just as if the police were after him. He never had the slightest notion
of comfort, and so you needn't tell me! And there's another thing--you
needn't tell me he wasn't always worrying about some girl or other,
because I know he was. A bachelor at his age never thinks about anything
else--morning, noon, and night. It stands to reason--and they can say
what they like--I know. And now he's dead--probably because he'd no
notion of looking after himself, and it's been in all the papers how
wonderful he was, and florists' girls have very likely sat up half the
night making wreaths, and Westminster Abbey was crowded out with
fashionable folk--and do you know what all those fashionable folk are
thinking about just now--tea! And if it isn't tea, it's whisky and soda.

CARVE. But you mustn't forget that he was really very successful
indeed.... Just look at the money he made, for instance.

JANET. Well, if sovereigns had been any use to him he'd never have left
two hundred thousand of them behind him--him with no family. No, he was
no better than a fool with money. Couldn't even spend it.

CARVE. He had the supreme satisfaction of doing what he enjoyed doing
better than anybody else could do it.

JANET. And what was that?

CARVE. Painting.

JANET. (Casually.) Oh! and couldn't he have had that without running
about all over Europe? He might just as well have been a commercial
traveller. Take my word for it, Mr. Shawn, there's nothing like a
comfortable home and a quiet life--and the less you're in the newspapers
the better.

CARVE. (Thoughtfully.) Do you know--a good deal of what you say
applies to me.

JANET. And you now! As we're on the subject--before we go any
further--you're a bachelor of forty-five, same as him. What have you
been doing with yourself lately?

CARVE. Doing with myself?

JANET. Well, I think I ought to ask because when I was stealing (with a
little nervous laugh) the money out of your pocket to pay that hotel
bill, I came across a lady's photograph. I couldn't help coming across
it. Seeing how things are, I think I ought to ask.

CARVE. Oh, that! It must be a photograph of the lady he was engaged
to. He broke it off, you know. That was why we came to London in such a
hurry.

JANET. Then it is true--what the newspaper reporter said? (CARVE
nods.) One of the aristocracy--(CARVE nods.) Who was she?

CARVE. Lady Alice Rowfant.

JANET. What was it doing in your pocket?

CARVE. I don't know. Everything got mixed up. Clothes, papers,
everything.

JANET. Sure?

CARVE. Of course! Look here, do you suppose Lady Alice Rowfant is
anything to me?

JANET. She isn't?

CARVE. No.

JANET. Honestly? (Looking at him closely.)

CARVE. Honestly.

JANET. (With obvious relief.) Well, that's all right then! Now will
you drink this milk, please.

CARVE. I just wanted to tell you----

JANET. Will you drink this milk? (Pours out a glassful for him.)

(CARVE addresses himself to the milk.)

(JANET begins to put on her things.)

CARVE. But I say, what are you doing?

JANET. I'm going home.

CARVE. What? Now?

JANET. At once.

CARVE. But you can't leave me like this. I'm very ill.

JANET. Oh no, you aren't. You're very much better. Anyone can see that.
All you've got to do is to return to bed and stick to slops.

CARVE. And when shall you come back?

JANET. You might come down to see me one day at Putney.

CARVE. I shall be delighted to. But before that, won't you come here?

JANET. (After a pause.) I'll try and come the day after to-morrow.

CARVE. Why not to-morrow?

JANET. Well, a couple of days without me'll do you no harm. It's a
mistake to be in a hurry when you've got all your life in front of you.

CARVE. (After a pause.) Listen--have some tea before you go.

JANET. No. (Holds out her hand, smiling.) Good afternoon. Now do go to
bed.

CARVE. I haven't begun to thank you.

JANET. No--and I hope you won't begin.

CARVE. You're so sudden.

JANET. It's sudden or nothing.

CARVE. (Holding her hand.) I say--what can you see in me?

JANET. Well, if it comes to that--what can you see in me? (Withdrawing
her hand.)

CARVE. I--I don't know what it is.... Something.... (Lightly.) I
dunno! Everything!

