THE FIRST ACT
The scene represents a well-furnished drawing-room in the house of Mr. Posket in Bloomsbury.
Beatie Tomlinson, a pretty, simply dressed little girl of about sixteen, is playing the piano, as Cis Farringdon, a manly youth wearing an Eton jacket, enters the room.
Cis.
Beatie!
Beatie.
Cis dear! Dinner isn’t over, surely?
Cis.
Not quite. I had one of my convenient headaches and cleared out. [Taking an apple and some cobnuts from his pocket and giving them to Beatie.] These are for you, dear, with my love. I sneaked ’em off the sideboard as I came out.
Beatie.
Oh, I mustn’t take them!
Cis.
Yes, you may—it’s my share of dessert. Besides, it’s a horrid shame you don’t grub with us.
Beatie.
What, a poor little music mistress!
Cis.
Yes. They’re only going to give you four guineas a quarter. Fancy getting a girl like you for four guineas a quarter—why, an eighth of you is worth more than that! Now peg away at your apple.
[Produces a cigarette.
Beatie.
There’s company at dinner, isn’t there?
[Munching her apple.
Cis.
Well, hardly. Aunt Charlotte hasn’t arrived yet, so there’s only old Bullamy.
Beatie.
Isn’t old Bullamy anybody?
Cis.
Old Bullamy—well, he’s only like the guv’nor, a police magistrate at the Mulberry Street Police Court.
Beatie.
Oh, does each police court have two magistrates?
Cis.
[Proudly.] All the best have two.
Beatie.
Don’t they quarrel over getting the interesting cases? I should.
Cis.
I don’t know how they manage—perhaps they toss up who’s to hear the big sensations. There’s a Mrs. Beldam, who is rather a bore sometimes; I know the Guv always lets old Bullamy attend to her. But, as a rule, I fancy they go half and half, in a friendly way. [Lighting cigarette.] For instance, if the guv’nor wants to go to the Derby he lets old Bullamy have the Oaks—and so on, see?
[He sits on the floor, comfortably reclining against Beatie, and puffing his cigarette.
Beatie.
Oh, I say, Cis, won’t your mamma be angry when she finds I haven’t gone home?
Cis.
Oh, put it on to your pupil. Say I’m very backward.
Beatie.
I think you are extremely forward—in some ways. [Biting the apple and speaking with her mouth full.] I do wish I could get you to concentrate your attention on your music lessons. But I wouldn’t get you into a scrape!
Cis.
No fear of that. Ma is too proud of me.
Beatie.
But there’s your step-father.
Cis.
The dear old guv’nor! Why, he is too good-natured to say “Bo!” to a goose. You know, Beatie, I was at a school at Brighton when ma got married—when she got married the second time, I mean—and the guv’nor and I didn’t make each other’s acquaintance till after the honeymoon.
Beatie.
Oh, fancy your step-father blindly accepting such a responsibility.
[Gives him a cobnut to crack for her.
Cis.
Yes, wasn’t the guv’nor soft! I might have been a very indifferent sort of young fellow for all he knew.
[Having cracked the nut with his teeth, he returns it to her.
Beatie.
Thank you, dear.
Cis.
Well, when I heard the new dad was a police magistrate, I was scared. Said I to myself, “If I don’t mind my P’s and Q’s, the guv’nor—from force of habit—will fine me all my pocket-money.” But it’s quite the reverse—he’s the mildest, meekest——[The door opens suddenly.] Look out! Some one coming!
[They both jump up, Beatie scattering the nuts that are in her lap all over the floor. Cis throws his cigarette into the fireplace and sits at the piano, playing a simple exercise, very badly. Beatie stands behind him counting.
Beatie.
One—and two—and one—and two.
Wyke, the butler, appears at the door, and mysteriously closes it after him.
Wyke.
Ssss! Master Cis! Master Cis!
Cis.
Hallo—what is it, Wyke?
Wyke.
[Producing a decanter from under his coat.] The port wine what you asked for, sir. I couldn’t get it away before—the old gentlemen do hug port wine so.
Cis.
Got a glass?
Wyke.
Yes, sir. [Producing wine-glass from his pocket, and pouring out wine.] What ain’t missed ain’t mourned, eh, Master Cis?
Cis.
[Offering wine.] Here you are, Beatie dear.
Beatie.
The idea of such a thing! I couldn’t!
Cis.
Why not?
Beatie.
If I merely sipped it I shouldn’t be able to give you your music lesson properly. Drink it yourself, you dear, thoughtful boy.
Cis.
I shan’t—it’s for you.
Beatie.
I can’t drink it!
Cis.
You must.
Beatie.
I won’t!
Cis.
You’re disagreeable!
Beatie.
Not half so disagreeable as you are.
[They wrangle.
Wyke.
[To himself, watching them.] What a young gentleman it is! and only fourteen! Fourteen—he behaves like forty! [Cis chokes as he is drinking the wine; Beatie pats him on the back.] Why, even Cook has made a ’ash of everything, since he’s been in the house, and as for Popham——! [Seeing some one approaching.] Look out, Master Cis!
[Cis returns to the piano, Beatie counting as before. Wyke pretends to arrange the window curtains, concealing the decanter behind him.
Beatie.
One and two—and one and two—and one, &c.
Enter Popham, a smart-looking maid-servant.
