MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I'm only thinking of you, Sandy, not of myself. If I thought about myself I should disregard all the warnings that Dr. Anderson keeps giving me, and I should insist on doing the housekeeping just as I always used to. But I have to think of you. I want to see you married to some nice, steady young man before I die—my handkerchief, Jane—(JANE gets up and gives her her handkerchief from the other end of the sofa)—before I die (she touches her eyes with her handkerchief), and no nice young man will want to marry you, if you haven't learnt how to look after his house for him.
MELISANDE (contemptuously). If that's marriage, I shall never get married.
JANE (shocked). Melisande, darling!
MRS. KNOWLE. Dr. Anderson was saying, only yesterday, trying to make me more cheerful, "Why, Mrs. Knowle," he said, "you'll live another hundred years yet." "Dr. Anderson," I said, "I don't want to live another hundred years. I only want to live until my dear daughter, Melisande"—I didn't say Sandy to him because it seemed rather familiar—"I only want to live until my daughter Melisande is happily married to some nice, steady young man. Do this for me, Dr. Anderson," I said, "and I shall be your lifelong debtor." He promised to do his best. It was then that he mentioned about the cushion in the small of the back after meals. And so don't forget to tell cook about the bread-sauce, will you, dear?
MELISANDE. I will tell her, Mother.
MRS. KNOWLE. That's right. I like a man to be interested in his food. I hope both your husbands, Sandy and Jane, will take a proper interest in what they eat. You will find that, after you have been married some years, and told each other everything you did and saw before you met, there isn't really anything to talk about at meals except food. And you must talk; I hope you will both remember that. Nothing breaks up the home so quickly as silent meals. Of course, breakfast doesn't matter, because he has his paper then; and after you have said, "Is there anything in the paper, dear?" and he has said, "No," then he doesn't expect anything more. I wonder sometimes why they go on printing the newspapers. I've been married twenty years, and there has never been anything in the paper yet.
MELISANDE. Oh, Mother, I hate to hear you talking about marriage like that. Wasn't there ever any kind of romance between you and Father? Not even when he was wooing you? Wasn't there ever one magic Midsummer morning when you saw suddenly "a livelier emerald twinkle in the grass, a purer sapphire melt into the sea"? Wasn't there ever one passionate ecstatic moment when "once he drew with one long kiss my whole soul through my lips, as sunlight drinketh dew"? Or did you talk about bread-sauce all the time?
JANE (eagerly). Tell us about it, Aunt Mary.
MRS. KNOWLE. Well, dear, there isn't very much to tell. I am quite sure that we never drank dew together, or anything like that, as Sandy suggests, and it wasn't by the sea at all, it was at Surbiton. He used to come down from London with his racquet and play tennis with us. And then he would stay on to supper sometimes, and then after supper we would go into the garden together—it was quite dark then, but everything smelt so beautifully, I shall always remember it—and we talked, oh, I don't know what about, but I knew somehow that I should marry him one day. I don't think he knew—he wasn't sure—and then he came to a subscription dance one evening—I think Mother, your grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because she was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right pair of shoes on—rather a tight pair—however, I put them on. And there was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our last dance together, and he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss Bagot?" Well, of course, I was only too glad to, and we sat it out in the hansom, driving all round Surbiton, and what your grandmother would have said I don't know, but, of course, I never told her. And when we got home after the dance, I went up to her room—as soon as I'd got my shoes off—and said, "Mother, I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "Not Mr. Knowle—Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, and wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" and—Jane, where's my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the sofa and JANE picks it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs her eyes) Well, that's really all, you know, except that—(she dabs her eyes again)—I'm afraid I'm feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was very bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, dear, why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and compose myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't know what I should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins to get up) And after calling me a Spartan Mother only yesterday, because I said that if any nice, steady young man came along and took my own dear little girl away from me, I should bear the terrible wrench in silence rather than cause either of them a moment's remorse. (She is up now) There!
JANE. Shall I come with you?