The Title | Page 4

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 I like it any
more.
TRANTO. Now please don't let Auntie Joe worry you. She's my cross,
not yours.
HILDEGARDE. Yes. But considered as a cross, your Auntie Joe is
nothing to my brother John, who quite justly calls his sister's cookery
stuff 'tripe.' It was a most ingenious camouflage of yours to have me
pretending to be the author of that food economy 'tripe,' so as to cover
my writing quite different articles for The Echo and your coming here

to see me so often. Most ingenious. Worthy of a newspaper proprietor.
But why should I be saddled with 'tripe' that isn't mine?
TRANTO. Why, indeed! Then you think we ought to encourage the
volcano with a lighted match--and run?
HILDEGARDE. I'm ready if you are.
TRANTO. Oh! I'm ready. Secrecy was a great stunt at first. Letting out
the secret will be an even greater stunt now. It'll make the finest
newspaper story since the fearful fall of the last Cabinet. Sampson
Straight--equals Miss Hildegarde Culver, the twenty-one year old
daughter of the Controller of Accounts! Typist in the Food Department,
by day! Journalistic genius by night! The terror of Ministers! Read by
all London! Raised the circulation of The Echo two hundred per cent!
Phenomenon unique in the annals of Fleet Street! (_In a different tone,
noticing_ Hildegarde's _face_). Crude headlines, I admit, but that's
what Uncle Joe has brought us to. We have to compete with Uncle
Joe....
HILDEGARDE. Of course I shall have to leave home.
TRANTO. Leave home!
HILDEGARDE. Yes, and live by myself in rooms.
TRANTO. But why?
HILDEGARDE. I couldn't possibly stay here. Think how it would
compromise father with the War Cabinet if I did. It might ruin him.
And as accounts are everything in modern warfare, it might lose the
war. But that's nothing--it's mamma I'm thinking of. Do you forget that
Sampson Straight, being a young woman of advanced ideas, has written
about everything, _everything_--yes, and several other subjects besides?
For instance, here's the article I was revising when you came in.
(_Shows the title-page to_ Tranto.)
TRANTO. Splendid! You're the most courageous creature I ever met.

HILDEGARDE. Possibly. But not courageous enough to offer to kiss
mamma when I went to bed on the night that _that (indicating the
article_) had appeared in print under my own name. You don't know
mamma.
TRANTO. But dash it! You could eat your mother!
HILDEGARDE. Pardon me. The contrary is the fact. Mamma could eat
me.
TRANTO. But you're the illustrious Sampson Straight. There's more
intelligence in your little finger than there is in your mother's whole
body. See how you write.
HILDEGARDE. Write! I only began to write as a relief from mamma. I
escaped secretly into articles like escaping into an underground passage.
But as for facing mamma in the open!... Even father scarcely ever does
that; and when he does, we hold our breath, and the cook turns teetotal.
It wouldn't be the slightest use me trying to explain the situation
logically to mamma. She wouldn't understand. She's far too clever to
understand anything she doesn't like. Perhaps that's the secret of her
power. No, if the truth about Sampson Straight is to come out I must
leave home--quietly but firmly leave home. And why not? I can keep
myself in splendour on Sampson's earnings. And the break is bound to
come sooner or later. I admit I didn't begin very seriously, but reading
my own articles has gradually made me serious. I feel I have a cause. A
cause may be inconvenient, but it's magnificent. It's like champagne or
high heels, and one must be prepared to suffer for it.
TRANTO. Cause be hanged! Suffer be hanged! High heels be hanged!
Champagne--(_stops_). Miss Culver, if a disclosure means your leaving
home I won't agree to any disclosure whatever. I will--not--agree. We'll
sit tight on the volcano.
HILDEGARDE. But why won't you agree?
TRANTO (_excited_). Why won't I agree! Why won't I agree! Because
I don't want you