The Title | Page 3

my deliberate opinion is--it's a jolly strange world. (_Exit quickly, back)_.
TRANTO (looking at Hildegarde). So it is. Philosopher, John! Questions rather pointed perhaps; but result in the discovery of new truths. By the way, have I come too early?
HILDEGARDE (_archly)_. How could you? But father's controlling the country half an hour more than usual this evening, and I expect mamma was so angry about it she forgot to telephone you that dinner's moved accordingly. (With piquancy and humour.) I was rather surprised to hear when I got home from my Ministry that you'd sent word you'd like to dine to-night.
TRANTO. Were you? Why?
HILDEGARDE. Because last week when mamma asked you for to-night, you said you had another engagement.
TRANTO. Oh! I'd forgotten I'd told her that. Still, I really had another engagement.
HILDEGARDE. The Countess of Blackfriars--you said.
TRANTO. Yes. Auntie Joe's. I've just sent her a telephone message to say I'm ill and confined to the house.
HILDEGARDE. Which house?
TRANTO. I didn't specify any particular house.
HILDEGARDE. And are you ill?
TRANTO. I am not.... To get back to the realm of fact, when I read Sampson Straight's article about the degradation of honours this afternoon--
HILDEGARDE. Didn't you read it before you published it?
TRANTO. No. I had to rush off and confront the Medical Board at 9 a.m. I felt certain the article would be all right.
HILDEGARDE. And it wasn't all right.
TRANTO (_positively_). Perfectly all right.
HILDEGARDE. You don't seem quite sure. Are we still in the realm of fact, or are we slipping over the frontier?
TRANTO. The article was perfectly all right. It rattled off from beginning to end like a machine-gun, and must have caused enormous casualties. Only I thought Auntie Joe might be one of the casualties. I thought it might put her out of action as a hostess for a week or so. You see, for me to publish such an onslaught on new titles in the afternoon, and then attempt to dine with the latest countess the same night--and she my own aunt--well, it might be regarded as a bit--thick. So I'm confined to the house--this house as it happens.
HILDEGARDE. But you told John your people would take the article like meat and drink.
TRANTO. What if I did? John can't expect to discover the whole truth about everything at one go. He's found out it's a jolly strange world. That ought to satisfy him for to-day. Besides, he only asked me about my uncles. He said nothing about my uncles' wives. You know what women are--I mean wives.
HILDEGARDE. Oh, I do! Mother is a marvellous specimen.
TRANTO. I haven't told you the worst.
HILDEGARDE. I hope no man ever will.
TRANTO. The worst is this. Auntie Joe actually thinks _I_'m Sampson Straight.
HILDEGARDE. She doesn't!
TRANTO. She does. She has an infinite capacity for belief. The psychology of the thing is as follows. My governor died a comparatively poor man. A couple of hundred thousand pounds, more or less. Whereas Uncle Joe is worth five millions--and Uncle Joe was going to adopt me, when Auntie Joe butted in and married him. She used to arrange the flowers for his first wife. Then she arranged his flowers. Then she became a flower herself and he had to gather her. Then she had twins, and my chances of inheriting that five millions (_he imitates the noise of a slight explosion_) short-circuited! Well, I didn't care a volt--not a volt! I've got lots of uncles left who are quite capable of adopting me. But I didn't really want to be adopted at all. To adopt me was only part of Uncle Joe's political game. It was my Echo that he was after adopting. But I'd sooner run my Echo on my own than inherit Uncle Joe's controlling share in twenty-five daily papers, seventy-one weekly papers, six monthly magazines, and three independent advertising agencies. I know I'm a poor man, but I'm quite ready to go on facing the world bravely with my modest capital of a couple of hundred thousand pounds. Only Auntie Joe can't understand that. She's absolutely convinced that I have a terrific grudge against her and her twins, and that in order to gratify that grudge I myself personally write articles against all her most sacred ideals under the pseudonym of Sampson Straight. I've pointed out to her that I'm a newspaper proprietor, and no newspaper proprietor ever could write. No use! She won't listen.
HILDEGARDE. Then she thinks you're a liar.
TRANTO. Oh, not at all. Only a journalist. But you perceive the widening rift in the family lute. (A silence.) Pardon this glimpse into the secret history of the week.
HILDEGARDE (_formidably_). Mr. Tranto, you and I are sitting on the edge of a volcano.
TRANTO. We are. I like it. Thrilling, and yet so warm and cosy.
HILDEGARDE. I used to like it once. But I don't think