they must be bled white.” The damn fool—with half the capital in the country going to England, and the other half buying diamonds to salt down.

     “Wealth is the cancer of the body politic.” That's what I get. Might as well have died unknown like Bill. At least he got a little peace now and again.

Blanche.

He's at peace now.

Joe.

Oh, sure! But I like a fellow who makes his mark. He's dead and rotten; and not half a dozen people remember him.

(turns page of paper).

Joe.

     “Big fire in Chicago. Eight hundred burnt alive—” All right—nowhere near our interests—

     “France honours America's greatest son”

     Not me—”though I did get the Old Legion of Honour.

     (appalled—) Wilbur Owen!

     (calmer) That can't be our Bill!

Blanche.

Suppose you were to read it?

Joe.

     “The greatest since the Renaissance,” whatever that was— “the pure genius of his immortal conception in unsullied by any flaw; Our own great Rodin” — Blanchy dear, this is the speech of the President of the French Republic— “our own great Rodin had neither his vigor nor his mastery of form. The American Eagle came to the Eyrie of the French Eagles—and the stranger looked upon the sun with lidless eye undazzled as no man had done since Titian and Michael Angelo. Son of the morning! Time bows her laurelled brow before thy conquering falchion; France, nurse of Art, thy foster-mother, confirms upon thy forehead the wreath of bays immortal that thy fingers twisted for thy coronal.” This is Bill! This is the President of the French Republic on Bill! (sarcastically) The idea is a simple one. Bill became a French citizen; so we'll put him in the Pantheon. As an American born, won't America join in the celebration? Like Kelly will.

     And here's our boob President's cable.

     “May I not be the first—”

     Oh damnation, what a rotten world!

Blanche.

You always hated Bill; you were always afraid of him; you knew in your heart that he was a better man.

Joe.

     The hell I did!

     —“Death doubly lamentable in that it leaves no man worthy to raise a fitting monument over the mortal part of him.”

     Oh — oh — oh!

(He is attacked by apoplexy).

Blanche.

(screams) What's the matter?

(screams again and again)

Help! the master's sick.

(Emily and Tim rush in).

Emily.

Ring for the doctor, Tim!

(She tends Joe. Blanche in violent emotion of several kinds—on the point of a breakdown. Time phones).

Emily.

I'm afraid this is a bad business, madam; my brother went that way last year.

Tim.

I got him just as he was starting. He'll be around in a minute.

Blanche.

A minute! a minute! I'm in eternity, and I'm a damned soul. I'm thirsty.

Tim.

Drink some water, ma'am. I'm sure you'll feel better.

(Blanche drinks convulsively, and sits down, calmer. A little more mistress of herself, she pulls up her dress and injects Morphine in her thigh).

Tim.

That's the doctor, ma'am.

(goes to admit him).

Dr.

Good morning, Mrs. Davies. Ah, I see——tut-tut. (Examines Joe).

Blanche.

That means he's dead. I thought so.

Dr.

I warned him less than a month ago that he had a tendency to apoplexy. Too much breakfast—some unusual excitement—ah well, we must all go one day.

Blanche.

Thank you very much for you tactful consolations. Can the body be moved to the bedroom?

Dr.

Certainly, of course. I'll sign the certificate at once. There'll be no trouble.

Blanche.

(lighting a cigarette). I am much too prostrated by grief to attend to anything. Tim, ring up Mr. Holz, and have him be careful about how the market takes the news, and then he can come round here and see to everything. Good morning, doctor.

Dr.

Good morning, madam. (goes).

Blanche.

(mysteriously). Come back, Tim, when you've phoned.

Tim.

Yes, Ma'am.

(He goes. Blanche very restless, gives herself another shot of morphine. Tim returns with two footmen, who begin to remove the body).

Blanche.

You've got the combination of the safe, Tim?

Tim.

Yes, but he had the key, ma'am.

Blanche.

They used to be on a chain. Ah, here they are.

(the men remove the corpse).

Blanche.

Get the will out, Tim.

(Tim opens the safe, and finds will, and brings it to her. She reads).

Blanche.

Oh, that's alright, that's fine. What's this? Oh he surely had a sense of humour. He insured himself for a million, so that he should make that even by dying—and he left poor old Bill a dollar, and you a thousand, Tim.

Tim.

Very satisfactory, I'm sure, Ma'am.

(he moves around, very nervous, restless, distraught, as if he had something on his mind. A long pause for this).

Tim.

May I say something very frankly, madam?

Blanche.

You may, Tim, if it's not very long.

Tim.

Have I given satisfaction to you and the master, madam?

Blanche.

You bet you have! You have been honest, loyal, obedient, diligent, uncomplaining, faithful, truthful, careful, accurate, mindful, Jesus Christ, I never knew there were so many virtues, and you've got 'em all.

Tim.

Yes, ma'am, I believe I have. And I can't stand it any more. Everything I do seems to turn to a thousand dollars. This last is the crusher — and — having no master.