Popham.
Wyke, where’s the port?
Wyke.
[Vacantly.] Port?
Popham.
Port wine. Missus is furious.
Wyke.
Port?
Popham.
[Pointing to the decanter.] Why! There! You’re carrying it about with you!
Wyke.
Why, so I am! Carrying it about with me! Shows what a sharp eye I keep on the guv’nor’s wines. Carrying it about with me! Missus will be amused.
[Goes out.
Popham.
[Eyeing Cis and Beatie.] There’s that boy with her again! Minx! Her two hours was up long ago. Why doesn’t she go home? Master Cis, I’ve got a message for you.
Cis.
[Rising from the piano.] For me, Popham?
Popham.
Yes, sir. [Quietly to him.] The message is from a young lady who up to last Wednesday was all in all to you. Her name is Emma Popham.
Cis.
[Trying to get away.] Oh, go along, Popham!
Popham.
[Holding his sleeve.] Ah, it wasn’t “Go along, Popham” till that music girl came into the house. I will go along, but—cast your eye over this before you sleep to-night. [She takes out of her pocket-handkerchief a piece of printed paper which she hands him between her finger and thumb.] Part of a story in “Bow Bells,” called “Jilted; or, Could Blood Atone?” Wrap it in your handkerchief—it came round the butter.
[She goes out; Cis throws the paper into the grate.
Cis.
Bother the girl! Beatie, she’s jealous of you!
Beatie.
A parlour-maid jealous of me—and with a bit of a child of fourteen!
Cis.
I may be only fourteen, but I feel like a grown-up man! You’re only sixteen—there’s not much difference—and if you will only wait for me, I’ll soon catch you up and be as much a man as you are a woman. Will you wait for me, Beatie?
Beatie.
I can’t—I’m getting older every minute!
Cis.
Oh, I wish I could borrow five or six years from somebody!
Beatie.
Many a person would be glad to lend them. [Lovingly.] And oh, I wish you could!
Cis.
[Putting his arm round her.] You do! Why?
Beatie.
Because I—because——
Cis.
[Listening.] Look out! Here’s the mater!
[They run to the piano, he resumes playing, and she counting as before.
Beatie.
One and two—and one—and two, &c.
Enter Agatha Posket, a handsome, showy woman, of about thirty-six, looking perhaps younger.
Agatha Posket.
Why, Cis child, at your music again?
Cis.
Yes, ma, always at it. You’ll spoil my taste by forcing it if you’re not careful.
Agatha Posket.
We have no right to keep Miss Tomlinson so late.
Beatie.
Oh, thank you, it doesn’t matter. I—I—am afraid we’re not making—very—great—progress.
Cis.
[Winking at Beatie.] Well, if I play that again, will you kiss me?
Beatie.
[Demurely.] I don’t know, I’m sure. [To Agatha Posket.] May I promise that, ma’am?
[Sits in the window recess. Cis, joining her, puts his arm round her waist.
Agatha Posket.
No, certainly not. [To herself, watching them.] If I could only persuade Æneas to dismiss this protégée of his, and to engage a music-master, it would ease my conscience a little. If this girl knew the truth, how indignant she would be! And then there is the injustice to the boy himself, and to my husband’s friends who are always petting and fondling and caressing what they call “a fine little man of fourteen!” Fourteen! Oh, what an idiot I have been to conceal my child’s real age! [Looking at the clock.] Charlotte is late; I wish she would come. It will be a relief to worry her with my troubles.
Mr. Posket.
[Talking outside.] We smoke all over the house, Bullamy, all over the house.
Agatha Posket.
I will speak to Æneas about this little girl, at any rate.
Enter Mr. Posket, a mild gentleman of about fifty, smoking a cigarette, followed by Mr. Bullamy, a fat, red-faced man with a bronchial cough and general huskiness.
Mr. Posket.
Smoke anywhere, Bullamy—smoke anywhere.
Mr. Bullamy.
Not with my bronchitis, thank ye.
Mr. Posket.
[Beaming at Agatha Posket.] Ah, my darling!
Mr. Bullamy.
[Producing a small box from his waistcoat pocket.] All I take after dinner is a jujube—sometimes two. [Offering the box.] May I tempt Mrs. Posket?
Agatha Posket.
No, thank you. [Treading on one of the nuts which have been scattered over the room.] How provoking—who brings nuts into the drawing-room?
Mr. Posket.
Miss Tomlinson still here? [To Beatie.] Don’t go, don’t go. Glad to see Cis so fond of his music. Your sister Charlotte is behind her time, my darling.
Agatha Posket.
Her train is delayed, I suppose.
Mr. Posket.
You must stay and see my sister-in-law, Bullamy.
Mr. Bullamy.
Pleasure—pleasure!
Mr. Posket.
I have never met her yet, we will share first impressions. In the interim, will Miss Tomlinson delight us with a little music?
Mr. Bullamy.
[Bustling up to the piano.] If this young lady is going to sing she might like one of my jujubes.
[Beatie sits at the piano with Cis and Mr. Bullamy on each side of her. Mr. Posket treads on a nut as he walks over to his wife.
Mr. Posket.
Dear me—how come nuts into the drawing-room? [To Agatha.] Of what is my darling thinking so deeply? [Treads on another nut.] Another! My pet, there are nuts on the drawing-room carpet!
