The Third Series Plays | Page 3

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 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