Press Cuttings | Page 7

is a very fascinating
woman. Who is she, by the way?
BALSQUITH. Daughter of Lord Broadstairs, the automatic turbine
man. Gave quarter of a million to the party funds. Shes musical and
romantic and all that--dont hunt: hates politics: stops in town all the
year round: one never sees her anywhere except at the opera and at
musical at-homes and so forth.
MITCHENER. What a life! Still, if she wants to see me I dont mind.
(To the Orderly.) Where are the ladies?
THE ORDERLY. In No. 17, Sir.
MITCHENER. Show Mr. Balsquith there. And send Mrs. Farrell here.
THE ORDERLY (calling into the corridor). Mrs. Farrell! (To
Balsquith.) This way sir. (He goes out with Balsquith.)
Mrs. Farrell, a lean, highly respectable Irish Charwoman of about 50
comes in.
MITCHENER. Mrs. Farrell: Ive a very important visit to pay: I shall
want my full dress uniform and all my medals and orders and my
presentation sword. There was a time when the British Army contained
men capable of discharging these duties for their commanding officer.
Those days are over. The compulsorily enlisted soldier runs to a
woman for everything. Im therefore reluctantly obliged to trouble you.
MRS FARRELL. Your meddles n ordhers n the crooked sword with
the ivory handle n your full dress uniform is in the waxworks in the
Chamber o Military Glory over in the place they used to call the
Banquetin Hall. I told you youd be sorry for sendin them away; n you

told me to mind me own business. Youre wiser now.
MITCHENER. I am. I had not at that time discovered that you were the
only person in the whole military establishment of this capital who
could be trusted to remember where anything was, or to understand an
order and obey it.
MRS. FARRELL. Its no good flattherin me. Im too old.
MITCHENER. Not at all, Mrs. Farrell. How is your daughter?
MRS. FARRELL. Which daughther.
MITCHENER. The one who has made such a gratifying success in the
Music Halls.
MRS. FARRELL. Theres no music halls nowadays: theyre Variety
Theatres. Shes got an offer of marriage from a young jook.
MITCHENER. Is it possible? What did you do?
MRS. FARRELL. I told his mother on him.
MITCHENER. Oh! what did she say?
MRS. FARRELL. She was as pleased as Punch. Thank Heaven, she
says, hes got somebody thatll be able to keep him when the supertax is
put up to twenty shillings in the pound.
MITCHENER. But your daughter herself? What did she say?
MRS. FARRELL. Accepted him, of course. What else would a young
fool like her do? He inthrojooced her to the Poet Laureate, thinking
shed inspire him.
MITCHENER. Did she?
MRS. FARRELL. Faith I dunna. All I know is she walked up to him as
bold as brass n said "Write me a sketch, dear." Afther all the trouble I

took with that chills manners shes no more notion how to behave
herself than a pig. Youll have to wear General Sandstones uniform: its
the ony one in the place, because he wont lend it to the shows.
MITCHENER. But Sandstones clothes wont fit me.
MRS. FARRELL (unmoved). Then youll have to fit THEM. Why
shouldnt they fitcha as well as they fitted General Blake at the Mansion
House?
MITCHENER. They didnt fit him. He looked a frightful guy.
MRS. FARRELL. Well, you must do the best you can with them. You
cant exhibit your clothes and wear them too.
MITCHENER. And the public thinks the lot of a commanding officer a
happy one! Oh, if they could only see the seamy side of it. (He returns
to his table to resume work.)
MRS. FARRELL. If they could only see the seamy side of General
Sandstones uniform, where his flask rubs agen the buckle of his braces,
theyll tell him he ought to get a new one. Let alone the way he swears
at me.
MITCHENER. When a man has risked his life on eight battlefields,
Mrs. Farrell, he has given sufficient proof of his self-control to be
excused a little strong language.
MRS. FARRELL. Would you put up with bad language from me
because Ive risked my life eight times in childbed?
MITCHENER. My dear Mrs. Farrell, you surely would not compare a
risk of that harmless domestic kind to the fearful risks of the
battlefield?
MRS. FARRELL. I wouldnt compare risks run to bear living people
into the world to risks run to blow them out of it. A mother's risk is
jooty: a soldier's nothin but divilmint.

MITCHENER (nettled). Let me tell you, Mrs. Farrell, that if the men
did not fight, the women would have to fight themselves. We spare you
that, at all events.
MRS. FARRELL. You cant help yourselves. If three-quarters of you
was killed we