Blanche.

Yes, whatever you had, you would never have anything, because there's no you to have it. You're only a copy-book with noble precepts beautifully printed—and not even a child to scrawl over it.

Tim.

Indeed that's true, ma'am. If I've served you well, may I ask you one favour?

Blanche.

I will not, positively will not——kiss you, Tim!

Tim.

Indeed, Ma'am, Emily wouldn't like it if you did. I only wanted—tell me, isn't there an easy way to die?

Blanche.

Easier than living, Tim. Oh yes, death is a delicious delirium when you know how.

Tim.

Is that — — — —

(He gasps with fear at the thought of a ‘drug’).

— — — — morphia?

Blanche.

It is, Tim.

Tim.

May I—may I—have some—just enough, you know— —

Blanche.

Sure, take some of these tablets. Four now, six when you begin to feel sleepy. Gorgeous dreams, and never wake up!

(gives pills).

Tim.

Thank you, ma'am, thank you! I humbly take my leave. I'm glad I've given you satisfaction, ma'am.

Blanche.

Goo' bye, and goo' luck: Say, look here, don't die about the house. Take a room in a hotel. I can't have my home all cluttered up with corpses.

Tim.

Yes, ma'am.

(he goes out).

Blanche.

(yawns) I think I'll wear my Hungarian today; or shall it be my man from the Sicilian Players? Perhaps it would be more proper to go straight into full mourning. Oh, I'm so tired of men!

(injects herself).

Blanche.

So tired.

(a knock. Enter footman).

Footman.

Excuse me, ma'am, there's a Miss Grey here, who had an appointment. I told her the news, and she requested to see you, ma'am.

Blanche.

Now that's really amusing—shew her in.

(he goes. Blanche darts to the mirror and powders herself, etc.)

Footman.

(returns). Miss Grey!

(Adela walks in).

Blanche.

Adela, you sweetest thing, how well you look!

Adela.

My darling Blanche, you're lovelier than ever.

Blanche.

Oh, I am so glad to see you!

Adela.

Indeed there's no friends like old friends, though we did have our quarrels.

Blanche.

I've nothing but love for you, dearest.

Adela.

I wish I'd been kinder to you.

Blanche.

Oh, do sit down, sweetheart, and let me tell you all about Joe dying this morning.

Adela.

Oh, I should just love to hear it.

Blanche.

It was all your fault, really, for you did everything to make Bill what he was. So, when Joe heard Bill, whom he despised for a fool, called America's greatest son, he just got apoplexy. What a lovely dress that is, dear!

Adela.

Yes, it's Doucet. My circumstances have changed a good deal since Bill died, of course. The dear boy was hardly dead three months, before they discovered him. It's been a fury of work, but I've put him where he belongs—with the great Gods that pity men and come to live among them. He liked me best in ivy-green and violet, because of my hair.

Blanche.

He liked me best in beggar's rags.

Adela.

I wish you'd tell me that story one day. I never asked Bill what happened, nor let him tell me. I had a feeling about it;—I can't explain it.

Blanche.

I can, he really loved me for a few minutes. You see I had been lording it over men all my life, and the wild beast in him wanted to tame me, hurt me, humiliate me, trample me.

Adela.

I see. And you liked it?

Blanche.

What woman wouldn't? I know lots of suffragettes who'd give their ears to be kicked by a navvy.

Adela.

No; some women can't enjoy anything. The Emily type.

Blanche.

Women! The world's full of blind, deaf, senseless, sexless, soulless worms—the Emily type! I don't call her a woman.

(a knock).

Blanche.

Come in!

Emily.

(in great agitation). Oh. I beg your pardon, ma'am, most humbly, but is Tim here? Has he gone out?

Blanche.

Your agitation appears to betoken some distress.

Emily.

I've a letter of farewell, ma'am, from Tim, and now I can't find him.

Blanche.

Well, to cut short your anxieties, Emily, Tim went out of the house recently. His intention (as I understand) is to take a room at a hotel, under an assumed name, and poison himself.

Adela.

Blanche, how can you?

(she goes and comforts Emily, who is sitting half collapsed trembling and crying. She is more like 79 than her 49).

Emily.

How could he? How could he? After all these years?

Blanche.

But that's it, Emily; that's where you pay for your folly in trying to create a permanent tie in a world of impermanence!

Adela.

There's wisdom in those words, though they seem cruel.

Blanche.

Emily, did you ever have a good time in your life?

Emily.

Oh, Ma'am, nothing ever happened, and I kind of got used to it.

Blanche.

Well, I had only one time which counted, and I was just going to tell about it when you came in. It was a strictly temporary good time, by agreement; yes, it was when Wilbur Owen took me away from Paris. We walked all night; by sunrise, I was cold and hungry, and my shoes pinched me—you remember, I was dressed for dinner—and he was more carrying me than helping me to walk.

Adela.

Ah! you liked that!

Blanche.

