CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6025.A176W5 
 
 When the devil was ill; a play in four ac 
 
 3 1924 013 657 675 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3657675 
 
WHEN THE DEVIL WAS ILL. 
 
 Ex LIBRIS 
 
 f . laifjitmore Parr? 
 
Charles McEvoy. 
 From an Etching by Augustus John. 
 
WHEN THE DEVIL 
 WAS ILL 
 
 A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES McEVOY. 
 
 LONDON: A. H. BULLEN 
 
 1908 
 
[All rights reserved by the Author.} 
 
WHEN THE DEVIL WAS ILL. 
 
 CHARACTERS: 
 
 ijn the order of their appearance) 
 
 Martin Leatherhead. 
 Godfrey Rawlings, 
 Mrs. Rawlings. 
 Walter King. 
 Owen Davis. 
 
 ' ISOPEL.' 
 
 Lady Mendle-Parrish. 
 A Chauffeur. 
 Fanny Goldstone. 
 
 Act I. : Godfrey Rawlings' Study, Clements Inn. 
 
 Acts II., III., and IV. : A Chalk-Fit, near Cheddar, 
 Somerset. 
 
 {Three months elapse between Acts I, and 11. Afterwards the 
 
 Action of the Play takes place during the Morning, 
 
 Afternoon, and Evening of a day in October^ 
 
 Period : The Present. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 Godfrey Rawlings' Study, Clement's Inn. 
 
 As the scene opens in total darkness, except for a circle 
 of light thrown by a magic-lantern on to the back 
 wall, it is not until presently, when the window- 
 curtains are drawn back and daylight admitted, that 
 the room is revealed as follows : — 
 
 A LARGE room, the furniture of which is almost entirely 
 early Norman, or rather the latest Tottenham Court 
 Road re-edition of that period. There are two tables, 
 one large and one small, both of light oak, with six rush- , 
 bottomed chairs to match ; also a high-backed settee. 
 The floor is covered with rush-matting, and the walls are 
 distempered an irreproachable white. The fireplace is of 
 quite the ordinary modern pattern, elaborately tiled, but 
 provided with a fender made from the half of an iron 
 cart-tyre, and a set of old steel fire-irons and ' dogs.' To 
 the right of the wall at the back of the room is a long 
 window, hung with heavy dark red curtains, ornately sten- 
 cilled towards the top with a row of yellow Maltese crosses. 
 These curtains are drawn together to keep out the light, 
 and, when slid back, reveal a second curtain of white silk 
 covering the lower half of the window, with open sky 
 showing above, except for a glimpse of the back of the 
 New Law Courts, a little distance away. Under the 
 left-hand side of the window is the smaller table, ujjon 
 which stands a type-writer, a great pile of manuscripts, 
 books, letters, papers, etc. In the wall to the left, at 
 the further end, is a door, and neiarer to the front the 
 fireplace. The wall at the right is flat except at the 
 front, where there is a recess and a second door. All 
 the woodwork is light oak. In about the centre of the 
 room is the larger table, with one of the chairs placed to 
 the left. On the table is a usual supply of writing para- 
 
pheriialia, a telephone, and a number of neatly-arranged 
 books, letters, and papers. Forward to the left of the 
 fireplace is a revolving bookcase, and on the top of it 
 the magic-lantern, an amateurish-looking instrument, 
 burning paraffin oil, and supplied with a glass slide. In 
 about the centre of the right-hand wall is the settee, with 
 a chair on each side of it. A fourth chair is against the 
 smaller table, and the two others are to the right of the 
 large table. Many ' old-world ' ornaments are about the 
 room, and the only pictures are a few large photographic 
 reproductions of pre-Raphaelite paintings. The mantel- 
 piece is ornamented simply with a bowl of wild poppies, a 
 carriage-clock in a red morocco case, and a statuette of 
 the Venus de Milo. 
 
 [On the rise of the curtain simply the circle of light 
 thrown by the magic-lantern on to a bare part of the 
 wall to the left of the window is seen, and voices 
 heard, the latter being those of Godfrey Rawlings 
 and his secretary, Martin Leatherhead. Within 
 the circle is visible the microscopic enlargement of a 
 live earwig, the image of the insect, enlarged to 
 several feet in length, being in a state of active 
 movement.'] 
 
 Leatherhead. All right. Now you've got him 
 going. 
 
 Rawlings. Be quiet, man. Take your notes 
 down, quickly. \_A moment's pause. Rawlings is 
 then heard dictating.] It was the last stroke that 
 told. Reeling, the frightful monster swayed, drunk- 
 wise, beneath the blow. As for Enoch, he poised 
 his lance yet again, biting a little at the red of his 
 under lip. Geraldine, v/hite as a sea-shell, and beat- 
 ing, as became her, at the breast, eyed him, not un- 
 hotly, and fingering her holy beads — \_He breaks off 
 savagely.] Can't you keep that light steady, man ? 
 
 Leather, [protesting]. It's the wick. No one can 
 
get a round wick like that perfectly flat without 
 taking a little time over it. Five minutes, and I'd 
 have got it as smooth as glass. 
 
 Rawlings [irritably']. All right, all right ! Have 
 you got that down — what I said ? 
 
 Leather, [reading his notes]. Geraldine, white as a 
 sea-shell, and beating, as became her, at the breast, 
 eyed him, not unhotly, and, fingering her holy 
 beads — 
 
 Rawlings. Go on, then. [He dictates rapidly.] 
 The beast now lifted again, and for the third time, 
 its tail lashing. Head and foot of it trembled con- 
 vulsively. 
 
 Leather. You can't very well say head and foot 
 about a dragon, sir, can you .? Wouldn't it be feet ? 
 
 Rawlings. Put it down, hang you ! How am I 
 to catch the spirit of the thing if you persist in inter- 
 rupting me.? The great scales — those protruding 
 from the lower back — rose erect ; shake him up 
 again, man ! 
 
 [Leatherhead shakes up the lantern, and he continues. 
 Protruding ; its fangs licked around the fire at its 
 mouth, the head tossed back, and that moment Enoch 
 chose. 
 
 Leather. '-Vhat ? 
 
 Rawlings. And that moment Enoch chose. He 
 stepped forward, rather with a spring, and the face 
 of him flushed. Then, with the lance firm in his 
 mailed fist, he lunged boldly for the throat — 
 
 Leather. He plunged boldly for the throat. 
 
