The Title | Page 5

to leave home. I know you're a born genius--a marvel,

a miracle, a prodigy, an incredible orchid, the most brilliant journalist
in London. I'm fully aware of all that. But I do not and will not see you
as a literary bachelor living with a cause and holding receptions of
serious people in chambers furnished by Roger Fry. I like to think of
you at home, here, in this charming atmosphere, amid the delightful
vicissitudes of family existence, and--well, I like to think of you as a
woman.
HILDEGARDE (_calmly and teasingly_). Mr. Tranto, we are
forgetting one thing.
TRANTO. What's that?
HILDEGARDE. You're an editor, and I'm a contributor whom you've
never met.
Enter Mrs. Culver (_L_).
MRS. CULVER. Mr. Tranto, how are you? (Shaking hands.) I'm
delighted to see you. So sorry I didn't warn you we dine half an hour
later--thanks to the scandalous way the Government slave-drives my
poor husband. Please do excuse me. (_She sits_).
TRANTO. On the contrary, it's I who should ask to be
excused--proposing myself like this at the last moment.
MRS. CULVER. It was very nice of you to think of us. Come and sit
down here. (Indicating a place by her side on the sofa.) Now in my
poor addled brain I had an idea you were engaged for to-night at your
aunt's, Lady Blackfriars'.
TRANTO (_sitting_). Mrs. Culver, you forget nothing. I was engaged
for Auntie Joe's, but she's ill and she's put me off.
MRS. CULVER. Dear me! How very sudden!
TRANTO. Sudden?
MRS. CULVER. I met Lady Blackfriars at tea late this afternoon and it

struck me how well she was looking.
TRANTO. Yes, she always looks particularly well just before she's
going to be ill. She's very brave, very brave.
MRS. CULVER. D'you mean in having twins? It was more than brave
of her; it was beautiful--both boys, too.
HILDEGARDE (_innocently_). Budgeting for a long war.
MRS. CULVER (_affectionately_). My dear girl! Come here, darling,
you haven't changed. Excuse me, Mr. Tranto.
HILDEGARDE (_approaching_). I've been so busy. And I thought
nobody was coming.
MRS. CULVER. Is your father nobody? (stroking and patting
Hildegarde's _dress into order_). What have you been so busy on?
HILDEGARDE. Article for The Echo. (Tranto, _who has been holding
the MS., indicates it_.)
MRS. CULVER. I do wish you would let me see those cookery articles
of yours before they're printed.
TRANTO (_putting MS. in his pocket_). I'm afraid that's quite against
the rules. You see, in Fleet Street--
MRS. CULVER (_very pleasantly_). As you please. I don't pretend to
be intellectual. But I confess I'm just a wee bit disappointed in
Hildegarde's cookery articles. I'm a great believer in good cookery. I
put it next to the Christian religion--and far in front of mere cleanliness.
I've just been trying to read Professor Metchnikoff's wonderful book on
'The Nature of Man.' It only confirms me in my lifelong belief that until
the nature of man is completely altered good cooking is the chief thing
that women ought to understand. Now I taught Hildegarde some
cookery myself. She was not what I should call a brilliant pupil, but she
did grasp the great eternal principles. And yet I find her writing (_with

charm and benevolence_) stuff like her last article--'The Everlasting
Boiled Potato,' I think she called it. Hildegarde, it was really very
naughty of you to say what you said in that article. (Drawing down
Hildegarde's head and kissing her.)
TRANTO. Now why, Mrs. Culver? I thought it was so clever.
MRS. CULVER. It may be clever to advocate fried potatoes and chip
potatoes and sauté potatoes as a change from the everlasting boiled. I
daresay it's what you call journalism. But how can you fry potatoes
without fat?
TRANTO. Ah! How?
MRS. CULVER. And where are you to obtain fat? I can't obtain fat. I
stand in queues for hours because my servants won't--it's the latest form
of democracy--but I can't obtain fat. I think the nearest fat is at
Stratford-on-Avon.
TRANTO. Stand in queues! Mrs. Culver, you make me feel very guilty,
plunging in at a moment's notice and demanding a whole dinner in a
fatless world. I shall eat nothing but dry bread.
MRS. CULVER. We never serve bread at lunch or dinner unless it's
specially asked for. But if soup, macaroni, eggs, and jelly will keep you
alive till breakfast--
HILDEGARDE. But there's beefsteak, mamma--I've told Mr. Tranto.
MRS. CULVER. Only a little, and that's for your father. Beefsteak's the
one thing that keeps off his neuralgia, Mr. Tranto. (With apologetic
persuasiveness.) I'm sure you'll understand.
TRANTO. Dear lady, I've never had neuralgia in my life. Macaroni,
eggs, and jelly are my dream. I've always wanted to feel like an invalid.
MRS. CULVER. And how did you get on with