Agatha Posket.
Yes, I want to speak to you, Æneas.
Mr. Posket.
About the nuts?
Agatha Posket.
No—about Miss Tomlinson—your little protégée.
Mr. Posket.
Ah, nice little thing.
Agatha Posket.
Very. But not old enough to exert any decided influence over the boy’s musical future. Why not engage a master?
Mr. Posket.
What, for a mere child?
Agatha Posket.
A mere child—oh!
Mr. Posket.
A boy of fourteen!
Agatha Posket.
[To herself.] Fourteen!
Mr. Posket.
A boy of fourteen, not yet out of Czerny’s exercises.
Agatha Posket.
[To herself.] If we were alone now, I might have the desperation to tell him all!
Mr. Posket.
Besides, my darling, you know the interest I take in Miss Tomlinson; she is one of the brightest little spots on my hobby-horse. Like all our servants, like everybody in my employ, she has been brought to my notice through the unhappy medium of the Police Court over which it is my destiny to preside. Our servant, Wyke, a man with a beautiful nature, is the son of a person I committed for trial for marrying three wives. To this day, Wyke is ignorant as to which of those three wives he is the son of! Cook was once a notorious dipsomaniac, and has even now not entirely freed herself from early influences. Popham is the unclaimed charge of a convicted baby-farmer. Even our milkman came before me as a man who had refused to submit specimens to the analytic inspector. And this poor child, what is she?
Agatha Posket.
Yes, I know.
Mr. Posket.
The daughter of a superannuated General, who abstracted four silk umbrellas from the Army and Navy Stores—and on a fine day too!
[Beatie ceases playing.
Mr. Bullamy.
Very good—very good!
Mr. Posket.
Thank you—thank you!
Mr. Bullamy.
[To Mr. Posket, coughing and laughing and popping a jujube into his mouth.] My dear Posket, I really must congratulate you on that boy of yours—your stepson. A most wonderful lad. So confoundedly advanced too.
Mr. Posket.
Yes, isn’t he? Eh!
Mr. Bullamy.
[Confidentially.] While the piano was going on just now, he told me one of the most humorous stories I’ve ever heard. [Laughing heartily and panting, then taking another jujube.] Ha, ha, bless me, I don’t know when I have taken so many jujubes!
Mr. Posket.
My dear Bullamy, my entire marriage is the greatest possible success. A little romantic, too. [Pointing to Agatha Posket.] Beautiful woman!
Mr. Bullamy.
Very, very. I never committed a more stylish, elegant creature.
Mr. Posket.
Thank you, Bullamy—we met abroad, at Spa, when I was on my holiday.
Wyke enters with tea-tray, which he hands round.
Mr. Bullamy.
I shall go there next year.
Mr. Posket.
She lost her first husband about twelve months ago in India. He was an army contractor.
Beatie.
[To Cis at the piano.] I must go now—there’s no excuse for staying any longer.
Cis.
[To her disconsolately.] What the deuce shall I do?
Mr. Posket.
[Pouring out milk.] Dear me, this milk seems very poor. When he died, she came to England, placed her boy at a school in Brighton, and then moved about quietly from place to place, drinking——
[Sips tea.
Mr. Bullamy.
Drinking?
Mr. Posket.
The waters—she’s a little dyspeptic. [Wyke goes out.] We encountered each other at the Tours des Fontaines—by accident I trod upon her dress——
Beatie.
Good-night, Cis dear.
Cis.
Oh!
Mr. Posket.
[Continuing to Mr. Bullamy.] I apologised. We talked about the weather, we drank out of the same glass, discovered that we both suffered from the same ailment, and the result is complete happiness.
[He bends over Agatha Posket gallantly.
Agatha Posket.
Æneas!
[He kisses her, then Cis kisses Beatie, loudly; Mr. Posket and Mr. Bullamy both listen puzzled.
Mr. Posket.
Echo?
Mr. Bullamy.
Suppose so!
[He kisses the back of his hand experimentally; Beatie kisses Cis.
Mr. Bullamy.
Yes.
Mr. Posket.
Curious. [To Mr. Bullamy.] Romantic story, isn’t it?
Beatie.
Good-night, Mrs. Posket! I shall be here early to-morrow morning.
Agatha Posket.
I am afraid you are neglecting your other pupils.
Beatie.
Oh, they’re not so interesting as Cis—[correcting herself] Master Farringdon. Good-night.
Agatha Posket.
Good-night, dear.
[Beatie goes out quietly; Agatha Posket joins Cis.
Mr. Posket.
[To Mr. Bullamy.] We were married abroad without consulting friends or relations on either side. That’s how it is I have never seen my sister-in-law, Miss Verrinder, who is coming from Shropshire to stay with us—she ought to——
Wyke enters.
Wyke.
Miss Verrinder has come, ma’am.
Mr. Posket.
Here she is.
Agatha Posket.
Charlotte?
Charlotte, a fine handsome girl, enters, followed by Popham with hand luggage.
Agatha Posket.
[Kissing her.] My dear Charley.
[Wyke goes out.
Charlotte.
Aggy darling, aren’t I late! There’s a fog on the line—you could cut it with a knife. [Seeing Cis.] Is that your boy?
Agatha Posket.
Yes.
Charlotte.
Good gracious! What is he doing in an Eton jacket at his age?