JANET. That's too much. Good-bye! I'll come about this time the day
after to-morrow.

CARVE. Supposing I have a relapse?

JANET. (At door.) You won't if you do as I tell you.

CARVE. But supposing I do?

JANET. Well, you can always telegraph, can't you?

(Exit.)

(CARVE, after finishing milk, suddenly gets up and searches on
writing table: he then goes to the telephone.)

CARVE. (Into telephone.) Please send me up a telegraph form.

CURTAIN.




ACT III

SCENE I


Parlour in Janet's house in Putney. A perfectly ordinary suburban
interior of a small house; but comfortable. Table in centre. Door, R.,
up stage, leading to hall. Door, L., down stage, hading to kitchen
and back premises.

TIME.--Morning in early autumn. Rather more than two years have
elapsed.

Discovered--CARVE reading newspaper at breakfast-table. JANET
in an apron is hovering busily near him.

JANET. (Putting cigarettes and matches down beside CARVE.) Want
anything else, dear? (No answer from CARVE.) Because I must set about
my morning's work. (CARVE continues to read.) Albert, are you sure you
don't want anything else?

(As he still gives her no sign of attention, she snatches the
paper away from him, and throws it on the floor.)

CARVE. (Not having moved his eyes.) The pattern of this jug is really
not so bad.... Yes, my soul?

JANET. I've asked you I don't know how many times whether you want
anything else, because I must set about my morning's work.

CARVE. Is there any more coffee?

JANET. Yes, plenty.

CARVE. Hot?

JANET. Yes.

CARVE. Then I don't want any. Got any bacon?

JANET. No, but I can cook a slice in a minute.

CARVE. (With an affectation of martyrdom.) Doesn't matter.

JANET. Oh yes, I will. (Moving away.)

CARVE. (Drawing her to him by her apron.) Can't you see he's teasing
you?

JANET. She's got no time in the morning for being teased.

(She takes a cigarette, lights it and immediately puts it in his
mouth.)

CARVE. And now you're going to leave me?

JANET. Sure you're all right? (He nods.) Quite sure you're happy?

CARVE. Jane--

JANET. I wish you wouldn't call me Jane.

CARVE. But I will call you Jane. Jane, why do you ask me if I'm sure I'm
happy? When a man has first-class food and first-class love, together
with a genuine French bed, really waterproof boots, a constant supply of
hot water in the bathroom, enough money to buy cigarettes and sixpenny
editions, the freedom to do what he likes all day and every
day--and--let me see, what else--a complete absence of domestic
servants--then either that man is happy or he is a silly cuckoo!

JANET. You aren't getting tired--

CARVE. My sweet child, what's the matter with you?

JANET. Nothing, nothing. Only to-day's the second anniversary of our
wedding--and you've--you've said nothing about it.

CARVE. (After a shocked paused.) And I forgot it last year, didn't I?
I shall be forgetting my dinner next.

JANET. Oh no, you won't!

CARVE. And yet all last week I was thinking about this most important
day, and telling myself I must remember it.

JANET. Very easy to say that. But how can you prove it?

CARVE. Well, it does just happen that the proof is behind the sideboard.


JANET. A present?

CARVE. A present. It was all ready and waiting five days ago.

JANET. (Drawing a framed picture from behind the sideboard, and trying
to hide her disappointment, but not quite succeeding.) Oh! A picture!
Who is it? (Examines it with her nose close to it.)

CARVE. No, no. You can't take a picture like snuff! Get away from it.
(He jumps up, snatches the picture from her, and exposes it on a chair
at the other side of the room.) Now! (He sits down again.)

JANET. Yes, it doesn't look quite so queer like that. Those are my
cooking sleeves, and that seems a bit like my kitchen--that's my best
copper pan! Is the young woman meant to be me?

CARVE. Well, not to beat about the bush, yes.

JANET. I don't consider it very flattering.

CARVE. How many times have you told me you hate flattery?