 Rawlings. Lunged, I said — lunged. Now you've 
 gone and put me absolutely off. Where was 1 .? 
 
 Leather. I'm sorry. Springing forward, he plunged 
 — no, lunged — he lunged boldly for the throat. 
 
 Rawlings. The stroke told ; the point of the lance 
 
sank deep into a main artery, and, with only a single 
 trembling quiver, the dragon sank inertly to the 
 earth. The green glades of Enoch's and Christabel's 
 retreat were freed for ever from that last of the 
 Pagan monsters. [^ moment's pause. 'Then he shouts 
 out in an agonised voice of relief. ] Oh ! thank Heaven, 
 that's done. Let in some light. I'm nearly dead ! 
 
 leather, {going to the window^ where he throws back 
 the curtains and lets in a stream of golden daylight^ 
 revealing the scene as described^ I think we might 
 let out some of the smell, too. 
 
 \He proceeds to open the window at the top.] 
 
 {Godfrey Rawlings is now discovered standing near the 
 table with an expression of actual illness on his face. 
 In appearance he is a quite young man of medium 
 height, slight of build, and with a very dark com- 
 plexion. His hair, parted down the centre, is quite 
 black, as are his eyebrows; which, almost meeting in 
 the middle, give him a perpetual air of frowning 
 cogitation. Just now he looks pale almost to green- 
 ness, with dark rings under the eyes. His whole 
 manner is unsettled, and he is clearly on the verge of 
 of some neurotic collapse. He is dressed with band- 
 box neatness in a light tweed suit, with a white 
 flannel waistcoat, a gold watch-chain, and a rather 
 gaudy gold pendant hanging on a gold-ribbon chain 
 from beneath his waistcoat. His collar is a tall 
 up-and-down, with a green silk tie and pearl pin ; 
 his boots are shapely button-ups with cloth tops. 
 
 Jt the window, with his back presented, is Martin 
 Leatherhead, a man of about fifty, mean of build, 
 and apparently overworked in proportion. He stoops 
 a little, and his somewhat large head is set on a long 
 neck encircled by a polo collar, much too large for him, 
 
 lO 
 
and a white silk cravat. His forehead is high, his 
 grey hair thin, and his moustache, which is big and 
 bristly, is combed out like an awning over his mouth. 
 He wears spectacles, and his complexion is a parch- 
 menty cream, suggestive of a life-long slaving at 
 sedentary occupations. His manner, with a certain 
 touchy dignity, is humility itself, except when Raw- 
 lings is too ill to defend himself, and then he assumes 
 a fatherly air towards his employer. In his clothes 
 there is nothing unusual — a respectable swallow- 
 tailed coat and dark trousers, well-polished black 
 boots, and starched linen, showing plenty of cuff.~\ 
 
 Leather, [turning back from the window"]. Now, 
 in our Temperance lecture classes at St. Matthew's we 
 use an oxygen lantern. It was subscribed for, you 
 understand, by the congregation. Of course they do 
 away with oil — there's no smoke, no smell — 
 
 Rawlings [going to the table and almost falling into 
 one of the chairs to the right; speaking in a faint voice\ 
 Don't talk about that now, Leatherhead, I'm really 
 done up ; I'm ill. This awful strain of getting 
 naturalism into my style is gradually killing me. 
 And now I've got that horrible feeling, that nameless 
 dread, that something is going to happen. Give me 
 a spoonful of that syrup stuff ; quickly. 
 
 Leather, [folding his arms, and looking sorrowfully 
 at Rawlings, shaking his head'\. It's entirely those 
 cigarettes. It's nothing else in the world. If only 
 you would drop them and take to a pipe now, Mr. 
 Rawlings. 
 
 Rawlings. Hang the cigarettes, it's nothing what- 
 ever to do with them. It's simply my ghastly tem- 
 perament. All my life, as long as I can remember, 
 I've had this horrible nervous prostration as soon as 
 
 II 
 
I come towards the end ot anything that I'm doing. 
 This is my ninth book in the last two years, and 1 
 came within an ace of dying over the other eight. I 
 tell you I've had the same feeling as long as I can 
 remember. 
 
 Leather. Yes, and you've told me that you've 
 smoked cigarettes as long as you can remember. 
 
 Rawlings. Oh, stop talking about the cigarettes, 
 man — any way, I've only had one thin one all this 
 morning. Get me that stuff. 
 
 Leather. [shaking'Ms head again with the most com- 
 fortable complacency^ Now, do promise me that you 
 will take to a pipe. I know that my position here as a 
 mere secretary gives me no excuse for talking to 
 you like this, Mr. Rawlings ; but there are moments 
 when any person who has reached — well, middle 
 age, may talk to a younger one as man to man. 
 
 Rawlings. Yes ! When he knows that the younger 
 one is too ill to defend himself. You remind me of 
 an aunt I once had who never spoke a word to me 
 except when I had bilious attacks. Then when I 
 was rocking my poor head in some obscure corner 
 of the house she would come and sit over me 
 and talk — oh, so eloquently and endlessly — about the 
 folly of eating buns and sweets. And do you think 
 I couldn't have told her, far better than she could 
 ever have expressed it, how utterly loathsome the 
 very name of buns and sweets were .? Leatherhead, 
 I know you mean well, so did she ; but it ended in 
 a sort of separation between us, if you understand. 
 [JVitk a sudden flare of exasperation^ I tell you I'm 
 off tobacco. [The flare dies out and he abruptly pulls 
 a cigarette-case from his pocket.'] Look here, if this 
 is any pleasure to you, [He pitches the contents of the 
 case across the room into the fireplace.'] There, now, 
 
 ]2 
 
perhaps you'll be satisfied. Now just give me that 
 stuff. 
 
