The First Series Plays | Page 9

BARTHWICK. My dear----
MRS. BARTHWICK. [Indignantly.] How disgraceful!

BARTHWICK. [Hurriedly.] And where are you living now, Mrs.
Jones?
MRS. JONES. We've not got a home, sir. Of course we've been obliged
to put away most of our things.
BARTHWICK. Put your things away! You mean to--to--er--to pawn
them?
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, to put them away. We're living in Merthyr
Street--that is close by here, sir--at No. 34. We just have the one room.
BARTHWICK. And what do you pay a week?
MRS. JONES. We pay six shillings a week, sir, for a furnished room.
BARTHWICK. And I suppose you're behind in the rent?
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, we're a little behind in the rent.
BARTHWICK. But you're in good work, aren't you?
MRS. JONES. Well, Sir, I have a day in Stamford Place Thursdays.
And Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays I come here. But to-day, of
course, is a half-day, because of yesterday's Bank Holiday.
BARTHWICK. I see; four days a week, and you get half a crown a day,
is that it?
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, and my dinner; but sometimes it's only half a
day, and that's eighteen pence.
BARTHWICK. And when your husband earns anything he spends it in
drink, I suppose?
MRS. JONES. Sometimes he does, sir, and sometimes he gives it to me
for the children. Of course he would work if he could get it, sir, but it
seems there are a great many people out of work.
BARTHWICK. Ah! Yes. We--er--won't go into that. [Sympathetically.]
And how about your work here? Do you find it hard?
MRS. JONES. Oh! no, sir, not very hard, sir; except of course, when I
don't get my sleep at night.
BARTHWICK. Ah! And you help do all the rooms? And sometimes, I
suppose, you go out for cook?
MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir.
BARTHWICK. And you 've been out this morning?
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I had to go to the greengrocer's.
BARTHWICK. Exactly. So your husband earns nothing? And he's a
bad character.
MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I don't say that, sir. I think there's a great deal of

good in him; though he does treat me very bad sometimes. And of
course I don't like to leave him, but I think I ought to, because really I
hardly know how to stay with him. He often raises his hand to me. Not
long ago he gave me a blow here [touches her breast] and I can feel it
now. So I think I ought to leave him, don't you, sir?
BARTHWICK. Ah! I can't help you there. It's a very serious thing to
leave your husband. Very serious thing.
MRS. JONES. Yes, sir, of course I 'm afraid of what he might do to me
if I were to leave him; he can be so very violent.
BARTHWICK. H'm! Well, that I can't pretend to say anything about.
It's the bad principle I'm speaking of----
MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir; I know nobody can help me. I know I must
decide for myself, and of course I know that he has a very hard life.
And he's fond of the children, and its very hard for him to see them
going without food.
BARTHWICK. [Hastily.] Well--er--thank you, I just wanted to hear
about you. I don't think I need detain you any longer, Mrs. Jones.
MRS. JONES. No, sir, thank you, sir.
BARTHWICK. Good morning, then.
MRS. JONES. Good morning, sir; good morning, ma'am.
BARTHWICK. [Exchanging glances with his wife.] By the way, Mrs.
Jones--I think it is only fair to tell you, a silver cigarette-box --er--is
missing.
MRS. JONES. [Looking from one face to the other.] I am very sorry,
sir.
BARTHWICK. Yes; you have not seen it, I suppose?
MRS. JONES. [Realising that suspicion is upon her; with an uneasy
movement.] Where was it, sir; if you please, sir?
BARTHWICK. [Evasively.] Where did Marlow say? Er--in this room,
yes, in this room.
MRS. JONES. No, Sir, I have n't seen it--of course if I 'd seen it I
should have noticed it.
BARTHWICK. [Giving hey a rapid glance.] You--you are sure of that?
MRS. JONES. [Impassively.] Yes, Sir. [With a slow nodding of her
head.] I have not seen it, and of course I don't know where it is.
[She turns and goes quietly out.]
BARTHWICK. H'm!

[The three BARTHWICKS avoid each other's glances.]
The curtain falls.

ACT II
SCENE I
The JONES's lodgings, Merthyr Street, at half-past two o'clock.
The bare room, with tattered oilcloth and damp, distempered walls, has
an air of tidy wretchedness. On the bed lies JONES, half-dressed; his
coat is thrown across his feet, and muddy boots are lying on the floor
close by. He is asleep. The door is opened and MRS. JONES comes in,
dressed in a