First Plays | Page 7

thought it was just a--do say it again, father.
CRAWSHAW (sulkily but plainly). Wurzel-Flummery.
VIOLA (surprised). Do you spell it like that? I mean like a wurzel and like flummery?
RICHARD. Exactly, I believe.
VIOLA (to herself). Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery--I mean they'd have to look at you, wouldn't they? (Bubbling over) Oh, Dick, what a heavenly name! Who had it first?
RICHARD. They are an old Hampshire family--that is so, isn't it, Robert?
CRAWSHAW (annoyed). I said I thought that I remembered--Margaret, can you find Burke there?
(She finds it, and he buries himself in the families of the great.)
MARGARET. Well, Viola, you haven't told us how you like being Miss Wurzel-Flummery.
VIOLA. I haven't realized myself yet, mummy. I shall have to stand in front of my glass and tell myself who I am.
RICHARD. It's all right for you. You know you'll change your name one day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before.
VIOLA (secretly). H'sh! (She smiles lovingly at him, and then says aloud) Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers, "A marriage has been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery..." and everybody will say, "And about time too, poor girl."
MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). Have you found it, dear?
CRAWSHAW (resentfully). This is the 1912 edition.
MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in by then.
VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick, what fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman throwing open the door and saying--
MAID (announcing). Mr. Denis Clifton.
(There is a little natural confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in his summer suiting with a bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW goes towards him and shakes hands.)
CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come. (Looking doubtfully at his clothes) Er--it is Mr. Denis Clifton, the solicitor?
CLIFTON (cheerfully). It is. I must apologize for not looking the part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time. Very careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk dissuaded me from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these occasions.
CRAWSHAW (bewildered). Ah yes, quite so. But you have--ah--full legal authority to act in this matter?
CLIFTON.. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that.
CRAWSHAW (introducing). My wife--and daughter. (CLIFTON bows gracefully.) My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton.
CLIFTON (happily).Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a situation, as we say in the profession.
RICHARD (amused by him). In the legal profession?
CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession.(Turning to MARGARET) I am a writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have thanked me for submitting my work to them.
CRAWSHAW (firmly).I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony Clifton.
CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to the Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have embraced the profession of a solicitor--(Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW) But you know what these official embraces are.
MARGARET. I'm afraid--(She turns to her husband for assistance.)
CLIFTON (to RICHARD). Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the Muses.
VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely?
CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it that we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to produce a play, the case would be different.
CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor for as long as you wish. (He puts his hat down on a chair with the papers in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily) Mr. Denis Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent make-up, his manner of taking off his gloves and dropping them into his hat--(He does so.)
MARGARET (to CRAWSHAW). I think, perhaps, Viola and I--
RICHARD (making a move too). We'll leave you to your business, Robert.
CLIFTON (holding up his hand). Just one moment if I may. I have a letter for you, Mr. Meriton.
RICHARD (surprised). For me?
CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity--oh, but I said that before--he took it round to your rooms this morning, but found only painters and decorators there. (He is feeling in his pockets and now brings the letter out.) I brought it along, hoping that Mr. Crawshaw--but of course I never expected anything so delightful as this. (He hands over the letter with a bow.)
RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts it in his pocket.)
CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? (To MR. CRAWSHAW) One so rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own letters are read. I think the habit