 Leather. \£oing to the fireplace and carefully destroy- 
 ing the cigarettes by crumpling them in his hands']. If 
 only you could keep that resolution. However. 
 [Hi? goes to the small table at the back, and, producing 
 a bottle of some strychnine tonic, pours out a spoonful. 
 Rawlings meanwhile gets up and commences to walk 
 about the room in a state bordering upon collapse; 
 loosening his collar by passing a finger around it, and 
 thumping his chest and coughing ; all out of a half- 
 hysterical terror. Leatherhead then carefully conveys 
 the spoon across the room to him, and he gulps down 
 the contents eagerly?] It's all nerves, you know, Mr. 
 Rawlings. How a young man of your age can let 
 himself get like it I cannot imagine. Ugh, those 
 poisonous abominations. It's one of the crying 
 shames of the age that the law should allow them to be 
 sold. Every medical man in the country will tell 
 you — 
 
 Rawlings [sitting down on the settee, putting his 
 legs up and leaning back]. All right, Leatherhead, 
 all right. I'm better already. Oh, the horror of 
 moments like that. But I'm better. That's steadied 
 me all over. I only want a little peace now. 
 
 Leather. Well, if you're better of course I'll say 
 no more. Well, now. [He goes over to the lantern.] 
 What about this earwig — you won't want him for a 
 dragon any more, will you ? 
 
 Rawlings. No. I've done with him. Thank 
 heaven ! 
 
 Leather, [taking the slide out of the lantern and 
 looking into it]. Nasty things ! The one living crea- 
 ture that I abhor. I am a humane man. I detest 
 to see people angling with worms, and I would not 
 
 13 
 
eat a lark-pie if I were starving ; but earwigs ! Ugh ! 
 [He looks down at the floor.'] That's the worst of 
 this rush-matting — it's so full of interstices. How- 
 ever, I can lift it up. 
 
 [He turns up one end of the mat with his foot. 1 
 
 Rawlings [getting upl. What are you going to 
 do.? 
 
 Leather, [with unctuous ferocity]. A little process 
 of annihilation — St. George and the earwig. 
 
 Rawlings. Don't be a beast, man ! [He crosses 
 the room and snatches the slide from Leather head.] 
 The horrible things that you unimaginative people are 
 capable of doing ! [He goes across to the window and 
 opens it.] There is room in the world for all three 
 of us, I fancy. 
 
 Leather. Well, what's the good of that.? That's 
 a typical example of you humanitarians, that is. 
 You'll simply dash the poor thing's brains out on 
 the pavement a hundred feet below — it's only 
 chance is that it might fall on to the head of some 
 passer-by. 
 
 Rawlings [impressed]. Well, I'll have no murder 
 done here, in any case. I'll think what I'll do with 
 him presently. [He places the slide carefully away in 
 a drawer of his table.] Just pack that thing up, 
 now, and get it out of my sight. 
 
 Leather. Very well, I'll have it sent back to the 
 Stores at once. 
 
 [He proceeds to take down the lantern and pack it 
 away in' a wooden box., which he produces from 
 beneath his table, while Rawlings throws himself 
 along the settee again.] 
 
 Rawlings [as Leatherhead produces a large sheet of 
 paper from the box]. Oh, put it away — pack it up 
 
 14 
 
when I'm out of the room. That crinkling of paper 
 is the one sound I can't stand when I'm like this. 
 
 Leather, [abandoning the lantern and crossing to the 
 revolving bookcase^ Oh ! \He makes a despairing 
 gesticulation^ Oh, very well. I'll just look through 
 my notes. 
 
 Rawlings. Why, in heaven's name, can't you buy 
 a pair of boots that don't creak, Leatherhead. It's 
 absolutely unnecessary, and I'm in that state when 
 the smallest thing gets hold of my nerves, and plays 
 on them like the rack. 
 
 Leather, [stopping short^- I'm sorry about my boots. 
 [He shakes his head.'\ But if you could only con- 
 vince yourself, Mr. Rawlings, that all this is the 
 purest imagination. Oh, it's the curse of the present 
 time — this affectation of moods. You young writers 
 and artists and poets, you practise them to begin 
 with as a kind of signpost for the 'Artistic Tem- 
 perament,' and presently they become terrifyingly 
 real. While all the time there are no such things at 
 all. Look at me. Have you ever seen me moody ? 
 
 Rawlings. You're lucky enough to be too ordinary 
 a man, Leatherhead. [ As Leatherhead starts in- 
 dignantly.'] Damn it all, don't be offended at that. 
 The ordinary man is the one enviable and really 
 intelligent creature on earth. Moods, Leatherhead, 
 are simplythe price of Thought,and Thought is simply 
 a criminal curiosity, an unpardonable offence against 
 the laws of nature, and as such punishable by a life- 
 time of misery. The conscience of a murderer can 
 be nothing to the conscience of a man who's ass 
 enough to think about anything. Here am I, an 
 almost palsied wreck at seven-and-twenty, who's 
 never known half an hour's real happiness in his life 
 without paying for it by twenty-three and a half 
 
 15 
 
hours of unadulterated misery. And the joke of it 
 all is that I'm earning my living by writing about 
 sane healthy people living a natural life in the lap of 
 Nature. 
 
 Leather. It's simply those cigarettes 
 
 Rawlings. Cigarettes be hanged ! I see clearly 
 that man was created simply as the last word in 
 animals. The only people who are ever well and 
 happy are the people who never think. 
 
 Leather. Do you suppose that I don't know 
 what it is to be unhappy sometimes .? Or that I am 
 such a specimen of iron health } 
 
 Rawlings. I am not talking about you, Leather-^ 
 head. I am talking about real natural specimens of 
 natural men — they are the only people who arc ever 
 really happy. 
 
 Leather. On the whole, I should say that I am as 
 happy as anybody that you could find at my age and 
 with my troubles. 
 
 Rawling. You've only got to compare any gather- 
 ing of brilliant intellects with a gathering of gipsy- 
 tramps on the roadside to understand which are 
 favoured by the gods. Look at me, if you like. 
 They give me nerves where I ought to have muscles, 
 imagination where I ought to have common-sense, 
 and moods in the place of a healthy, manly vacancy 
 of mind. Oh, it's monstrous ! Eating, drinking, 
 loving, sleeping — they alone are recognised by nature 
 as the proper medium for procuring any earthly 
 happiness. 
 
