SCENE: Highbury. August 1913.
Between double-doors, opening from living-room to conservatory, sits the shadow of the once great and powerful Minister, State Secretary for the Colonies. To the dark, sombre tones of the heavily furnished chamber the gorgeous colours of the orchids, hanging in trails and festoons under their luminous dome of glass, offer a vivid contrast. Yet even greater is that which they present to the drawn and haggard features of the catastrophically aged man whose public career is now over. In wheeled chair, with lower limbs wrapped in a shawl and supported by a foot-rest, he sits bent and almost motionless; and when he moves head or hand, it is head or hand only, and the motion is slow, painful, and hesitating, as though mind functioned on body with difficulty, uncertain of its ground. Nevertheless, when the door opens, and the small squat figure of a very old and dear friend advances towards him, his face lights instantly. With tender reverence and affection the newcomer takes hold of his hand, lifts, presses it, lays it back again. And when he has seated himself, the Shadow speaks.
CHAMBERLAIN. Well, Collings? Well?
JESSE COLLINGS. Well, my dear Chamberlain, how are you? I'm a little late,
I'm afraid.
CHAMBERLAIN. I hadn't noticed. Time doesn't matter to me now.
JESSE COLLINGS. No; but I like to be punctual. It's my nature.
CHAMBERLAIN. Habit…Habit and nature are different things, Collings. I've been finding that out.
(At this, for a diversion, Collings, readjusting his pince-nez, tilts his head bird-like, and takes a genial look at his friend)
JESSE COLLINGS. Joe, you are looking better to-day.
CHAMBERLAIN. Well, even looks are not to be despised, I suppose, when one has nothing else left.