JANET. (Running to him.) Now he's hurt. Oh, he's hurt. (Kissing
him.) It's a beautiful picture, and the frame's lovely! And she's so
glad he didn't forget.

CARVE. It is pretty good. In fact it's devilish good. It's one of the
best things I ever did in my life. Old Carve would have got eight
hundred for that like a shot.

JANET. (Sceptically.) Would he? It's wonderful how wonderful people
are when they're dead.

CARVE. And now will she let him finish reading his paper?

JANET. (Handing him the paper, then putting her head close to his and
looking at the paper.) What was it he was reading that made him so deaf
he couldn't hear his wife when she spoke to him?

CARVE. This.

JANET. (Reading.) "Ilam Carve's princely bequest. The International
Gallery of Art. Foundation stone laying. Eloquent speech by Lord
Rosebery." Oh! So they've begun it at last?

CARVE. Yes, they've begun it at last.

JANET. Well, if you ask me, I should have thought he could have found
something better to do with his money.

CARVE. As for example?

JANET. Well, I should have thought there were more than enough picture
galleries as it is. Who wants 'em? Even when they're free, people won't
go into them unless it's a wet day. I've never been in a free picture
gallery yet that wasn't as empty as a church. Stands to reason! It isn't
even a cinematograph. When I see rows of people in Trafalgar Square
waiting to get into the National Gallery, then I shall begin to think
it's about time we had some more galleries. If I'd been Ilam Carve----

CARVE. Well, what should you have done, witch?

JANET. I should have left a bit more to you, for one thing.

CARVE. I don't want more. If he'd left me eight hundred a year instead
of eighty, I shouldn't be any happier. That's just what I've learnt
since I took lodgings in your delightful wigwam, Jane--money and fame
have no connection whatever with happiness.

JANET. Money has, when you haven't got enough.

CARVE. But I have. You won't hear of me paying more than half the
household expenses, and you say they're never more than thirty shillings
a week. Half thirty--fifteen. Look at the balance it leaves me.

JANET. And supposing I had to ask you to pay more?

CARVE. (In a serious sympathetic tone, startled.) Anything wrong?

JANET. Well, there's nothing wrong, as it were--yet----

CARVE. Jane, I do believe you've been hiding something from me.

JANET. (With difficulty pulls a letter from her pocket.) No--

CARVE. I've felt it for several days.

JANET. You just haven't then. Because I only got it this morning. Here,
you may as well read it. (Handing him the letter.) It's about the
brewery.

CARVE. (Reading.) "Mrs. Albert Shawn. Sir or Madam."--Why are
shareholders never supposed to have any particular sex?--"Sir or Madam.
Cohoon's Brewery, Ltd.,--I am directed by the shareholders' provisional
committee of investigation to request your attendance at an informal
meeting of shareholders to be held in room 2009 Winchester House on
Friday the 20th inst. at noon. If you cannot be present, will you kindly
write stating whether or not you will be prepared to support the
committee of investigation at the annual meeting. In view of the
probability that the directors' report will be unfavourable, and the
ordinary dividend either passed or much reduced, the committee wishes to
be thoroughly prepared and armed. Believe me, Sir or Madam." Oh! So
that's it, is it?

JANET. Yes. My father said to me before he died, "Keep the money in
beer, Janet"; he said, "Beer'll never fail in this country." And there
you are!

(She goes to fireplace, opens coal scuttle, takes out a piece of
paper ready placed within, and sticks it on the handle so as to
keep her hands from being soiled as she replenishes the fire.)

CARVE. (Lightly.) Oh, well! We must wait and see what happens.

JANET. Supposing the dividend doesn't happen?

CARVE. I never worry about money.

JANET. But we shall want to eat once or twice pretty nearly every day, I
suppose?

CARVE. Personally, I am quite satisfied with a plain but perfect table.

JANET. You needn't tell me what you are satisfied with. You're satisfied
with the very best at one shilling and sixpence a pound.