 Leather, [^horrified and becoming heated'\. It is not 
 for me, Mr. Rawlings, acting here in the humble 
 capacity of your secretary, to hold any opinions of 
 my own, but as a worker for St. Matthew's, how can 
 I let such a doctrine as that which you have just 
 
 i6 
 
expressed pass unchallenged ? Eating, drinking, — 
 ah-hem — loving, sleeping — three are necessities, the 
 other — a disgusting abomination. I exhort you, sir, 
 as one Christian to another — we will put it that way 
 — to cast ofF from you these unwholesome, unnatural 
 thoughts and look for the brighter side of things. 
 Why, you are one of the most fortunate of young 
 men, and with all your talk I am quite sure that you 
 would not like some other young fellow to step sud- 
 denly into your shoes. You have hit the popular taste 
 exactly — Romance and Realism, Nature and Photo- 
 graphic Detail. In a few years you have taken a 
 foremost position among living novelists. You are 
 surrounded by everything the heart can desire — 
 money, popularity. Why ! in this morning's " Daily 
 Mirror " there is a full-page photograph of you ! 
 What more can you possibly ask for ? 
 
 Rawlings [abruptly]. Give me one of those cigar- 
 ettes. \He goes to the fireplace^ What's become of 
 them .? 
 
 Leather. Now, now. Surely you can keep your 
 resolution a little longer than this. 
 
 Rawlings, Where are they .''• 
 
 Leather. I destroyed them. There are none. 
 
 Rawlings. I'm perfectly all right. I was over- 
 strained. I want a cigarette. You'd no business to 
 destroy them. [He gropes in the fireplace~\. Ridi- 
 culous ! I shall get angry presently, Leatherhead. 
 \He feels in the corners of the grate.] There were at 
 least a dozen. 
 
 Leather. Sir. This is the moment to resist. It 
 is easy to throw one away when it has made you ill. 
 It is when the temptation is upon you that you must 
 fight. 
 
 Rawlings [getting quite furious]. What the deuce 
 
 17 B 
 
has it got to do with you, anyway ? You're over- 
 stepping the mark, let me tell you. As a matter of 
 principle — purely of principle now — I intend to have 
 a cigarette. Find one, at once ! 
 
 Leather, [^growing alarmed']. You threw them away 
 yourself, sir. 
 
 Rawlings. But I didn't tell you to break them up, 
 did I .? I was too ill and distracted to know what I 
 was doing, and with you pestering me. Let me 
 advise you. Mi*. Leatherhead, to be more careful how 
 you take these liberties. \^He is still groping in the 
 fireplace.] It's outrageous. I won't have this sort 
 of thing in my own house. \_He gets up and flings to 
 the door, momentarily becoming more and more enraged?] 
 Telling me what to do and what not to do ! 
 
 Leather. \as he reaches the door]. Sir — Mr. Raw- 
 lings. I don't know if you like — er — Egyptians. 
 \He puts a hand in his breast pocket.] I happen to 
 have a packet on me. 
 
 Rawlings \turning at the door]. What — you — 
 Egyptians ! 
 
 Leather. It was yesterday, at our Sunday lectures ; 
 a boy, very small, I took them away from him. 
 
 Rawlings [^taking a cigarette from the packet which 
 Leatherhead hands him.] Leatherhead, I can only 
 say that I am speechless. [^He gives him the packet 
 back.] 
 
 Leather. But surely you could not for one moment, 
 sir, imagine that I — I — 
 
 Rawlings [lighting the cigarette and turning back to 
 the table]. We will draw a veil over this incident, 
 Leatherhead, and get on with our work. Just type 
 those notes out now that I gave you, and we'll get 
 this beastly thing off our hands. I can get no peace 
 till it's done with. 
 
 1 8 
 
Le'ather. [picking up the notes which he had taken 
 down at the revolving bookcase and going over to his 
 table with them'\. You are making a very serious 
 allegation, sir, I assure you, I fully intended to 
 burn those cigarettes myself last night ; only, reaching 
 home rather late and leaving in a hurry this morning 
 I somehow forgot. I hope you accept this explana- 
 tion. As a worker for St. Matthew's it is a serious 
 thing for me to be actually suspected of — of — of — 
 
 Rawlings. Leatherhead, I have the most implicit 
 faith in your word. I accept your explanation — 
 that you were going to burn them — ^unreservedly. 
 We will say no more about it. 
 
 Leather. Thank you. [He sits down and com- 
 mences to type the notes.'] 
 
 [Rawlings returns to the settee, where he leans back, 
 his legs up, smoking contentedly.] 
 
 Leather, [after typing for some moments]. That was 
 " lunged " that you said, wasn't it ; not " plunged " ? 
 
 Rawlings. Either, either. 
 
 Leather. Then I should have it " plunged." [He 
 continues to type, and in a few moments drives the 
 carriage of the machine over with a final click.] 
 There, that's done. I'd better just read it through 
 to you, hadn't I ? 
 
 Rawlings [beginning to appear ill again]. No. 
 [He gets up, nervous and shaky as before.]- Leather- 
 head, you are right about those cigaret1;es. I've got 
 it coming on again. [He throws tJie half-smoked 
 cigarette into the fireplace^ What a fool I am. I'm 
 killing myself, Leatherhead. Give me some of that 
 stuff again. Quickly, man. It's unbearable. It 
 must be my heart — 
 
 19 
 
Leather. Heart is always stomach. But the 
 stomach can kill. 
 
 Rawlings. I will leave them alone this time if only 
 this passes off. Give me another dose. Quickly, 
 Leatherhead, don't stand there like that. {He sits 
 down, but gets up again and goes over to LeatherheatTs 
 table, coughing and panic-stricken.] 
 
 Leather. All right. I'll get it. 
 
 Rawlings. Quickly then, man. This is v/orse 
 than I've ever felt. 
 
 Leather, \pouring out another spoonful of the syrup 
 and handing it over\ This ought really to be a lesson 
 to you, Mr. Rawlings. 
 
