FROM FOUR TO SIX
By Annie Eliot
A COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT
Esther Van Dyke. Harold Whitney. A Maid.
Esther discovered seated in a New York drawing-room. She has been reading and tearing old letters.
E. I am sure one might ask anyone to an afternoon tea, even if anyone were one’s old lover; and I am sure one might come to anyone’s afternoon tea, even if anyone were one’s quondam sweetheart. From both Harold’s stand-point and mine, it seems to me perfectly safe. Certainly the vainest man could not believe that a woman wished to rake up the leaves of a dead past because she sent him an At-home from four to six card, for a day when she is to be at home for two hundred people besides. If it were an evening party, now—in summer with the lawn, or in winter with a conservatory—or if there is not a conservatory there are always stairs; and it’s daily more and more the fashion to build them curved. Another generation may find discreet recesses at every landing. When people are really thoughtful there will be a temporary addition where people can go up and down. Oh, if it was an evening party I could not blame Harold for staying away. Or if it was private theatricals—the stage is itself one grand opportunity! Or a picnic—what innumerable openings for raking up the dry leaves of a dead past on a picnic! But an afternoon tea! Nothing stronger or dryer than tea-leaves to be had. Harold need not be in the least afraid. Besides, it would have been really unfriendly not to send him a card. Everybody knows he is at home again, and from a four years’ trip. Even after all that has passed I would not wish to be unfriendly. Four years, and they say that he is engaged to Mattie Montgomery—and just before he went away he was engaged to me. (A little sadly.) Perhaps he was foolish. Perhaps—I was. Undoubtedly we both were. I suppose I ought to feel flattered that he waited four years—but somehow I don’t—altogether; “flattered” does not seem to be the word. Well, it makes little difference now, and it will make less when I tell him to-morrow that I am engaged to Dr. Tennant. I thought I might as well look over his letters. I have burned all but the last. (Takes up letter from the table.) Here it is. (Takes up a second letter.) And here is Dr. Tennant’s first. Two models of epistolary communication—but of different orders. (Reads.)
“My Dear Miss Van Dyke: I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you this afternoon at five o’clock. It rests with you whether or not this pleasure is to be intensified a hundredfold, or attended with lasting pain. I remain always,
“Yours most cordially,
“Edward Tennant.”