The Fugitive | Page 6

man, about thirty-five, with a strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which seem to have needles in their pupils. His thick hair is rather untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.
LADY DEDMOND. How do you do? My son and daughter-in-law are so very sorry. They'll be here directly.
[MALISE bows with a queer, curly smile.]
SIR CHARLES. [Shaking hands] How d'you do, sir?
HUNTINGDON. We've met, I think.
He gives MALISE that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn the person bowed to of the sort of person he is. MALISE'S eyes sparkle.
LADY DEDMOND. Clare will be so grieved. One of those invitations
MALISE. On the spur of the moment.
SIR CHARLES. You play Bridge, sir?
MALISE. Afraid not!
SIR CHARLES. Don't mean that? Then we shall have to wait for 'em.
LADY DEDMOND. I forget, Mr. Malise--you write, don't you?
MALISE. Such is my weakness.
LADY DEDMOND. Delightful profession.
SIR CHARLES. Doesn't tie you! What!
MALISE. Only by the head.
SIR CHARLES. I'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences.
MALISE. Indeed!
[There is the sound of a door banged.]
SIR CHARLES. [Hastily] You smoke, Mr. MALISE?
MALISE. Too much.
SIR CHARLES. Ah! Must smoke when you think a lot.
MALISE. Or think when you smoke a lot.
SIR CHARLES. [Genially] Don't know that I find that.
LADY DEDMOND. [With her clear look at him] Charles!
The door is opened. CLARE DEDMOND in a cream-coloured evening frock comes in from the hall, followed by GEORGE. She is rather pale, of middle height, with a beautiful figure, wavy brown hair, full, smiling lips, and large grey mesmeric eyes, one of those women all vibration, iced over with a trained stoicism of voice and manner.
LADY DEDMOND. Well, my dear!
SIR CHARLES. Ah! George. Good dinner?
GEORGE. [Giving his hand to MALISE] How are you? Clare! Mr. MALISE!
CLARE. [Smiling-in a clear voice with the faintest possible lisp] Yes, we met on the door-mat. [Pause.]
SIR CHARLES. Deuce you did! [An awkward pause.]
LADY DEDMOND. [Acidly] Mr. Malise doesn't play Bridge, it appears. Afraid we shall be rather in the way of music.
SIR CHARLES. What! Aren't we goin' to get a game? [PAYNTER has entered with a tray.]
GEORGE. Paynter! Take that table into the dining room.
PAYNTER. [Putting down the tray on a table behind the door] Yes, sir.
MALISE. Let me give you a hand.
PAYNTER and MALISE carry one of the Bridge tables out, GEORGE making a half-hearted attempt to relieve MALISE.
SIR CHARLES. Very fine sunset!
Quite softly CLARE begins to laugh. All look at her first with surprise, then with offence, then almost with horror. GEORGE is about to go up to her, but HUNTINGDON heads him off.
HUNTINGDON. Bring the tray along, old man.
GEORGE takes up the tray, stops to look at CLARE, then allows HUNTINGDON to shepherd him out.
LADY DEDMOND. [Without looking at CLARE] Well, if we're going to play, Charles? [She jerks his sleeve.]
SIR CHARLES. What? [He marches out.]
LADY DEDMOND. [Meeting MALISE in the doorway] Now you will be able to have your music.
[She follows the GENERAL out]
[CLARE stands perfectly still, with her eyes closed.]
MALISE. Delicious!
CLARE. [In her level, clipped voice] Perfectly beastly of me! I'm so sorry. I simply can't help running amok to-night.
MALISE. Never apologize for being fey. It's much too rare.
CLARE. On the door-mat! And they'd whitewashed me so beautifully! Poor dears! I wonder if I ought----[She looks towards the door.]
MALISE. Don't spoil it!
CLARE. I'd been walking up and down the Embankment for about three hours. One does get desperate sometimes.
MALISE. Thank God for that!
CLARE. Only makes it worse afterwards. It seems so frightful to them, too.
MALISE. [Softly and suddenly, but with a difficulty in finding the right words] Blessed be the respectable! May they dream of--me! And blessed be all men of the world! May they perish of a surfeit of--good form!
CLARE. I like that. Oh, won't there be a row! [With a faint movement of her shoulders] And the usual reconciliation.
MALISE. Mrs. Dedmond, there's a whole world outside yours. Why don't you spread your wings?
CLARE. My dear father's a saint, and he's getting old and frail; and I've got a sister engaged; and three little sisters to whom I'm supposed to set a good example. Then, I've no money, and I can't do anything for a living, except serve in a shop. I shouldn't be free, either; so what's the good? Besides, I oughtn't to have married if I wasn't going to be happy. You see, I'm not a bit misunderstood or ill-treated. It's only----
MALISE. Prison. Break out!
CLARE. [Turning to the window] Did you see the sunset? That white cloud trying to fly up?
[She holds up her bare arms, with a motion of flight.]
MALISE. [Admiring her] Ah-h-h! [Then, as she drops her arms suddenly] Play me something.
CLARE. [Going to the piano] I'm awfully grateful to you. You don't make me feel just an attractive female. I wanted somebody like that. [Letting her hands rest on the notes] All the same, I'm glad