CARVE. I can place eighty pounds per annum at your absolute disposal.
That alone will pay for over a thousand best cuts.

JANET. Yes, and what about your clothes and my clothes, and the rates
and taxes, and bus-fares, and holidays, and your cigarettes, and doctor,
and errand boys' Christmas-boxes, and gas, and coal, and repairs?
Repairs! A hundred and eighty is more like what we want.

CARVE. And yet you have several times taken your Bible oath that my
half-share of it all came to less than forty pounds.

JANET. Well--er--I was thinking of food. (She begins to collect the
breakfast things.)

CARVE. Jane, you have been a deceitful thing. But never mind. I will
draw a veil over this sinful past. Let us assume that beer goes all to
pieces, and that you never get another cent out of Cohoon's. Well, as
you need a hundred and eighty a year, I will give you a hundred and
eighty a year.

JANET. And where shall you get the extra hundred?

CARVE. I shall earn it.

JANET. No, you don't. I won't have you taking any more situations.

CARVE. I shall earn it here.

JANET. How?

CARVE. Painting!

JANET. (Stopping her work and coming towards him, half-caressing and
half-chiding.) I don't mind this painting business. Don't think I
object to it in the least. There's a strong smell with it now and then,
but it does keep you quiet in the attic while I'm cleaning the house,
and that's something. And then going out making sketches you get
exercise and fresh air. Being with Ilam Carve so long, I expect you
picked up the habit as it were, and I'm sure I don't want you to drop
it. I love to see you enjoying yourself. But you don't suppose people'll
buy these things (pointing vaguely to picture on chair), do you?
No; there's far too many amateur artists about for that!

CARVE. If I wanted, I could take a cab and sell that in Bond Street
inside sixty minutes at my own price. Only I don't want.

JANET. Now, just listen to me. You remember that picture you did of
Putney Bridge with the saloon entrance of the Reindeer Public House
showing in the corner? It was one of the first you did here.

CARVE. Yes, I was looking for it the other day, and I couldn't find it.

JANET. I'm not surprised. Because it's sold.

CARVE. Sold? (Excited.) What in the name of----

JANET. (Soothing him.) Now--now! Do you remember you said Ilam Carve
would have got £1000 for a thing just like that?

CARVE. So he would. It was absolutely characteristic.

JANET. Well, I said to myself, "He seems mighty sure of himself.
Supposing it's me that's wrong?" So one day I quietly took that picture
round to Bostock's, the second-hand furniture man, you know,--he was a
friend of father's,--and I asked him what he'd give me for it. He
wouldn't take it at any price. Not at any price. Then I asked him if
he'd keep it in his shop and sell it for me on commission. Well, it
stuck in Bostock's shop--in his window and out of his window--for twelve
months and more, and then one day the landlord of the Reindeer saw it
and he bought it for six shillings, because his public-house was in it.
He was half-drunk. Mr. Bostock charged me eighteenpence commission, and
I bought you two neckties with the four and six, and I said nothing
because I didn't want your feelings to be hurt. And that reminds me,
last week but one they took the landlord of the Reindeer off to the
lunatic asylum.... So, you see!

CARVE. (Serious, preoccupied.) And where's the picture now?

JANET. I shouldn't be surprised if it's in the private bar of the
Reindeer.

CARVE. I must get hold of it.

JANET. Albert, you aren't vexed, are you?

CARVE. (Forcing himself to adopt a light tone.) How could I be vexed
with two neckties to the good? But don't do it again, Jane. I shall go
round to the Reindeer this morning and have a drink. If that picture
ever found its way to a Bond Street expert's, the consequences might be
awkward--devilish awkward. Because it's dated, you see.

JANET. No, I don't see. I shouldn't have said a word about it, only I
wanted to save you from being disappointed later on.

CARVE. (In a new casual tone.) Just get me my cash-box, will you?

(JANET at once produces the cash-box from a drawer.)

JANET. And what now? I'm not broke yet, you great silly. (Laughs, but
is rather intimidated by CARVE'S air.)