Agatha Posket.
[Softly to Charlotte.] Hush! don’t say a word about my boy’s age yet awhile.
Charlotte.
Oh!
Agatha Posket.
[About to introduce Mr. Posket.] There is my husband.
Charlotte.
[Mistaking Mr. Bullamy for him.] Oh! how could she! [To Mr. Bullamy, turning her cheek to him.] I congratulate you—I suppose you ought to kiss me.
Agatha Posket.
No, no!
Mr. Posket.
Welcome to my house, Miss Verrinder.
Charlotte.
Oh, I beg your pardon. How do you do?
Mr. Bullamy.
[To himself.] Mrs. Posket’s an interfering woman.
Mr. Posket.
[Pointing to Mr. Bullamy.] Mr. Bullamy.
[Mr. Bullamy, aggrieved, bows stiffly.
Agatha Posket.
[To Charlotte.] Come upstairs, dear; will you have some tea?
Charlotte.
No thank you, pet, but I should like a glass of soda water.
Agatha Posket.
Soda water!
Charlotte.
Well dear, you can put what you like at the bottom of it.
[Agatha Posket and Charlotte go out, Popham following.
Popham.
[To Cis.] Give me back my “Bow Bells,” when you have read it, you imp.
[Goes out.
Cis.
By Jove, Guv, isn’t Aunt Charlotte a stunner?
Mr. Posket.
Seems a charming woman.
Mr. Bullamy.
Posket’s got the wrong one! That comes of marrying without first seeing the lady’s relations.
Cis.
Come along, Guv—let’s have a gamble—Mr. Bullamy will join us.
[Opens the card-table, arranges chairs and candles.
Mr. Bullamy.
A gamble?
Mr. Posket.
Yes—the boy has taught me a new game called “Fireworks;” his mother isn’t aware that we play for money, of course, but we do.
Mr. Bullamy.
Ha, ha, ha! Who wins?
Mr. Posket.
He does now—but he says I shall win when I know the game better.
Mr. Bullamy.
What a boy he is!
Mr. Posket.
Isn’t he a wonderful lad? And only fourteen, too. I’ll tell you something else—perhaps you had better not mention it to his mother.
Mr. Bullamy.
No, no, certainly not.
Mr. Posket.
He’s invested a little money for me.
Mr. Bullamy.
What in?
Mr. Posket.
Not in—on—on Sillikin for the Lincolnshire Handicap. Sillikin to win and Butterscotch one, two, three.
Mr. Bullamy.
Good Lord!
Mr. Posket.
Yes, the dear boy said, “Guv, it isn’t fair you should give me all the tips, I’ll give you some,”—and he did—he gave me Sillikin and Butterscotch. He’ll manage it for you, if you like. “Plank it down,” he calls it.
Mr. Bullamy.
[Chuckling and choking.] Ha! ha! Ho! ho! [Taking a jujube.] This boy will ruin me in jujubes.
Cis.
All ready! Look sharp! Guv, lend me a sov to start with?
Mr. Posket.
A sov to start with? [They sit at the table. Agatha Posket and Charlotte come into the room.] We didn’t think you would return so soon, my darling.
Agatha Posket.
Go on amusing yourselves, I insist, only don’t teach my Cis to play cards.
Mr. Bullamy.
Ho! ho!
Mr. Posket.
[To Mr. Bullamy.] Hush! Hush!
Agatha Posket.
[To Charlotte.] I’m glad of this—we can tell each other our miseries undisturbed. Will you begin?
Charlotte.
Well, at last I am engaged to Captain Horace Vale.
Agatha Posket.
Oh! Charley, I’m so glad!
Charlotte.
Yes—so is he—he says. He proposed to me at the Hunt Ball—in the passage—Tuesday week.
Agatha Posket.
What did he say?
Charlotte.
He said, “By Jove, I love you awfully.”
Agatha Posket.
Well—and what did you say?
Charlotte.
Oh, I said, “Well, if you’re going to be as eloquent as all that, by Jove, I can’t stand out.” So we settled it, in the passage. He bars flirting till after we’re married. That’s my misery. What’s yours, Aggy?
Agatha Posket.
Something awful!
Charlotte.
Cheer up, Aggy! What is it?
Agatha Posket.
Well, Charley, you know I lost my poor dear first husband at a very delicate age.
Charlotte.
Well, you were five-and-thirty, dear.
Agatha Posket.
Yes, that’s what I mean. Five-and-thirty is a very delicate age to find yourself single. You’re neither one thing nor the other. You’re not exactly a two-year-old, and you don’t care to pull a hansom. However, I soon met Mr. Posket at Spa—bless him!
Charlotte.
And you nominated yourself for the Matrimonial Stakes. Mr. Farringdon’s The Widow, by Bereavement, out of Mourning, ten pounds extra.
Agatha Posket.
Yes, Charley, and in less than a month I went triumphantly over the course. But, Charley dear, I didn’t carry the fair weight for age—and that’s my trouble.
Charlotte.
Oh, dear!
Agatha Posket.
Undervaluing Æneas’ love, in a moment of, I hope, not unjustifiable vanity, I took five years from my total, which made me thirty-one on my wedding morning.
Charlotte.
Well, dear, many a misguided woman has done that before you.
Agatha Posket.
