Five Little Plays | Page 9

clue whatever to the character of the man
within._
_The couple break apart when they enter the room;_ LADY ALINE _is
the least bit nervous, though she shows no trace of it;_ MR.
CROCKSTEAD _absolutely imperturbable and undisturbed._
CROCKSTEAD. [_Looking around._] Ah--this is the place--very quiet,
retired, romantic--et cetera. Music in the distance--all very appropriate
and sentimental.
[_She leaves him, and sits, quietly fanning herself; he stands, looking at
her._] You seem perfectly calm, Lady Aline?
ALINE. [_Sitting._] Conservatories are not unusual appendages to a
ball-room, Mr. Crockstead; nor is this conservatory unlike other
conservatories.
CROCKSTEAD [_Turning to her._] I wonder why women are always
so evasive?
ALINE. With your permission we will not discuss the sex. You and I
are too old to be cynical, and too young to be appreciative. And besides,
it is a rule of mine, whenever I sit out a dance, that my partner shall
avoid the subjects of women--and golf.
CROCKSTEAD. You limit the area of conversation. But then, in this

particular instance, I take it, we have not come here to talk?
ALINE. [_Coldly._] I beg your pardon!
CROCKSTEAD. [_Sitting beside her._] Lady Aline, they are dancing a
cotillon in there, so we have half an hour before us. We shall not be
disturbed, for the Duchess, your aunt, has considerately stationed her
aged companion in the corridor, with instructions to ward off intruders.
ALINE. [_Very surprised._] Mr. Crockstead!
CROCKSTEAD. [_Looking hard at her._] Didn't you know? [ALINE
_turns aside, embarrassed._] That's right--of course you did. Don't you
know why I have brought you here? That's right; of course you do. The
Duchess, your aunt, and the Marchioness, your mother--observe how
fondly my tongue trips out the titles--smiled sweetly on us as we left
the ball-room. There will be a notice in the Morning Post to-morrow:
"A Marriage Has Been Arranged Between--"
ALINE. [_Bewildered and offended._] Mr. Crockstead! This--this is--
CROCKSTEAD. [_Always in the same quiet tone._] Because I have
not yet proposed, you mean? Of course I intend to, Lady Aline. Only as
I know that you will accept me--
ALINE. [_In icy tones, as she rises._] Let us go back to the ball-room.
CROCKSTEAD. [_Quite undisturbed._] Oh, please! That won't help us,
you know. Do sit down. I assure you I have never proposed before, so
that naturally I am a trifle nervous. Of course I know that we are only
supers really, without much of a speaking part; but the spirit moves me
to gag, in the absence of the stage-manager, who is, let us say, the
Duchess--
ALINE. I have heard of the New Humour, Mr. Crockstead, though I
confess I have never understood it. This may be an exquisite example--
CROCKSTEAD. By no means. I am merely trying to do the right thing,
though perhaps not the conventional one. Before making you the
formal offer of my hand and fortune, which amounts to a little over
three millions--
ALINE. [_Fanning herself._] How people exaggerate! Between six and
seven, I heard.
CROCKSTEAD. Only three at present, but we must be patient. Before
throwing myself at your feet, metaphorically, I am anxious that you
should know something of the man whom you are about to marry.
ALINE. That is really most considerate!

CROCKSTEAD. I have the advantage of you, you see, inasmuch as
you have many dear friends, who have told me all about you.
ALINE. [_With growing exasperation, but keeping very cool._]
Indeed?
CROCKSTEAD. I am aware, for instance, that this is your ninth
season--
ALINE. [_Snapping her fan._] You are remarkably well-informed.
CROCKSTEAD. I have been told that again to-night, three times, by
charming young women who vowed that they loved you. Now, as I
have no dearest friends, it is unlikely that you will have heard anything
equally definite concerning myself. I propose to enlighten you.
ALINE. [_Satirically._] The story of your life--how thrilling!
CROCKSTEAD. I trust you may find it so. [_He sits, and pauses for a
moment, then begins, very quietly._] Lady Aline, I am a self-made man,
as the foolish phrase has it--a man whose early years were spent in
savage and desolate places, where the devil had much to say; a man in
whom whatever there once had been of natural kindness was very soon
kicked out. I was poor, and lonely, for thirty-two years: I have been
rich, and lonely, for ten. My millions have been made honestly enough;
but poverty and wretchedness had left their mark on me, and you will
find very few men with a good word to say for Harrison Crockstead. I
have no polish, or culture, or tastes. Art wearies me, literature sends me
to sleep--
ALINE. When you come to the chapter of your personal deficiencies,
Mr. Crockstead, please remember that they are sufficiently evident for
me to