LITMIR.BIZ

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"try round the corner, number ten." "Ah!" 'e says tactful, "much obliged." "Yes," I says, "you'll find 'im in at this time o' day. Good evenin'!" And I thinks to meself [She closes one eye] Rats! There's a good many corners hereabouts.

      MALISE. [With detached appreciation] Very good, Mrs. Miler.

      MRS. MILER. So this mornin', there e' was again on the first floor with 'is 'and raised, pretendin' to knock at number two. "Oh! you're still lookin' for 'im?" I says, lettin' him see I was 'is grandmother. "Ah!" 'e says, affable, "you misdirected me; it's here I've got my business." "That's lucky," I says, "cos nobody lives there neither. Good mornin'!" And I come straight up. If you want to see 'im at work you've only to go downstairs, 'e'll be on the ground floor by now, pretendin' to knock at number one. Wonderful resource!

      MALISE. What's he like, this gentleman?

      MRS. MILER. Just like the men you see on the front page o' the daily papers. Nasty, smooth-lookin' feller, with one o' them billycock hats you can't abide.

      MALISE. Isn't he a dun?

      MRS. MILER. They don't be'ave like that; you ought to know, sir. He's after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain't he to be put a stop to? If I took me time I could get 'im, innercent-like, with a jug o' water.

      [MALISE, smiling, shakes his head.]

      MALISE. You can get on now; I'm going to shave.

      He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room. MRS. MILER, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she rests. There is a soft knock on the door. She gets up leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it. The door being opened CLARE is revealed.

      CLARE. Is Mr. Malise in?

      MRS. MILER. Yes. But 'e's dressin'.

      CLARE. Oh.

      MRS. MILER. Won't take 'im long. What name?

      CLARE. Would you say—a lady.

      MRS. MILER. It's against the rules. But if you'll sit down a moment I'll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with her apron. Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some cigarette ends] This is my hour. I shan't make much dust. [Noting CLARE's eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I'm particular about not disturbin' things.

      CLARE. I'm sure you are.

      MRS. MILER. He likes 'is 'abits regular.

      Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up the other bottle, and finding it not empty, she corks it and drops it into the fold of her skirt.

      MRS. MILER. He takes his claret fresh-opened—not like these 'ere bawgwars.

      CLARE. [Rising] I think I'll come back later.

      MRS. MILER. Mr. Malise is not in my confidence. We keep each other to ourselves. Perhaps you'd like to read the paper; he has it fresh every mornin'—the Westminister.

      She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to CLARE, who sits doom again unhappily to brood. MRS. MILER makes a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still. No longer hearing sounds, CLARE looks up.

      MRS. MILER. I wouldn't interrupt yer with my workin,' but 'e likes things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That's 'im; 'e's cut 'isself! I'll just take 'im the tobaccer!

      She lifts a green paper screw of tobacco from the debris round the armchair and taps on the door. It opens. CLARE moves restlessly across the room.

      MRS. MILER. [Speaking into the room] The tobaccer. The lady's waitin'.

      CLARE has stopped before a reproduction of Titian's picture "Sacred and Profane Love." MRS. MILER stands regarding her with a Chinese smile. MALISE enters, a thread of tobacco still hanging to his cheek.

      MALISE. [Taking MRS. MILER's hat off the table and handing it to her] Do the other room.

      [Enigmatically she goes.]

      MALISE. Jolly of you to come. Can I do anything?

      CLARE. I want advice-badly.

      MALISE. What! Spreading your wings?

      CLARE. Yes.

      MALISE. Ah! Proud to have given you that advice. When?

      CLARE. The morning after you gave it me . . .

      MALISE. Well?

      CLARE. I went down to my people. I knew it would hurt my Dad frightfully, but somehow I thought I could make him see. No good. He was awfully sweet, only—he couldn't.

      MALISE. [Softly] We English love liberty in those who don't belong to us. Yes.

      CLARE. It was horrible. There were the children—and my old nurse. I could never live at home now. They'd think I was–. Impossible —utterly! I'd made up my mind to go back to my owner—And then— he came down himself. I couldn't d it. To be hauled back and begin all over again; I simply couldn't. I watched for a chance; and ran to the station, and came up to an hotel.

      MALISE. Bravo!

      CLARE. I don't know—no pluck this morning! You see, I've got to earn my living—no money; only a few things I can sell. All yesterday I was walking about, looking at the women. How does anyone ever get a chance?

      MALISE. Sooner than you should hurt his dignity by working, your husband would pension you off.

      CLARE. If I don't go back to him I couldn't take it.

      MALISE. Good!

      CLARE. I've thought of nursing, but it's a long training, and I do so hate watching pain. The fact is, I'm pretty hopeless; can't even do art work. I came to ask you about the stage.

      MALISE. Have you ever acted? [CLARE shakes her head] You mightn't think so, but I've heard there's a prejudice in favour of training. There's Chorus—I don't recommend it. How about your brother?

      CLARE. My brother's got nothing to spare, and he wants to get married; and he's going back to India in September. The only friend I should care to bother is Mrs. Fullarton, and she's—got a husband.

      MALISE. I remember the gentleman.

      CLARE. Besides, I should be besieged day and night to go back. I must lie doggo somehow.

      MALISE. It makes my blood boil to think of women like you. God help all ladies without money.

      CLARE. I expect I shall have to go back.

      MALISE. No, no! We shall find something. Keep your soul alive at all costs. What! let him hang on to you till you're nothing but— emptiness and ache, till you lose even the power to ache. Sit in his drawing-room, pay calls, play Bridge, go out with him to dinners, return to—duty; and feel less and less, and be less and less, and so grow old and—die!

      [The bell rings.]

      MALISE. [Looking at the door in doubt] By the wayhe'd no means of tracing you?

      [She shakes her head.]

      [The bell rings again.]

      MALISE. Was there a man on the stairs as you came up?

      CLARE. Yes. Why?

      MALISE. He's begun to haunt them, I'm told.

      CLARE. Oh! But that would mean they thought I—oh! no!

      MALISE. Confidence in me is not excessive.

      CLARE. Spying!

      MALISE. Will you go in there for a minute? Or shall we let them ring—or—what? It may not be anything, of course.

      CLARE. I'm not going to hide.

      [The bell rings a third time.]

      MALISE. [Opening the door of the inner room] Mrs. Miler, just see who it is; and then go, for the present.

      MRS.

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