Yes, Charley, but don’t you see the consequences? It has thrown everything out. As I am now thirty-one, instead of thirty-six as I ought to be, it stands to reason that I couldn’t have been married twenty years ago, which I was. So I have had to fib in proportion.
Charlotte.
I see—making your first marriage occur only fifteen years ago.
Agatha Posket.
Exactly.
Charlotte.
Well then, dear, why worry yourself further?
Agatha Posket.
Why, dear, don’t you see? If I am only thirty-one now, my boy couldn’t have been born nineteen years ago, and if he could, he oughtn’t to have been, because, on my own showing, I wasn’t married till four years later. Now you see the result!
Charlotte.
Which is, that that fine strapping young gentleman over there is only fourteen.
Agatha Posket.
Precisely. Isn’t it awkward! and his moustache is becoming more and more obvious every day.
Charlotte.
What does the boy himself believe?
Agatha Posket.
He believes his mother, of course, as a boy should. As a prudent woman, I always kept him in ignorance of his age—in case of necessity. But it is terribly hard on the poor child, because his aims, instincts, and ambitions are all so horribly in advance of his condition. His food, his books, his amusements are out of keeping with his palate, his brain, and his disposition; and with all this suffering—his wretched mother has the remorseful consciousness of having shortened her offspring’s life.
Charlotte.
Oh, come, you haven’t quite done that.
Agatha Posket.
Yes, I have—because, if he lives to be a hundred, he must be buried at ninety-five.
Charlotte.
That’s true.
Agatha Posket.
Then, there’s another aspect. He’s a great favourite with all our friends—women friends especially. Even his little music mistress and the girl-servants hug and kiss him because he’s such an engaging boy, and I can’t stop it. But it’s very awful to see these innocent women fondling a young man of nineteen.
Charlotte.
The women don’t know it.
Agatha Posket.
But they’d like to know it. I mean they ought to know it! The other day I found my poor boy sitting on Lady Jenkins’s lap, and in the presence of Sir George. I have no right to compromise Lady Jenkins in that way. And now, Charley, you see the whirlpool in which I am struggling—if you can throw me a rope, pray do.
Charlotte.
What sort of a man is Mr. Posket, Aggy?
Agatha Posket.
The best creature in the world. He’s a practical philanthropist.
Charlotte.
Um—he’s a Police Magistrate, too, isn’t he?
Agatha Posket.
Yes, but he pays out of his own pocket half the fines he inflicts. That’s why he has had a reprimand from the Home Office for inflicting such light penalties. All our servants have graduated at Mulberry Street. Most of the pictures in the dining-room are genuine Constables.
Charlotte.
Take my advice—tell him the whole story.
Agatha Posket.
I dare not!
Charlotte.
Why?
Agatha Posket.
I should have to take such a back seat for the rest of my married life.
[The party at the card-table breaks up.
Mr. Bullamy.
[Grumpily.] No, thank you, not another minute. [To Mr. Posket.] What is the use of talking about revenge, my dear Posket, when I haven’t a penny piece left to play with?
Mr. Posket.
I’m in the same predicament! Cis will lend us some money, won’t you, Cis?
Cis.
Rather!
Mr. Bullamy.
No, thank ye, that boy is one too many for me. I’ve never met such a child. Good-night, Mrs. Posket. [Treads on a nut.] Confound the nuts!
Agatha Posket.
Going so early?
Cis.
[To Mr. Posket.] I hate a bad loser, don’t you Guv?
Agatha Posket.
Show Mr. Bullamy down stairs, Cis.
Mr. Bullamy.
Good-night, Posket. Oh! I haven’t a shilling left for my cabman.
Cis.
I’ll pay the cab.
Mr. Bullamy.
No, thank you! I’ll walk. [Opening jujube box.] Bah! Not even a jujube left and on a foggy night, too! Ugh!
[Goes out.
Enter Wyke with four letters on salver.
Cis.
[To Wyke.] Any for me?
Wyke.
One, sir.
Cis.
[To himself.] From Achille Blond; lucky the mater didn’t see it.
[Goes out.
[Wyke hands letters to Agatha Posket, who takes two, then to Mr. Posket, who takes one.
Agatha Posket.
This is for you, Charley—already.
[Wyke goes out.
Charlotte.
Spare my blushes, dear—it’s from Horace, Captain Vale. The dear wretch knew I was coming to you. Heigho! Will you excuse me?
Mr. Posket.
Certainly.
Agatha Posket.
Excuse me, please?
Charlotte.
Certainly, my dear.
Mr. Posket.
Certainly, my darling. Excuse me, won’t you?
Charlotte.
Oh, certainly.
Agatha Posket.
Certainly, Æneas.
[Simultaneously they all open their letters, and lean back and read.
Agatha Posket.
[Reading.] Lady Jenkins is not feeling very well.
Charlotte.
If Captain Horace Vale stood before me at this moment, I’d slap his face!
Agatha Posket.
Charlotte!
Charlotte.
[Reading.] “Dear Miss Verrinder,—Your desperate flirtation with Major Bristow at the Meet on Tuesday last, three days after our engagement, has just come to my knowledge. Your letters and gifts, including the gold-headed hair-pin given me at the Hunt Ball, shall be returned to-morrow. By Jove, all is over! Horace Vale.” Oh, dear!
Agatha Posket.