 Rawlings [moving, panting, to the nearest chair.] 
 Leatherhead, you're right. I've let this thing go too 
 far. I must put a stop to it. I will. If only this 
 goes off I'll drop tobacco, tea, coffee, everything that 
 can affect my nerves. [Already calming down under 
 the influence of the tonic] But that's wonderful stuff. 
 I suppose it's the strychnine in it, but it's calmed me 
 right down in a moment. [After a deep breath of 
 relief] Oh, but it's madness for a man to let any- 
 thing stand between himself and his health — any- 
 thing. Leatherhead, I wouldn't go on living like 
 this for a million a year. Oh, to be really well, I'd 
 sacrifice everything for it ; to be simply a man — a 
 healthy swineherd on some wind-swept moor — 
 
 Leather. Now take those lift-men on the tuppenny 
 tube ! Look at the air they live in. Yet those who 
 take proper care of themselves are as hard as a fiddle. 
 There's one man at Notting Hill Gate — been there 
 ever since they opened — absolutely well because he's 
 a teetotaler and a non-smoker. The true secret of 
 health and happiness is the supremacy of the mind 
 over the body. Look after your body and your 
 
 20 
 
mind will look after itself; only, of course, at the 
 same time, it's the mind that has to look after the 
 body. One mustn't forget that. 
 
 Rawlings. You had better type that out for me, 
 Leatherhead. The general effect conveyed to my 
 brain by the mass of words — I confess I couldn't 
 follow it at all — is precisely what I was urging upon 
 you a little while ago, that the body is everything, 
 and the less the mind has to do with it the better. 
 That's why a food reformer is certain to be dyspeptic. 
 Instead of digesting in the ordinary way he does it 
 all with his brain. 
 
 Leather. I can prove that you are entirely wrong. 
 This particular lift-man counteracts the absence of 
 oxygen in the tube-air by taking oxygenised proteids 
 in tablet form at each descent of the lift. Science is 
 thereby keeping that man as well supplied with 
 organic essentials as your swineherd himself. 
 
 Rawlings [getting up indignant]. Heavens, Leather- 
 head ! how can you make any comparison between 
 the two.? The ghastly eflFect of modern environ- 
 ment upon the human mind is more painfully exem- 
 plified in you than in any other person I have ever 
 met. You're not capable of a thought that can rise 
 above the depths of the tuppenny tube. No, no ; I 
 beg your pardon. You are interested in the cracks 
 in the moon. 
 
 Leather. And most serious they are. 
 
 Rawlings. Not half so serious as the cracks in our 
 heads, Leatherhead. 
 
 Leather. Of course, if you wish to be personal I 
 am obviously quite helpless. 
 
 Rawlings. Personal ! Of all the silly words that 
 tongue ever gave expression to that's the silliest. 
 With the single exception of making him wear an 
 
 21 
 
odd-looking hat, you can do whatever you like with 
 a man — starve him, sweat him, fool him, cheat him, 
 imprison him — anything you like you can do to 
 him; but you mustn't tell him what you think of 
 him — you mustn't be personal, I remember seeing 
 a man once sentenced to fifteen years' penal servitude 
 for throwing a baby out of a window, breaking its 
 thigh, and crippling it for life. He only flinched 
 once, and that was when the judge told him that he 
 was the lowest coward and blackguard that he 
 had ever been confronted with. That man went 
 down to the cells indignant, furious, protesting 
 passionately against such an aspersion upon his 
 character; 
 
 Leather. \coldly'\. I fail to see any connection 
 whatever between the two cases. 
 
 Rawlings [going cheerfully up to Mm]. Between 
 ourselves, now, Leatherhead, hasn't it ever occurred 
 to you that you and I are two of the biggest, the 
 most concrete, asses walking the face of the whole 
 earth ? 
 
 Leather. I am sorry, but I cannot say that I have 
 ever looked at myself precisely in that light, Mr. 
 Rawlings. 
 
 Rawlings. But picture us ! You appearing punc- 
 tually every morning at the exact moment when a 
 few brass cog-wheels point a bit of tin somewhere 
 on a bit of round paper — I mean the clock, Leather- 
 head, the clock. And down you sit to spend the 
 day, the glorious day, hammering your fingers on 
 other bits of brass and tin to make a record — ^ 
 record — of the arrant nonsense that I, a physical 
 wreck, sit chattering out to you. And all that> 
 few other arrant idiots can forget their own misery 
 for a few hours by losing themselves in the product 
 
 22 
 
of ours. Of course we like to call it the dignity of 
 labour, but both of us, all the time, are longing to 
 be doing nothing — if we could only find out how to 
 do it. 
 
 Leather. Oh, of course it is easy to throw ridicule 
 upon anything by a little unscrupulous exaggeration. 
 The dignity of mankind, the proof of his ascendency 
 over the lower orders of creation, as you very well 
 know, is demonstrated everywhere in these works of 
 his which you so affect to despise. Man, sir, Man ! 
 the one reasoning being, cannot live as the creatures 
 of the earth live. 
 
 RawUngs. Rubbish ! It's when he tries to live in 
 any other way that he fails — fails in the real object 
 of making his existence a thing of joy. Do you 
 seriously think that if, say, the race of dogs were 
 suddenly to acquire human intelligence, and began 
 to act as we do — that they would have morally im- 
 proved.'' Dogs writing novels and dogs reading 
 them, dog capitalists and unemployed dogs, dog 
 prisons and dog policemen, dogs in black caps 
 and dogs hanging one another. Great Heavens ! 
 Leatherhead, do they present a noble spectacle to 
 your mind ? 
 
 Leather, [thoroughly arousea']. It is abominable. 
 Such levity! As a worker for St. Matthew's, I 
 refuse to discuss such a situation. I refiise abso- 
 lutely. 
 
 RawUngs. Yes ; but as an individual, as a think- 
 ing man — as, of course, you are, Leatherhead ^ 
 
 Leather. I am not to be tempted, [He moves over 
 to his table.'] Will you not allow me to read these 
 final notes to you.? 
 
 RawUngs. Let them go as they are. I don't 
 intend to give another thought to the thing. Put 
 
 23 
 
your sheets together, just as they are, and tie the lot 
 up. Get them out of my sight. 
 
 Leather, [startled']. But you haven't even decided 
 upon the title ! 
 
 Rawlings. Perfectly true. I haven't. 
 
 Leather. I have my notes here of the suggestion^! 
 which you made from time to time. [Rawlings does^^ 
 not interrupt him, and he takes up a piece of paper."] 
 There's five altogether. [He reads out.] ' A King- 
 dom on the Hills,' ' The Moment Eternal,' ' The 
 Wind on the Heath,' ' The Garden of Joy,' and 
 ' Enoch the Eunuch, or The Call of Nature.' 
 
 [He folds up the paper and looks at Rawlings.] 
 
