The Third Series Plays | Page 3

you needn't say so. Do you
understand?
PAYNTER. [In polite dudgeon] Just so, my lady.
[He goes out.]
SIR CHARLES. By Jove! That fellow smells a rat!
LADY DEDMOND. Be careful, Charles!
SIR CHARLES. I should think so.
LADY DEDMOND. I shall simply say they're dining out, and that
we're not to wait Bridge for them.
SIR CHARLES. [Listening] He's having a palaver with that man of
George's.
PAYNTER, reappearing, announces: "Captain Huntingdon." SIR
CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND turn to him with relief.
LADY DEDMOND. Ah! It's you, Reginald!
HUNTINGDON. [A tall, fair soldier, of thirty] How d'you do? How are
you, sir? What's the matter with their man?
SHE CHARLES. What!
HUNTINGDON. I was going into the dining-room to get rid of my
cigar; and he said: "Not in there, sir. The master's there, but my
instructions are to the effect that he's not."
SHE CHARLES. I knew that fellow----
LADY DEDMOND. The fact is, Reginald, Clare's out, and George is
waiting for her. It's so important people shouldn't----
HUNTINGDON. Rather!
They draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of
members of their families.
LADY DEDMOND. It's getting serious, Reginald. I don't know what's
to become of them. You don't think the Rector--you don't think your
father would speak to Clare?
HUNTINGDON. Afraid the Governor's hardly well enough. He takes
anything of that sort to heart so--especially Clare.
SIR CHARLES. Can't you put in a word yourself?
HUNTINGDON. Don't know where the mischief lies.

SIR CHARLES. I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road. Very
steady-goin' fellow, old George.
HUNTINGDON. Oh, yes; George is all right, sir.
LADY DEDMOND. They ought to have had children.
HUNTINGDON. Expect they're pretty glad now they haven't. I really
don't know what to say, ma'am.
SIR CHARLES. Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often
noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. Get too much morality and
rice puddin'.
LADY DEDMOND. [With a clear look] Charles!
SIR CHARLES. What was she like when you were kids?
HUNTINGDON. Oh, all right. Could be rather a little devil, of course,
when her monkey was up.
SIR CHARLES. I'm fond of her. Nothing she wants that she hasn't got,
is there?
HUNTINGDON. Never heard her say so.
SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too
matter of fact for her. H'm?
[A short silence.]
LADY DEDMOND. There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night. I
forget if you know him.
HUNTINGDON. Yes. Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.
LADY DEDMOND. He's literary. [With hesitation] You--you don't
think he--puts--er--ideas into her head?
HUNTINGDON. I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's
a bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows. Can't see Clare----
LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be
encouraged. Listen!--It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices. Gone
to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The door bell
rings] Tt! There he is, I expect.
SIR CHARLES. What are we goin' to say?
HUNTINGDON. Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge
for them.
SIR CHARLES. Good!
The door is opened, and PAYNTER announces "Mr. Kenneth Malise."
MALISE enters. He is a tall 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