Oh, Charley, I’m so sorry! However, you can deny it.
Charlotte.
[Weeping.] That’s the worst of it, I can’t.
Mr. Posket.
[To Agatha Posket.] My darling, you will be delighted. A note from Colonel Lukyn.
Agatha Posket.
Lukyn—Lukyn? I seem to know the name.
Mr. Posket.
An old schoolfellow of mine who went to India many years ago. He has just come home. I met him at the club last night and asked him to name an evening to dine with us. He accepts for to-morrow.
Agatha Posket.
Lukyn, Lukyn?
Mr. Posket.
Listen. [Reading.] “It will be especially delightful to me, as I believe I am an old friend of your wife and of her first husband. You may recall me to her recollection by reminding her that I am the Captain Lukyn who stood sponsor to her boy when he was christened at Baroda.”
Agatha Posket.
[Giving a loud scream.] Oh!
Mr. Posket.
My dear!
Agatha Posket.
I’ve twisted my foot.
Mr. Posket.
How do nuts come into the drawing-room?
Charlotte.
[Quietly to Agatha Posket.] Aggy?
Agatha Posket.
[To Charlotte.] The boy’s god-father.
Charlotte.
When was the child christened?
Agatha Posket.
A month after he was born. They always are.
Mr. Posket.
[Reading the letter again.] This is very pleasant.
Agatha Posket.
[To Mr. Posket.] Let—let me see the letter, I—I may recognise the handwriting.
Mr. Posket.
[Handing her the letter.] Certainly, my pet. [To himself.] Awakened memories of Number One. That’s the worst of marrying a widow; somebody is always proving her previous convictions.
Agatha Posket.
[To Charlotte.] “No. 19a, Cork Street!” Charley, put on your things and come with me.
Charlotte.
Agatha, you’re mad!
Agatha Posket.
I’m going to shut this man’s mouth before he comes into this house to-morrow.
Charlotte.
Wait till he comes.
Agatha Posket.
Yes, till he stalks in here with his “How d’ye do, Posket? Haven’t seen your wife since the year ’66, by Gad, sir!” Not I! Æneas!
Mr. Posket.
My dear.
Agatha Posket.
Lady Jenkins—Adelaide—is very ill; she can’t put her foot to the ground with neuralgia.
[Taking the letter from her pocket, and giving it to him.
Mr. Posket.
Bless me!
Agatha Posket.
We have known each other for six long years.
Mr. Posket.
Only six weeks, my love.
Agatha Posket.
Weeks are years in close friendship. My place is by her side.
Mr. Posket.
[Reading the letter.] “Slightly indisposed, caught trifling cold at the Dog Show. Where do you buy your handkerchiefs?” There’s nothing about neuralgia or putting her foot to the ground here, my darling.
Agatha Posket.
No, but can’t you read between the lines, Æneas? That is the letter of a woman who is not at all well.
Mr. Posket.
All right, my darling, if you are bent upon going I will accompany you.
Agatha Posket.
Certainly not, Æneas—Charlotte insists on being my companion; we can keep each other warm in a closed cab.
Mr. Posket.
But can’t I make a third?
Agatha Posket.
Don’t be so forgetful, Æneas—don’t you know that in a four-wheeled cab, the fewer knees there are the better.
[Agatha Posket and Charlotte go out.
Cis comes in hurriedly.
Cis.
What’s the matter, Guv?
Mr. Posket.
Your mother and Miss Verrinder are going out.
Cis.
Out of their minds? It’s a horrid night.
Mr. Posket.
Yes, but Lady Jenkins is ill.
Cis.
Oh! Is ma mentioned in the will?
Mr. Posket.
Good gracious, what a boy! No, Cis, your mother is merely going to sit by Lady Jenkins’ bedside, to hold her hand, and to tell her where one goes to—to buy pocket-handkerchiefs.
Cis.
By Jove! The mater can’t be home again till half-past twelve or one o’clock.
Mr. Posket.
Much later if Lady Jenkins’ condition is alarming.
Cis.
Hurray! [He takes the watch out of Mr. Posket’s pocket.] Just half-past ten. Greenwich mean, eh, Guv?
[He puts the watch to his ear, pulling Mr. Posket towards him by the chain.
Mr. Posket.
What an extraordinary lad!
Cis.
[Returning watch.] Thanks. They have to get from here to Campden Hill and back again. I’ll tell Wyke to get them the worst horse on the rank.
Mr. Posket.
My dear child!
Cis.
Three-quarters of an hour’s journey from here at least. Twice three-quarters, one hour and a half. An hour with Lady Jenkins—when women get together, you know, Guv, they do talk—that’s two hours and a half. Good. Guv, will you come with me?
Mr. Posket.
Go with you! Where?
Cis.
Hotel des Princes, Meek Street. A sharp hansom does it in ten minutes.
Mr. Posket.
Meek Street, Hotel des Princes! Child, do you know what you’re talking about?
Cis.
Rather. Look here, Guv, honour bright—no blab if I show you a letter.
Mr. Posket.
I won’t promise anything.
Cis.
You won’t! Do you know, Guv, you are doing a very unwise thing to check the confidence of a lad like me?
Mr. Posket.
Cis, my boy!
Cis.
Can you calculate the inestimable benefit it is to a youngster to have some one always at his elbow, some one older, wiser, and better off than himself?