You bet. Well, a guard stopped us, thought he was an Apache looting a vaudeville star, I guess. Then Bill said, “Be of good cheer, citizen. The republic is safe. We are doing it for a bet.” That re-assured him. When we got to the village, we had the only breakfast I had ever tasted. And then he said, “Mustn't Joe's dollar,” and paid the man with one of my rings. He did that all the way. That's where all my pearls are. There was one ring I really loved, a great ruby set in platinum. One night—we had crossed the Sierra something in the blazing sun—we got down to a hamlet—nothing to eat or drink but goat's milk. Believe me I drank it. I can taste it now. I took that ruby ring to pay for it—though we had money by that time. Bill exhibited me as a wild woman of the woods—made me eat mice and live rabbits for a show—when my evening dress fell off my back, he got me a gypsy dress—and I swear I looked fine. We were walking twenty miles a day you know. I was lean, and strong and almost brown; I've never had the same skin since. And every night—every night, we lay awake under the stars, or in some stable when the weather was bad, or in some funny old inn, and drank great gouts of wine; rough, red, strong wine, poured from a goatskin into our heads thrown back. And oh! what bounty! And what skill and strength of love! The crying need of this country is technical education. He took me to the highest peak of the Pyrenees, as we crossed them—we were barefoot those days—he said it fille one with the strength of the earth's currents—and there on the glittering snow, he told me for the first and only time in words “I LOVE YOU.” Ah, but the whole was love! I had never seen, known, felt anything in my life until that halcyon summer. When the sun rose, he would wake me with “Come kiss me, Blanche the lily, redden your petals with the wine of the day, the first spilth of the sun'd flagon”; or else I would wake to find him gesticulating, dancing, crying aloud some ole Egyptian incantation to the Sun:

(intones).

Blanche.

Aka-dua

Tuf ur biu

Di a'a chefu

Dudu ner af an nuteru.

—or else he would wake me with cadenced caresses, every whisper, every touch, a masterpiece of art, and yet with all the pulse of his soul to inform it! Oh, my dear, how I hate Gibraltar! The three months was up, the day we got there. I'm proud of one thing—he left me without saying goodbye. I woke up and he wasn't there. I think that shows he loved me a little, don't you.

Adela.

No, dear. What you have described so eloquently is his Formula No. 5. I have them all worked out in some of his note-books.

Blanche.

(fiercely) Then he loved you like that?

Adela.

Oh, no, dearest. No. 5 is only for very hard cases.

Blanche.

Oh, don't laugh at me! Oh, I don't care.—He was my Formula five and twenty.

Adela.

But honest, Blanche dear, you were splendid. I remember you as a young girl, yawning over a copy of Psychopathia Sexualis. You talked almost as he did, and you felt it too.

Blanche.

He made a woman out of me; and gave me a soul, with gauzy wings of fire and air—

Adela.

But— — —

Blanche.

Ah, damn it, I know. I came back to Joe, to New York. New York is the home of dead souls. Mine died when I first took chocolate in bed again. Young woman, beware! The chocolate habit is the brief precursor of the morphine habit. Wine from a got-skin's the only safe drink there is.

Adela.

And wine from the flagon of the sun!

Blanche.

He spilt words like strong wine.

I'm sobered now—I soon conquered the chocolate habit. Oh if you only knew—he created me, and my soul wails within me. It's not that I love him—it's the things he stood for—the real me wants life straight from the flagon of the sun. I've seen gin-drinking in the slums; it's not the same thing.

Emily.

Oh, ma'am, how can you talk so?

Blanche.

Blind, deaf, senseless, sexless worms of the slime—the bourgeoisie!—the Pillars of Society! But you, Adela, how is it with you? You had him all your life?

Adela.

Yes. I drank his wine; but it was always my own wine. I was his mate in everything. I should always have lived some sort of sun-life. But he shone day and night!

Emily.

Oh, Miss Grey, then why weren't you married to him?

Adela.

Too busy loving. Yes, I've had all the earth has to offer.

Emily.

Oh, Miss Grey, but you haven't had the great joy of children!

Adela.

Excuse me for saying so, Emily, but in this case, unless I err, you have been shamefully misinformed? It is possible, though hardly unlikely, that I may be mistaken on the point, but I seem to myself to have a boy of twenty-five—he's Wilbur all over! and a girl of twenty, whom I attribute, though with diffidence, to a very nice    Spanish boy, a toreador.

Emily.

Oh, Miss Grey, how can you say such things?

Adela.

Fingers were made before forks, and nature before marriage certificates.

Emily.

But one doesn't eat with one's fingers.

Blanche.

Oh yes, one does—asparagus.

Emily.

It's awful—it's flying in the face of Providence.

Adela.

Perhaps Providence made birds.

Emily.

I don't understand. I'm afraid I've got nothing out of life.

Adela.

I've got everything.

Blanche.

I've got morphine.

(she injects herself as the Curtain falls).