The Philanderer | Page 8

man of fervent idealistic sentiment, so
frequently outraged by the facts of life, that he has acquired an
habitually indignant manner, which unexpectedly becomes enthusiastic
or affectionate when he speaks.
The two men differ greatly in expression. The Colonel's face is lined
with weather, with age, with eating and drinking, and with the
cumulative effects of many petty vexations, but not with thought: he is
still fresh, and he has by no means full expectations of pleasure and
novelty. Cuthbertson has the lines of sedentary London brain work,
with its chronic fatigue and longing for rest and recreative emotion, and
its disillusioned indifference to adventure and enjoyment, except as a
means of recuperation.
They are both in evening dress; and Cuthbertson wears his fur collared
overcoat, which, with his vigilant, irascible eye, piled up hair, and the
honorable earnestness with which he takes himself, gives him an air of
considerable consequence.
CUTHBERTSON (with a hospitable show of delight at finding
visitors). Don't stop, Miss Craven. Go on, Charteris. (He comes down
behind the sofa, and hangs his overcoat on it, after taking an opera glass
and a theatre programme from the pockets, and putting them down on
the piano. Craven meanwhile goes to the fire-place and stands on the
hearthrug.)
CHARTERIS. No, thank you. Miss Craven has just been taking me
through an old song; and I've had enough of it. (He takes the song off
the piano desk and lays it aside; then closes the lid over the keyboard.)

JULIA (passing between the sofa and piano to shake hands with
Cuthbertson). Why, you've brought Daddy! What a surprise! (Looking
across to Craven.) So glad you've come, Dad. (She takes a chair near
the window, and sits there.)
CUTHBERTSON. Craven: let me introduce you to Mr. Leonard
Charteris, the famous Ibsenist philosopher.
CRAVEN. Oh, we know one another already. Charteris is quite at
home at our house, Jo.
CUTHBERTSON. I beg both your pardons. (Charteris sits down on the
piano stool.) He's quite at home here too. By the bye, where's Grace?
JULIA and CHARTERIS. Er-- (They stop and look at one another.)
JULIA (politely). I beg your pardon, Mr. Charteris: I interrupted you.
CHARTERIS. Not at all, Miss Craven. (An awkward pause.)
CUTHBERTSON (to help them out). You were going to tell about
Grace, Charteris.
CHARTERIS. I was only going to say that I didn't know that you and
Craven were acquainted.
CRAVEN. Why, I didn't know it until to-night. It's a most
extraordinary thing. We met by chance at the theatre; and he turns out
to be my oldest friend.
CUTHBERTSON (energetically). Yes, Craven; and do you see how
this proves what I was saying to you about the breaking up of family
life? Here are all our young people--Grace and Miss Julia and the
rest--bosom friends, inseparables; and yet we two, who knew each
other before they were born, might never have met again if you hadn't
popped into the stall next to mine to-night by pure chance. Come, sit
down (bustling over to him affectionately and pushing him into the arm
chair above the fire): there's your place, by my fireside, whenever you

choose to fill it. (He posts himself at the right end of the sofa, leaning
against it and admiring Craven.) Just imagine your being Dan Craven!
CRAVEN. Just imagine your being Jo Cuthbertson, though! That's a far
more extraordinary coincidence, because I'd got it into my head that
your name was Tranfield.
CUTHBERTSON. Oh, that's my daughter's name. She's a widow, you
know. How uncommonly well you look, Dan! The years haven't hurt
you much.
CRAVEN (suddenly becoming unnaturally gloomy). I look well. I even
feel well. But my days are numbered.
CUTHBERTSON (alarmed). Oh don't say that, my dear fellow. I hope
not.
JULIA (with anguish in her voice). Daddy! (Cuthbertson looks
inquiringly around at her.)
CRAVEN. There, there, my dear: I was wrong to talk of it. It's a sad
subject. But it's better that Cuthbertson should know. We used to be
very close friends, and are so still, I hope. (Cuthbertson goes to Craven
and presses his hand silently; then returns to sofa and sits, pulling out
his handkerchief and displaying some emotion. )
CHARTERIS (a little impatiently). The fact is, Cuthbertson, Craven's a
devout believer in the department of witchcraft called medical science.
He's celebrated in all the medical schools as an example of the newest
sort of liver complaint. The doctors say he can't last another year; and
he has fully made up his mind not to survive next Easter, just to oblige
them.
CRAVEN (with military affectation). It's very kind of you to try to
keep up my spirits by making light of it, Charteris. But I shall be ready
when my time comes. I'm a soldier. (A sob