Mr. Posket.
Of course, Cis, of course, I want you to make a companion of me.
Cis.
Then how the deuce can I do that if you won’t come with me to Meek Street?
Mr. Posket.
Yes, but deceiving your mother!
Cis.
Deceiving the mater would be to tell her a crammer—a thing, I hope, we’re both of us much above.
Mr. Posket.
Good boy, good boy.
Cis.
Concealing the fact that we’re going to have a bit of supper at the Hotel des Princes, is doing my mother a great kindness, because it would upset her considerably to know of the circumstances. You’ve been wrong, Guv, but we won’t say anything more about that. Read the letter.
[Gives Mr. Posket the letter.
Mr. Posket.
[Reading in a dazed sort of a way.] “Hotel des Princes, Meek Street, W. Dear Sir,—Unless you drop in and settle your arrears, I really cannot keep your room for you any longer. Yours obediently, Achille Blond. Cecil Farringdon, Esq.” Good heavens! You have a room at the Hotel das Princes!
Cis.
A room! It’s little better than a coop.
Mr. Posket.
You don’t occupy it?
Cis.
But my friends do. When I was at Brighton I was in with the best set—hope I always shall be. I left Brighton—nice hole I was in. You see, Guv, I didn’t want my friends to make free with your house.
Mr. Posket.
Oh, didn’t you?
Cis.
So I took a room at the Hotel des Princes—when I want to put a man up he goes there. You see, Guv, it’s you I’ve been considering more than myself.
Mr. Posket.
But you are a mere child.
Cis.
A fellow is just as old as he feels. I feel no end of a man. Hush, they’re coming down! I’m off to tell Wyke about the rickety four-wheeler.
Mr. Posket.
Cis, Cis! Your mother will discover I have been out.
Cis.
Oh, I forgot, you’re married, aren’t you?
Mr. Posket.
Married!
Cis.
Say you are going to the club.
Mr. Posket.
But that’s not the truth, sir!
Cis.
Yes it is. We’ll pop in at the club on our way, and you can give me a bitters.
[Goes out.
Mr. Posket.
Good gracious, what a boy! Hotel des Princes, Meek Street! What shall I do? Tell his mother? Why, it would turn her hair grey. If I could only get a quiet word with this Mr. Achille Blond, I could put a stop to everything. That is my best course, not to lose a moment in rescuing the child from his boyish indiscretion. Yes, I must go with Cis to Meek Street.
Enter Agatha Posket and Charlotte, elegantly dressed.
Agatha Posket.
Have you sent for a cab, Æneas?
Mr. Posket.
Cis is looking after that.
Agatha Posket.
Poor Cis! How late we keep him up.
Cis comes in.
Cis.
Wyke has gone for a cab, ma dear.
Agatha Posket.
Thank you, Cis darling.
Cis.
If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to my room. I’ve another bad headache coming on.
Agatha Posket.
[Kissing him.] Run along, my boy.
Cis.
Good-night, ma. Good-night, Aunt Charlotte.
Charlotte.
Good-night, Cis.
Agatha Posket.
[To herself.] I wish the cab would come.
[Agatha Posket and Charlotte look out of the window.
Cis.
[At the door.] Ahem! Good-night, Guv.
Mr. Posket.
You’ve told a story—two, sir! You said you were going up to your room.
Cis.
So I am—to dress.
Mr. Posket.
You said you had a bad headache coming on.
Cis.
So I have, Guv. I always get a bad headache at the Hotel des Princes.
[Goes out.
Mr. Posket.
Oh, what a boy!
Agatha Posket.
[To herself.] When will that cab come?
Mr. Posket.
Ahem! My pet, the idea has struck me that, as you are going out, it would not be a bad notion for me to pop into my club.
Agatha Posket.
The club! You were there last night.
Mr. Posket.
I know, my darling. Many men look in at their clubs every night.
Agatha Posket.
A nice example for Cis, truly! I particularly desire that you should remain at home to-night, Æneas.
Mr. Posket.
[To himself.] Oh, dear me!
Charlotte.
[To Agatha Posket.] Why not let him go to the club, Agatha?
Agatha Posket.
He might meet Colonel Lukyn there.
Charlotte.
If Colonel Lukyn is there we shan’t find him in Cork Street!
Agatha Posket.
Then we follow him to the club.
Charlotte.
Ladies never call at a club.
Agatha Posket.
Such things have been known.
Wyke enters.
Wyke.
[Grinning behind his hand.] The cab is coming, ma’am.
Agatha Posket.
Coming? Why didn’t you bring it with you?
Wyke.
I walk quicker than the cab, ma’am. It’s a good horse, slow, but very certain.
Agatha Posket.
We will come down.
Wyke.
[To himself.] Just what the horse has done. [To Agatha Posket.] Yes, ma’am.
[Wyke goes out.
Agatha Posket.
Good-night, Æneas.
Mr. Posket.
[Nervously.] I wish you would allow me to go to the club, my pet.
Agatha Posket.
Æneas, I am surprised at your obstinacy. It is so very different from my first husband.
Mr. Posket.
Really, Agatha, I am shocked. I presume the late Mr. Farringdon occasionally used his clubs.
Agatha Posket.
Indian clubs. Indian clubs are good for the liver, London clubs are not. Good-night!
Mr. Posket.