CARVE. (Having unlocked box and taken a bag from it.) You see that?
(He showers gold out of it.) Well, count it!

JANET. Gracious! Ten--fifteen--eighteen--twenty?--two--four--twenty-six
pounds. These your savings?

CARVE. That's what I've earned with painting, just at odd times.

JANET. Really? (CARVE nods.) You could knock me down with a feather!

CARVE. I'll tell you. You know the framemaker's next to Salmon and
Gluckstein's. I buy my colours and canvases and things there. They cost
money. I owed the chap two pounds once, and one morning, in the shop,
when I was opening my box to put some new tubes in, he saw one of my
pictures all wet. He offered of his own accord to take it for what I
owed him. I wouldn't let him have it. But I was rather hard up, so I
said I'd do him another instead, and I did him one in a different style
and not half as good, and of course he liked it even better. Since then,
I've done him quite a few. It isn't that I've needed the money; but it's
a margin, and colours and frames, etc. come to a dickens of a lot in a
year.

JANET. (Staggered.) And whatever does he do with them?

CARVE. With the pictures? Don't know. I've never seen one in his window.
I haven't been selling him any lately.

JANET. Why?

CARVE. Oh, I didn't feel like it. And the things were getting too good.
But, of course, I can start again any time.

JANET. (Still staggered.) Two pounds a piece? (CARVE nods.) Would he
give you two pounds for that? (Pointing to portrait.)

CARVE. You bet he would.

JANET. Why! Two pounds would keep us for the best part of a week. How
long does it take you to do one?

(Noise of motor car outside.)

CARVE. Oh, three or four hours. I work pretty quickly.

JANET. Well, it's like a fairy tale. Two pounds! I don't know whether
I'm standing on my head or my heels!

(Violent ringing at front door bell.)

CARVE. There's one of your tradesmen.

JANET. It isn't. They know better than come to my front door. They know
I won't have it.

(Exit, throwing off apron.)

(CARVE examines the portrait of his wife with evident pleasure.)

CARVE. (To himself.) That 'ud make 'em sit up in Bond Street. (Laughs
grimly.)

(Voices off. Re-enter JANET, followed by EBAG carrying a
picture.)

JANET. Well, it never rains but it pours. Here's a gentleman in a motor
car wants to know if you've got any pictures for sale. (She calmly
conceals her apron.)

EBAG. (With diplomatic caution and much deference.) Good-morning.

CARVE. (Whose entire demeanour has suddenly changed into hostility.)
Good-morning.

EBAG. I've been buying some very delightful little things of yours from
a man that calls himself a picture-dealer and frame-maker (ironically)
in the High Street here. I persuaded him--not without difficulty--to
give me your address. And I've ventured to call just to see if by
chance you have anything for sale.

CARVE. By chance I haven't!

EBAG. Nothing at all?

CARVE. Not a square inch.

EBAG. (Catching sight of Janet's portrait.) Pardon me. May I look?

JANET. Oh, do!

EBAG. A brilliant likeness.

JANET. Who of?

EBAG. Why, madam--yourself? The attitude is extraordinarily expressive.
And if I may say so (glancing at CARVE) the placing of the high
lights--those white sleevelets--what d'you call them?

JANET. Why! Those are my cooking-sleeves!

EBAG. (Quietly.) Yes--well--it's genius--mere genius.

JANET. (Looking at picture afresh) It is rather pretty when you come
to look at it.

EBAG. It is a masterpiece, madam. (To CARVE.) Then I may not make an
offer for it?

CARVE. No.

JANET. Excuse me, Albert. Why shouldn't the gentleman make an offer for
it?

EBAG. (Quickly seizing an opportunity) If you cared to consider, say,
five hundred pounds.

JANET. Five hundred p----

EBAG. I came down quite prepared to spend--and to pay cash. (Fingers
his pocket-book.)

JANET. (Sitting down.) And if it isn't a rude question--do you
generally go about with five hundred pounds in your pocket, as it were?