 Rawlings [crossing to the window and looking out 
 with an abstracted air]. The Call of Nature. Ha ! 
 
 Leather, [after waiting a moment]. Personally. Mr. 
 Rawlings, if I might venture upon a humble opinion, 
 I incline towards ' The Garden of Joy.' 
 
 Rawlings [turning from the window towards him, 
 and speaking with a sublime serenity]. There will be 
 no title so far as I am concerned, Leatherhead. 
 
 Leather, [completely puzzled, and speaking only after 
 a considerable pause], I don't think I quite understand. 
 
 [He takes up his pile of manuscript and goes towards 
 Rawlings.] 
 
 Rawlings. I mean, Leatherhead, that the nameless 
 drivel which you hold at this moment in your hand 
 marks the end of my career as a popular writer, the 
 beginning of my career as a Man. 
 
 Leather. I still don't understand. 
 
 Rawlings [continuing with a quiet exalted enthusiasm, 
 which, however, soon gets out of hand], Leatherhead, 
 I have slept my last sleep under a London sky. I 
 have penned my last paragraph of piffle. If this will 
 
 24 
 
make it any plainer to you, I have worn my last 
 collar. \^He removes his collar and throws it into the 
 waste-paper basket.'] Leatherhead, I revolt ! Eating, 
 Drinking, Loving, Sleeping, I will find Health! — 
 the only god that I shall ever worship again. Every 
 vanity that I have ever held dear I hereby throw to 
 the winds. [He sends his tie after the collar ^ substi- 
 tuting his handkerchief.] It has come to me as a 
 revelation. We only live once, and for the rest of 
 my life I intend to live a Man ! — a Man ! Leather- 
 head, a Man ! Do you see this } \He produces a 
 gold, inscribed, fountain-pen^^ My presentation foun- 
 tain-pen. Oh, damn that ink ! \He shakes his hand 
 and proceeds.] Listen. [He reads the inscription.] 
 ' To Godfrey Rawlings, Lover of Nature, Author of 
 the Purple Van. Gratefully presented by the Guild 
 of Woodland Worshippers.' Heavens, Leatherhead, 
 to think that those are the sort of people that I have 
 ruined my health for. What wholesome-minded 
 person, man, woman, or child, would use such an 
 expression as that — ' Woodland Worshippers ' .-' I 
 know them — prostrated wrecks, who'd be afraid to 
 be left ten minutes in a wood alone. To the devil 
 with it all. 
 
 [He hurls the fountain-pen into the fireplace^ 
 
 Leather. I had an idea that two doses of that stufF 
 right on the top of one another might be dangerous. 
 They ought to put it on the bottle. 
 
 Rawlings [with a light-headed airiness]. You can 
 chuck the typewriter out of the window, too, if you 
 want to — I've done with it. Oh ! I feel fitter 
 already than I've felt for months. Give me a ciga- 
 rette. 
 
 Leather. Well, that will certainly have the effect 
 of sobering you. 
 
 25 
 
[Be hastily produces his packet of Egyptians and 
 
 hands them overJ] 
 
 Rawlings [after taking out a cigarette']. But, no ; I 
 won't. To hell with them ! 
 
 [He throws them after the fountain-pen^ 
 
 Leather [rescuing the packet from the fireplace]. 
 This is a most extraordinary whim to seize upon 
 you. 
 
 Rawlings [now panting from excitement]. It's no 
 whim. I wouldn't live through the agony of this 
 morning again for all the money on earth, I want 
 to breathe, Leatherhead ; to breathe pure air. I'm 
 sorry about your work — I never thought of that — 
 but it can't be helped. 
 
 Leather, [thoroughly alarmed]. But, iVIr. Rawlings, 
 my dear sir. Surely nothing that I have thought- 
 lessly said this morning — ! If I've taken any liberties 
 I'm sure you'll overlook them ; I couldn't have been 
 quite myself The fact is I have a most excruciating 
 corn — ^these new boots — I got them too tight — I 
 assure you, Mr. Rawlings — 
 
 Rawlings. Leatherhead, it is nothing to do with 
 you whatever. [The door to the right opens, and 
 Mrs. Rawlings appears ; catching the words and pausing 
 surprised.] I'm sorry, too, but I shall need no 
 secretary in the future — that's obvious. 
 
 [Mrs. Rawlings sweeps into the room at this moment; 
 she is a prodigious woman, of some fifty years, over- 
 dressed to the final limits of what one woman can 
 crowd on to her person in the form of silk and lace and 
 jewellery. The colour scheme of her apparel is a pale 
 rosy hue, with long gloves, open-work breast, painted 
 parasol, dangling fan and jingling chatelaine append- 
 ages. Her hair is golden, her face rouged, and her 
 26 
 
eyebrows pencilled. The latter are lifted high as she 
 stares from her son to Leatherhead^ and then back 
 again.] 
 
 Mrs. R. My darling ! No unpleasantness, I 
 trust ! 
 
 Rawlings. Leatherhead, do you mind taking your 
 work into the other room. 
 
 Leather [still amazed]. Certainly, certainly. 
 \He withdraws by the door to the left in the utmost con- 
 fusion.] 
 
 Mrs. R. \as soon as he has withdrawn ; speaking 
 with deep maternal concern]. My precious ! 
 
 Rawlings [intensely, advancing to Mrs. Rawlings]. 
 Mother ! Do I look different ? 
 
 Mrs. R. [after regarding him for a moment]. 
 You've got no collar ! Godfrey ! You haven't been 
 fighting ! 
 
 Rawlings. Sh ! Sh ! [He goes to the door to the 
 left, and makes sure it is closed.] He's only in the 
 next room there, and after the shock that he has just 
 had such a suggestion as that would probably kill 
 him outright. 
 
 Mrs. R. But what has happened? Not that 
 lantern, Godfrey ! 
 
 Rawlings. Leatherhead is all right — the lantern is 
 all right. 
 
 Mrs. R. What is it, then .-^ Is it some joke? 
 Because if it is you must keep it till I come back. 
 You know how Purcells charge for the brougham, 
 and it's been waiting five minutes already. 
 
 Rawlings. It is not even a joke, mother. The fact 
 is I'm going away to-night. 
 
 Mrs. R. But you can't. You're going to the 
 Moody dinner. And that reminds me, I must get 
 you some more ties. 
 