I’ll see you to your cab, Agatha.
Agatha Posket.
No, thank you.
Mr. Posket.
Upon my word!
Charlotte.
[To Agatha Posket.] Why not?
Agatha Posket.
He would want to give the direction to the cabman!
Charlotte.
The first tiff. [To Mr. Posket.] Good-night, Mr. Posket.
Mr. Posket.
Good-night, Miss Verrinder.
Agatha Posket.
[To Mr. Posket.] Have you any message for Lady Jenkins?
Mr. Posket.
Confound Lady Jenkins.
Agatha Posket.
I will deliver your message in the presence of Sir George, who, I may remind you, is the permanent Secretary at the Home Office.
[Agatha Posket and Charlotte go out; Mr. Posket paces up and down excitedly.
Mr. Posket.
Gurrh? I’m not to go to the club! I set a bad example to Cis! Ha! ha! I am different from her first husband. Yes, I am—I’m alive for one thing. I—I—I—I—I’m dashed if I don’t go out with the boy.
Cis.
[Putting his head in at the door.] Coast clear, Guv? All right.
Enter Cis, in fashionable evening dress, carrying Mr. Posket’s overcoat and hat.
Cis.
Here are your hat and overcoat.
Mr. Posket.
Where on earth did you get that dress suit?
Cis.
Mum’s the word, Guv. Brighton tailor—six months’ credit. He promised to send in the bill to you, so the mater won’t know. [Putting Mr. Posket’s hat on his head.] By Jove, Guv, don’t my togs show you up?
Mr. Posket.
I won’t go, I won’t go. I’ve never met such a boy before.
Cis.
[Proceeds to help him with his overcoat.] Mind your arm, Guv. You’ve got your hand in a pocket. No, no—that’s a tear in the lining. That’s it.
Mr. Posket.
I forbid you to go out!
Cis.
Yes, Guv. And I forbid you to eat any of those devilled oysters we shall get at the Hotel des Princes. Now you’re right!
Mr. Posket.
I am not right!
Cis.
Oh, I forgot! [He pulls out a handful of loose money.] I found this money in your desk, Guv. You had better take it out with you; you may want it. Here you are—gold, silver, and coppers. [He empties the money into Mr. Posket’s overcoat pocket.] One last precaution, and then we’re off.
[Goes to the writing-table, and writes on a half-sheet of note-paper.
Mr. Posket.
I shall take a turn round the Square, and then come home again! I will not be influenced by a mere child! A man of my responsible position—a magistrate—supping slily at the Hotel des Princes, in Meek Street—it’s horrible.
Cis.
Now, then—we’ll creep downstairs quietly so as not to bring Wyke from his pantry. [Giving Mr. Posket paper.] You stick that up prominently, while I blow out the candles.
[Cis blows out the candles on the piano.
Mr. Posket.
[Reading.] “Your master and Mr. Cecil Farringdon are going to bed. Don’t disturb them.” I will not be a partner to any written document. This is untrue.
Cis.
No, it isn’t—we are going to bed when we come home. Make haste, Guv.
Mr. Posket.
Oh, what a boy.
[Pinning the paper on to the curtain.
Cis.
[Turning down the lamp, and watching Mr. Posket.] Hallo, Guv! hallo! You’re an old hand at this sort of game, are you?
Mr. Posket.
How dare you!
Cis.
[Taking Mr. Posket’s arm.] Now, then, don’t breathe.
Mr. Posket.
[Quite demoralised.] Cis! Cis! Wait a minute—wait a minute!
Cis.
Hold up, Guv. [Wyke enters.] Oh, bother!
Wyke.
[To Mr. Posket.] Going out, sir?
Mr. Posket.
[Struggling to be articulate.] No—yes—that is—partially—half round the Square, and possibly—er—um—back again. [To Cis.] Oh, you bad boy!
Wyke.
[Coolly going up to the paper on curtains.] Shall I take this down now, sir?
Mr. Posket.
[Quietly to Cis.] I’m in an awful position! What am I to do?
Cis.
Do as I do—tip him.
Mr. Posket.
What!
Cis.
Tip him.
Mr. Posket.
Oh, yes—yes. Where’s my money?
[Cis takes two coins out of Mr. Posket’s pocket and gives them to him without looking at them.
Cis.
[To Mr. Posket.] Give him that.
Mr. Posket.
Yes.
Cis.
And say—“Wyke, you want a new umbrella—buy a very good one. Your mistress has a latch-key, so go to bed.”
Mr. Posket.
Wyke!
Wyke.
Yes, sir.
Mr. Posket.
[Giving him money.] Go to bed—buy a very good one. Your mistress has a latch-key—so—so you want a new umbrella!
Wyke.
All right, sir. You can depend on me. Are you well muffled up, sir? Mind you take care of him, Master Cis.
Cis.
[Supporting Mr. Posket; Mr. Posket groaning softly.] Capital, Guv, capital. Are you hungry?
Mr. Posket.
Hungry! You’re a wicked boy. I’ve told a falsehood.
Cis.
No, you haven’t, Guv—he really does want a new umbrella.
Mr. Posket.
Does he, Cis? Does he? Thank heaven!
[They go out.
Wyke.
[Looking at money] Here! What, twopence! [Throws the coins down in disgust.] I’ll tell the missus.
END OF THE FIRST ACT.