(Taking the envelope which is on top, she extracts a number of Press cuttings, looks through them hastily and tosses them back on to the table one by one.)
'True romance.'
W. J. Turner—'Shows a man's desire
To write for men.... Much promise.' J. C. Squire.—
'At times like Gosse....' Who wrote that? Squire again,
But in a different paper—'Stuff for men....
Gosse-like at moments.' Edward Shanks—'No learner,
A finished craftsman.' W. J. Turner—
'Impressive.' J. C. Squire.—'His novel ranks
Among the best books of the season....' Shanks.—
'Impressive.' Shanks.—'Almost the true Gosse fire....'
Turner again. 'A man's book.' J. C. Squire.—
My poor head swims! How very queer to find
Ten papers, three reviewers and one mind.
They're like the Isle of Man. Suppose I beg
Prettily? Would they make me their fourth leg?
Here's praise enough. Indeed, you'd think I knew them—
Or that they hoped I might in turn review them.
(Looking again at the table, she picks up the second envelope.)
And here? Oh, horror! Helen's writing—hers,
I'm sure, and what wild spluttering characters!
Their wildness might be due to haste, but not
The Maenad fury of that final blot.
She's read the book, and recognized with rage
The portrait of herself on every page,
In every line. She couldn't miss it. Why
Didn't I make Calypso small and shy,
Dark and not fair? Whatever made me draw
Helen complete, even to her slightest flaw?
Everything's there—green eyes, the Chelsea flat,
The craze for Morny bath-salts, even that!...
I let Calypso live at such a pace
Too, that I daren't look Helen in the face,
I simply daren't. But stay! She might have seen
The book: she can't think I am Galahad Green.
There's hope. I'll soon see what she has to say.... (She opens the letter.)
'My dearest Juliet'—'dearest,' anyway!—
'I'm furious, but I shan't say what about
Until we meet. Promise you won't be out
This evening. I shall call at eight o'clock.
Helen.' At least her letter saves the shock
Of meeting unprepared, and I'll be able
To sweep these wretched cuttings from the table
What is the time? Exactly eight. Oh dear,
At any minute now she may be here
Storming my ears off. What a risk I took!
And then—she's just the girl to read a book,
Find her own portrait there, done all too well,
And taxi-ing to the publishers pell-mell
Demand to have the author's home-address.
Chapman and Hall, however great their stress,
Would never give it, would they? When we met
Their manager seemed such a perfect pet....
(A bell rings. Noise outside.)
There she is.
(HELEN rushes in—still wearing her furs.)
HELEN (dramatically). Juliet!
JULIET. Well, what's wrong, my dear?
HELEN. Nothing—at least—I am so glad you're here.