 27 
 
Rawlings. I'm not going to the Moody dinner. 
 
 Mrs. R. \_showing a slight irritation]. But haven't 
 you finished, after all ? 
 
 Rawlings. I have finished. 
 
 Mrs. R. [tapping him on the cheek with her fan]. 
 Then you're going to the Moody dinner, and that's 
 settled. 
 
 Rawlings. Mother, I was going to tell you. I have 
 just finished my last book — 
 
 Mrs. R. And feel that you want a rest. Well, 
 darling, take my advice. Have your bicycle out, go 
 round Battersea Park once or twice, say, come home, 
 go to the Moody dinner ; to-morrow take me out to, 
 say, Richmond, and then have two or three days at 
 a good loose end. On Friday we leave for my cure 
 at the Cheltenham hydro, and surely you can wait 
 till then. 
 
 Rawlings. You'll drive me mad if you won't let 
 me tell you what I want to say. I have had 
 two of my most awful attacks this morning, and 
 I can't stand it any longer. I have absolutely 
 made up my mind to chuck everything and go clean 
 away. 
 
 Mrs. R. [laughing]. It is a funny boy. You're 
 always rather done up when you've finished your 
 books, aren't you, darling.'' — and of course I quite 
 understand. Don't think about the two more that 
 you have contracted for by Christmas. Wait till 
 after Cheltenham, and on my way downstairs I'll 
 see that your bicycle is put in the hall. I can't 
 wait any longer now, sonny, and don't be late, will 
 you? 
 
 Rawlings [getting between her and the door]. 
 Mother, I tell you I haven't got two more words 
 left in me, let alone two more books. I'm simply 
 
 28 
 
done up. I'm on the last verge of a total break- 
 down, and I'm going to save myself. Five years 
 ago, when we had hardly got a penny, I was worth 
 ten of what I am now, and I'm going to be selfish 
 enough to put my health and happiness before every- 
 thing else. I shall leave things so that you will be 
 all right. I shan't want more than a pound or two 
 a week myself, and the royalties ought to be coming 
 in to you for years. Rumble & Johnson will 
 arrange all that. . . . 
 
 Mrs. R. But what in the world are you going to 
 do? 
 
 Rawlings. I am going straight to the Nature that 
 I've made my name and ruined my health writing 
 about — the Nature that I've hardly ever seen except 
 out of a hotel window. Tramp, gipsy, anything I'm 
 to be so long as I live — live in the real sense of 
 living. 
 
 Mrs. R. Darling, I really can't stop now. You 
 must tell me all about it when you come back from 
 your ride. \She sweeps to the door.~\ Good-bye. 
 
 Rawlings. Good-bye. 
 
 Mrs. R. [turning back to the door']. Oh, which sort 
 of ties is it that you like — I always forget. Is it the 
 ones to tie yourself, or the made-up ones .-' 
 
 Rawlings [indignantly]. As if I'd wear a made-up 
 tie, mother ! 
 
 Mrs. R. Very well, then ; the ones to do yourself. 
 [She goes out, and Rawlings, realising that he wants no 
 
 ties at all, starts after her. 'The door closes, however, 
 
 before he can reach it, and at the same moment the 
 
 telephone bell rings violently out. He turns back, and 
 
 Leatherhead immediately appears at the door to the 
 
 left.] 
 
 Leather [much chastened]. Shall I go to it, sir ? 
 
 29 
 
Rawlings [pressing his hand to his head.} Yes, yes ; 
 for heaven's sake stop the thing ! 
 [Leatherhead picks up the receiver, and the bell stops.] 
 
 Leather, [speaking into the receiver^. Hello ! . . . 
 Hello! . . . Who's that? . . . Yes. ... Mr. 
 Rawlings. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . Yes. . . . 
 Well, you can, I think. . . . Hold on a moment, 
 will you ^ \He turns to Rawlings.'] It's Rumble & 
 Johnson, sir. They want to know if they can have 
 your manuscript at twelve o'clock. It's almost the 
 last moment they can go to press with it. 
 
 Rawlings. Who was speaking ? Rumble himself.? 
 
 Leather. I think it was, sir. 
 
 Rawlings. Here, let me. . . . [He takes the re- 
 ceiver.] You there .-'... Well, listen here . . . 
 That'll be all right. You can have it now if you 
 send over . . . and you can name it just what you 
 please .... and you can strike oiF those two serials 
 I'm supposed to let you have by Christmas. , . . 
 The fact is that I've decided to chuck writing for 
 good. . . . What ? I say I've chucked writing 
 for good . . . I've come to the conclusion that the 
 game isn't worth the candle and I've had enough of 
 it . . . I'm going clean back to Nature ... I 
 said going back to Nature. . . . What? . . . 
 You're the office-boy ? . . . Well, why the devil 
 didn't you say so ? . . . Yes, I want Mr. Rumble. 
 . . . Go and fetch him. . . . I'll hold on. 
 
 [Leatherhead walks about most uncomfortably during 
 this conversation.] 
 
 [Continuing, after a few moments' pause.] Hello } . . 
 Is that you, Rumble ? . . . Well, look here . . . 
 What ? . . . Yes, that's quite right . . . I'm never 
 going to write another cursed line. . . . What ? . . . 
 
 30 
 
No, it's not a judicious advertisement for my next. 
 I mean it. . . . Send some photographs for your 
 press department ? . . . Well, of course, if you're 
 going to laugh I'll ring off . . . Oh, you quite 
 understand, do you.? ... I shall write you to-night 
 about the future disposal of the royalties as they come 
 in. . . . No, I've nothing else to say. . . . Good- 
 bye to you, and for good ! [He rings off disgustedly 
 and turns to Leatherhead.'] The fool ! He insists 
 upon regarding this business as some deep-laid plot. 
 He'll be convinced before long, though, I'm thinking. 
 [He begins to collect articles from the various drawers 
 of his taile.] 
 
 Leather. But, sir, you are surely not seriously 
 intending to — to abandon your writing career, for — 
 for ever ! You couldn't possibly be thinking of any 
 such thing as that ! 
 
