LITMIR.BIZ

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the top of the pile. The Boy again advances into the doorway.

      MALISE. Yes, now for you.

      He goes to the table and takes some sheets of MS. from an old portfolio. But the door is again timidly pushed open, and HAYWOOD reappears.

      MALISE. Yes, Mr. Haywood?

      HAYWOOD. About that little matter, sir. If—if it's any convenience to you—I've—thought of a place where I could–

      MALISE. Read them? You'll enjoy them thoroughly.

      HAYWOOD. No, sir, no! Where I can dispose of them.

      MALISE. [Holding out the volumes] It might be as well. [HAYWOOD takes the books gingerly] I congratulate you, Mr. Haywood; it's a classic.

      HAYWOOD. Oh, indeed—yes, sir. In the event of there being any–

      MALISE. Anything over? Carry it to my credit. Your bill—[He hands over the blue paper] Send me the receipt. Good evening!

      HAYWOOD, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening paper, fumbles out. "Good evenin', sir!" and departs. MALISE again takes up the sheets of MS. and cons a sentence over to himself, gazing blankly at the stolid BOY.

      MALISE. "Man of the world—good form your god! Poor buttoned-up philosopher" [the Boy shifts his feet] "inbred to the point of cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule [the Boy breathes heavily]—you are the slave of facts!"

      [There is a knock on the door]

      MALISE. Who is it?

      The door is pushed open, and REGINALD HUNTINGDON stands there.

      HUNTINGDON. I apologize, sir; can I come in a minute?

      [MALISE bows with ironical hostility]

      HUNTINGDON. I don't know if you remember me—Clare Dedmond's brother.

      MALISE. I remember you.

      [He motions to the stolid Boy to go outside again]

      HUNTINGDON. I've come to you, sir, as a gentleman–

      MALISE. Some mistake. There is one, I believe, on the first floor.

      HUNTINGDON. It's about my sister.

      MALISE. D—n you! Don't you know that I've been shadowed these last three months? Ask your detectives for any information you want.

      HUNTINGDON. We know that you haven't seen her, or even known where she is.

      MALISE. Indeed! You've found that out? Brilliant!

      HUNTINGDON. We know it from my sister.

      MALISE. Oh! So you've tracked her down?

      HUNTINGDON. Mrs. Fullarton came across her yesterday in one of those big shops—selling gloves.

      MALISE. Mrs. Fullarton the lady with the husband. Well! you've got her. Clap her back into prison.

      HUNTINGDON. We have not got her. She left at once, and we don't know where she's gone.

      MALISE. Bravo!

      HUNTINGDON. [Taking hold of his bit] Look here, Mr. Malise, in a way I share your feeling, but I'm fond of my sister, and it's damnable to have to go back to India knowing she must be all adrift, without protection, going through God knows what! Mrs. Fullarton says she's looking awfully pale and down.

      MALISE. [Struggling between resentment and sympathy] Why do you come to me?

      HUNTINGDON. We thought–

      MALISE. Who?

      HUNTINGDON. My—my father and myself.

      MALISE. Go on.

      HUNTINGDON. We thought there was just a chance that, having lost that job, she might come to you again for advice. If she does, it would be really generous of you if you'd put my father in touch with her. He's getting old, and he feels this very much. [He hands MALISE a card] This is his address.

      MALISE. [Twisting the card] Let there be no mistake, sir; I do nothing that will help give her back to her husband. She's out to save her soul alive, and I don't join the hue and cry that's after her. On the contrary—if I had the power. If your father wants to shelter her, that's another matter. But she'd her own ideas about that.

      HUNTINGDON. Perhaps you don't realize how unfit my sister is for rough and tumble. She's not one of this new sort of woman. She's always been looked after, and had things done for her. Pluck she's got, but that's all, and she's bound to come to grief.

      MALISE. Very likely—the first birds do. But if she drops half-way it's better than if she'd never flown. Your sister, sir, is trying the wings of her spirit, out of the old slave market. For women as for men, there's more than one kind of dishonour, Captain Huntingdon, and worse things than being dead, as you may know in your profession.

      HUNTINGDON. Admitted—but–

      MALISE. We each have our own views as to what they are. But they all come to—death of our spirits, for the sake of our carcases. Anything more?

      HUNTINGDON. My leave's up. I sail to-morrow. If you do see my sister I trust you to give her my love and say I begged she would see my father.

      MALISE. If I have the chance—yes.

      He makes a gesture of salute, to which HUNTINGDON responds. Then the latter turns and goes out.

      MALISE. Poor fugitive! Where are you running now?

      He stands at the window, through which the evening sunlight is powdering the room with smoky gold. The stolid Boy has again come in. MALISE stares at him, then goes back to the table, takes up the MS., and booms it at him; he receives the charge, breathing hard.

      MALISE. "Man of the world—product of a material age; incapable of perceiving reality in motions of the spirit; having 'no use,' as you would say, for 'sentimental nonsense'; accustomed to believe yourself the national spine—your position is unassailable. You will remain the idol of the country—arbiter of law, parson in mufti, darling of the playwright and the novelist—God bless you!—while waters lap these shores."

      He places the sheets of MS. in an envelope, and hands them to the Boy.

      MALISE. You're going straight back to "The Watchfire"?

      BOY. [Stolidly] Yes, sir.

      MALISE. [Staring at him] You're a masterpiece. D'you know that?

      BOY. No, sir.

      MALISE. Get out, then.

      He lifts the portfolio from the table, and takes it into the inner room. The Boy, putting his thumb stolidly to his nose, turns to go. In the doorway he shies violently at the figure of CLARE, standing there in a dark-coloured dress, skids past her and goes. CLARE comes into the gleam of sunlight, her white face alive with emotion or excitement. She looks round her, smiles, sighs; goes swiftly to the door, closes it, and comes back to the table. There she stands, fingering the papers on the table, smoothing MALISE's hat wistfully, eagerly, waiting.

      MALISE. [Returning] You!

      CLARE. [With a faint smile] Not very glorious, is it?

      He goes towards her, and checks himself, then slews the armchair round.

      MALISE. Come! Sit down, sit down! [CLARE, heaving a long sigh, sinks down into the chair] Tea's nearly ready.

      He places a cushion for her, and prepares tea; she looks up at him softly, but as he finishes and turns to her, she drops that glance.

      CLARE. Do you think me an awful coward for coming? [She has taken a little plain cigarette case from her dress] Would you mind if I smoked?

      MALISE shakes his head, then draws back from her again, as if afraid to be too close. And again, unseen, she looks at him.

      MALISE. So you've lost your job?

      CLARE. How did you–?

      MALISE. Your brother. You only just missed him. [CLARE starts up] They had an idea you'd come. He's sailing to-morrow—he wants you to see your father.

      CLARE.

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