Mrs. Parker-Jennings.
Oh, be quiet, you....
Jack Straw.
I can hear a titter rising softly in the village, with the doctor and the parson and the solicitor, whom you didn’t ask to your party, and I can hear it increase to a ripple of laughter as the story spreads through Cheshire. I can hear a Homeric peal as it travels from county to county. It’s a great guffaw in Manchester and Liverpool and the cities of the North, and already I hear the deep laughter of Bristol and Portsmouth and the West. And when it reaches London—you know how things go in London, it’s so large that it takes it a little time really to get hold of anything, but when at last it comes, can’t you see the huge city holding its aching sides and bellowing with laughter. But I’ll tell you who won’t see the joke—[taking up the paper and reading]—oh, they’ll laugh very much on the wrong side of their mouths; the Duchess of St. Erth, the Marchioness of Mereston, and my Lady Hollington and my Lord Parnaby, and the Bishop of Sheffield and the Honourable Mrs. Spratte.
Mrs. Parker-Jennings.
Oh, you devil!
Jack Straw.
I can see you flying before the laughter like three tremulous leaves before the wind, and the laughter will pursue you to Paris, where they’ll make little songs about you on the boulevards, and the Riviera, where they’ll sell your photographs on picture postcards. I can see you fleeing across the Atlantic to hide your heads in the immensity of America, and there the Yellow Press, pea-green with frenzy, will pile column of ridicule upon column of invective. Oh, my dear lady, do you think it isn’t worth while to endure six months hard labour to amuse the world so profoundly?
[There is a silence. Parker-Jennings takes out his handkerchief, makes it into a ball and mops his forehead. Vincent, noticing him, does the same. Mrs. Parker-Jennings gives the two a glance, sees what they are doing, takes out her handkerchief, rolls it up into a ball, and slowly mops her forehead.
Parker-Jennings.