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really.

      CLARE. I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that—comes to an end. Can't endure beyond a certain time, ever.

      She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to bits. It is the only sign of emotion she has given.

      MRS. FULLARTON. [Watching] Look here, my child; this won't do. You must get a rest. Can't Reggie take you with him to India for a bit?

      CLARE. [Shaking her head] Reggie lives on his pay.

      MRS. FULLARTON. [With one of her quick looks] That was Mr. Malise, then?

      FULLARTON. [Coming towards them] I say, Mrs. Dedmond, you wouldn't sing me that little song you sang the other night, [He hums] "If I might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day"? Remember?

      MRS. FULLARTON. "The falling dew," Edward. We simply must go,

      Clare. Good-night. [She kisses her.]

      FULLARTON. [Taking half-cover between his wife and CLARE] It suits you down to the ground-that dress.

      CLARE. Good-night.

      HUNTINGDON sees them out. Left alone CLARE clenches her hands, moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.

      HUNTINGDON. [Returning] Look here, Clare!

      CLARE. Well, Reggie?

      HUNTINGDON. This is working up for a mess, old girl. You can't do this kind of thing with impunity. No man'll put up with it. If you've got anything against George, better tell me. [CLARE shakes her head] You ought to know I should stick by you. What is it? Come?

      CLARE. Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that your blood runs cold when she kisses you—then you'll know.

      HUNTINGDON. My dear old girl, I don't want to be a brute; but it's a bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.

      CLARE. Yes, incredible, when you haven't tried.

      HUNTINGDON. I mean, you—you chose him yourself. No one forced you to marry him.

      CLARE. It does seem monstrous, doesn't it?

      HUNTINGDON. My dear child, do give us a reason.

      CLARE. Look! [She points out at the night and the darkening towers] If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah, Westminster! Clock Tower! Can you see the time by it?" As if one cared where or what it was—beautiful like that! Apply that to every —every—everything.

      HUNTINGDON. [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic. But, my dear old girl, if that's all–

      CLARE. It's not all—it's nothing. I can't explain, Reggie—it's not reason, at all; it's—it's like being underground in a damp cell; it's like knowing you'll never get out. Nothing coming—never anything coming again-never anything.

      HUNTINGDON. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn't get into fantods like this. If it's like that, don't think about it.

      CLARE. When every day and every night!—Oh! I know it's my fault for having married him, but that doesn't help.

      HUNTINGDON. Look here! It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent chap. And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent on him. At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep going.

      CLARE. I know.

      HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it awfully.

      CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home long ago.

      HUNTINGDON. Well, what's to be done? If my pay would run to it—but it simply won't.

      CLARE. Thanks, old boy, of course not.

      HUNTINGDON. Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?

      CLARE. I do. Oh! don't let's talk about it.

      HUNTINGDON. Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go sailing near the wind, will you? I mean, there are fellows always on the lookout.

      CLARE. "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!" Why?

      HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New Woman and that kind of thing—haven't been brought up to it.

      CLARE. British home-made summer goods, light and attractive—don't wear long. [At the sound of voices in the hall] They seem 'to be going, Reggie.

      [HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]

      HUNTINGDON. Don't head for trouble, old girl. Take a pull. Bless you! Good-night.

      CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door, holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of emotion. Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table, leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite calm. GEORGE is coming in. PAYNTER follows him.

      CLARE. Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter. You can go home, and the maids can go to bed.

      PAYNTER. We are much obliged, ma'am.

      CLARE. I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.

      PAYNTER. Naturally, ma'am!

      CLARE. Good-night.

      PAYNTER. I couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am?

      CLARE. No, thank you.

      PAYNTER. No, ma'am. Good-night, ma'am.

      [He withdraws.]

      GEORGE. You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig. [Going up to her] Pleased with yourself to-night? [CLARE shakes her head] Before that fellow MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough!

      CLARE. Is it worth while to rag me? I know I've behaved badly, but

      I couldn't help it, really!

      GEORGE. Couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl? My God! You were brought up as well as I was.

      CLARE. Alas!

      GEORGE. To let everybody see that we don't get on—there's only one word for it—Disgusting!

      CLARE. I know.

      GEORGE. Then why do you do it? I've always kept my end up. Why in heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way?

      CLARE. I'm sorry.

      GEORGE. [With intense feeling] You like making a fool of me!

      CLARE. No—Really! Only—I must break out sometimes.

      GEORGE. There are things one does not do.

      CLARE. I came in because I was sorry.

      GEORGE. And at once began to do it again! It seems to me you delight in rows.

      CLARE. You'd miss your—reconciliations.

      GEORGE. For God's sake, Clare, drop cynicism!

      CLARE. And truth?

      GEORGE. You are my wife, I suppose.

      CLARE. And they twain shall be one—spirit.

      GEORGE. Don't talk wild nonsense!

      [There is silence.]

      CLARE. [Softly] I don't give satisfaction. Please give me notice!

      GEORGE. Pish!

      CLARE. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better together—if I went away?

      GEORGE. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason, and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some primitive sense of honour.

      CLARE. You mean your name, don't you?

      GEORGE. Look here. Did that fellow Malise put all this into your head?

      CLARE. No; my own evil nature.

      GEORGE.

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