The Great Adventure | Page 9

out of his tooth-brush, the same being discovered at the operation. I am an orphan, a widow, and have no children. In consequence I feel very lonely, and my first experience not being distasteful, indeed the reverse, I am anxious to try again, provided I can meet with a sincere helpmeet of good family. I am the owner of the above house, rated at forty-five pounds a year, in one of the nicest streets in Putney, and I have private means of some three pounds a week, from brewery shares bringing in fifteen per cent. I will say nothing about my appearance, but enclose latest carte-de-visite photograph."
JANET. I had it taken on purpose.
CARVE. "As to my tastes, I will only say that as a general rule they are quiet. If the above seems in your line, I shall be obliged if you will write and send me particulars of yourself, with photographs.--Yours truly, JANET CANNOT." Well, Mrs. Cannot, your letter is an absolute model.
JANET. I suppose you did get dozens?
CARVE. Well----By the way, what's this type-written thing in the envelope?
JANET. (Looking at it.) It looks like a copy of your answer.
CARVE. Oh!
JANET. If it isn't a rude question, Mr. Shawn, why do you typewrite your letters? It seems so--what shall I say?--public.
CARVE. (Half to himself.) So thats the explanation of the typewriter.
JANET. (Puzzled.) I suppose it's because you're a private secretary.
CARVE. (Equally puzzled.) Private secretary! I--shall we just glance through my reply? (Reads.) "My dear Mrs. Cannot, your letter inspires me with more confidence than any of the dozens of others I have received." (They look at each other, smiling.) "As regards myself, I should state at once that I am and have been for many years private secretary, indeed I may say almost companion, to the celebrated painter. Mr. Ilam Carve, whose magnificent pictures you are doubtless familiar with."
JANET. No, I'm not.
CARVE. Really. "We have been knocking about England together for longer than I care to remember, and I personally am anxious for a change. Our present existence is very expensive. I feel the need of a home and the companionship of just such a woman as yourself. Although a bachelor, I think I am not unfitted for the domestic hearth. My age is forty." That's a mistake of the typewriter.
JANET. Oh!
CARVE. Forty-five it ought to be.
JANET. Well, honestly, I shouldn't have thought it.
CARVE. "My age is forty-five. By a strange coincidence Mr. Carve has suggested to me that we set out for England to-morrow. At Dover I will telegraph you with a rendezvous. In great haste. Till then, my dear Mrs. Cannot, believe me," etc.
JANET. You didn't send a photograph.
CARVE. Perhaps I was afraid of prejudicing you in advance.
JANET. (Laughs.) Eh, Mr. Shawn! There's thousands of young gentlemen alive and kicking in London this minute that would give a great deal to be only half as good looking as you are. And so you're a bachelor?
CARVE. Oh, quite.
JANET. Two bachelors, as you say, knocking about Europe together. (CARVE laughs quietly but heartily to himself.) By the way, how is Mr. Carve? I hope he's better.
CARVE. Mr. Carve?...(Suddenly stops laughing.) Oh! (Lamely, casually.) He's dead!
JANET. (Stocked.) Dead? When?
CARVE. Early this morning.
JANET. (Rising.) And us chattering away like this. Why didn't you tell me at once, Mr. Shawn?
CARVE. I forgot for the moment. I wasn't thinking----
JANET. Forgot?
CARVE. (Simply and sincerely, but very upset.) Now, Mrs. Cannot, I assure you I feel that man's death. I admit I had very little affection for him--certainly not much respect--but we'd been together a long time, and his death is a shock to me. Yes, really. But I've had to think so much about my own case--and then a scene, a regular scene with Cyrus Carve. And then you coming. The fact is----
JANET. (Sympathetically.) The fact is, you scarcely know what you're doing, my poor Mr. Shawn. You're on wires, that's what's the matter with you--hysteria. I know what it is as well as anybody. You'll excuse me saying so, but you're no ordinary man. You're one of these highly-strung people and you ought to take care of yourself. Well, I'll go now, and if it's mutually agreeable we might perhaps meet again in a month's time--say.
CARVE. A month? But what am I to do with myself for a month? Do you know you're absolutely the only friend I've got in London--in England. We're never here. I'm an utter stranger. You can't leave me like that--for a month--four weeks--four Sundays. I haven't the least idea what's going to happen to me.
JANET. The very best thing that can happen to you is bed. You go to bed and stop there for a couple of days. There's nothing like it.
CARVE. Yes, but where?
JANET. Why, here of course.
CARVE. I've got to be out of this place in