 Rawlings. My dear Leatherhead, I am tired of 
 trying to convince people that I mean it. I must 
 act. By this time to-morrow I shall be a free man, 
 and whether you care to believe it to-day or not is a 
 matter which I do not intend to distress myself any 
 further about. [He turns his back to Leatherhead, 
 and begins to go through his papers on the table.~\ 
 
 Leather, [suddenly collapsing into a chair, pressing 
 a hand to his head]. Oh, dear ! 
 
 Rawlings [swinging round to stare at hint]. What's 
 the matter ? 
 
 Leather. Oh dear. [He groans deeply and bows 
 his head.] 
 
 Rawlings. What's up.'' [He goes over to him,] 
 
 Leather. I'm lost — lost — lost ! 
 
 Rawlings. Nonsense ; you'll have no trouble in 
 getting more wcMrk — better work, probably, than 
 you've had with me. 
 
 31 
 
Leather. It isn't that : it's here I feel it— 
 here ! \Jle presses a hand to his heart.'] Here ; 
 here. 
 
 Rawlings. Well, you'd better try a dose of that 
 stuff. 
 
 Leather, {getting up]. Sir — Mr. Rawlings — you 
 don't know how this talk of yours has touched me. 
 Some spring, some hidden spring, somewhere inside 
 me, seems suddenly to have been pressed. This talk 
 of Nature — it's gone home to me. Oh, dear ! [He 
 turns away, violently rubbing his nose with a hand- 
 kerchief.] 
 
 Rawlings. My dear Leatherhead ! 
 
 Leather. I can't help it, Mr. Rawlings ; I really 
 can't. It's more than I can bear to think of. [He 
 rubs his nose again with increased violence.] For 
 forty years I might say I've hardly put my nose out 
 of London — only on our Sunday-school treats from 
 St. Matthew's, that's all, and most of them have 
 always been spent in the railway train. 
 
 Rawlings. But, Leatherhead, my dear fellow, do 
 you mean that you — you — in spite of all those beauti- 
 ful heroics which you have been preaching to me, 
 actually feel as I do .'' That you, too, would give 
 up this life .'' 
 
 Leather. Give it up ! Don't play with my feelings, 
 Mr. Rawlings, don't play with them ; I am not a 
 young man, remember. 
 
 Rawlings. Martin Leatherhead, you are a humbug. 
 Consequently you ought to make a most excellent 
 vagabond. By all means come. 
 
 Leather. You wouldn't take me ! ! You don't 
 mean that.? 
 
 Rawlings. Leatherhead, you are more than wel- 
 come. To see you gambolling in the heather, or 
 
 32 
 
plucking nosegays by the roadside, would make my 
 happiness complete. Give me your hand on it. 
 
 heather. This is like some wonderful dream. I'm 
 almost too dazed to comprehend it yet. 
 
 Rawlings. Is that manuscript done up ? 
 
 Leather. Yes. 
 
 Rawlings. And labelled ? 
 
 Leather. And labelled. 
 
 Rawlings [agoing back to the table^. Well, now, this 
 earwig. I tell you what, Leatherhead, we'll take 
 him with us, and we'll let him loose somewhere in the 
 green fields ! 
 
 33 
 
ACT 11. 
 
 A Chalk-pit, near Cheddar, Somerset. 
 
 A TALL mass of quarried chalk with the sky showing above 
 forms a background to the scene. Along the top^runs a 
 rough wooden fence, with one or two bushes and brambles 
 growing up against it. Towards the left, behind the 
 fence, is visible the dense undergrowth of a copse, while to 
 the right is an opening with a rude series of steps- cut out 
 of the chalk leading down to the lower ground. Looking 
 at this ground itself one sees it flat and grown over with 
 grass, interspersed with loose boulders of chalk and a few 
 scrubby bushes. To the right is another wing of the 
 quarry and to the left a clump of trees, so that the whole 
 forms a very sheltered hollow. From between the trees 
 on the left a footpath leads to the steps, and there are also 
 the marks of some heavy cart-ruts on the grass. Back 
 behind the trees to the left is just visible the front part of 
 a gipsy's caravan, with the shafts chained up and a wooden 
 step-ladder leading to the door, which is closed. To the 
 right, a little back, is an open fire, with a pot hanging 
 above it from an iron crook ; while still further to the 
 right is a gipsy's tent — the usual dome-shaped erection 
 made of bent-over nut-boughs, covered with blankets. 
 Around the van lie a few pots and pans, a couple of 
 wooden soap-boxes for seats, and a sack of fodder. It is 
 late autumn, though the summer is still lingering, and a 
 warm morning light diffuses the scene. 
 
 For a few moments the stage is empty except for a dog 
 licking out a saucepan near the fire. "Then Walter 
 King comes down the chalk steps to the right. He is 
 a thick-set man of thirty-five, dressed as a game- 
 keeper ; a morose, sulky-looking fellow, very deliber- 
 ate in his movements and possessed of a gruff, surly 
 
 34 
 
voice. He wears a sandy moustache, and carries a 
 double-barrelled gun. He stops a few paces on from 
 the right, and looks at the dog. 
 
 King. He-or. Come out of that. Get behind. 
 Ugh ! get ofF out of it when you're spoken to. 
 
 [The dog goes off to the right and King pauses another 
 moment, staring about him, both hands deep in his 
 trousers pockets, and an expression of leering disgust 
 on his countenance. 'Then he goes over to the fire 
 and looks at it cunningly, turning over any available 
 articles with his foot. Lastly he rocks over towards 
 the van, and then, spitting on the ground, stops and 
 stares up at it. He is in this position when Owen 
 Davis comes on through the trees on the left-hand 
 side. This new-comer is a tall and heavy-looking 
 man of about forty, with a dark and slightly bibulous- 
 looking complexion, a black monstache, a strong Welsh 
 accent and a very good-natured countenance, as of one 
 whom it would be difficult to put out of countenance 
 or depress. He has on a well-washed and worn suit 
 of light grey flannel, a clean up-and-down collar with 
 a red tie and a fairly new straw hat. He speaks at 
 once to the other. '\ 
 
 Davis. HulJo, that's you, is it, King.'' Good 
 morning. 
 
 King [spitting again, and moving from resting on one 
 hip on to the other ; speaking with a cool familiarity'^. 
 Good morning to you. 
 
 Davis. I thought perhaps I should find somebody 
 about here. 
 
 King [always considering what he will say, and then 
 saying it deliberately, while he keeps up a perpetual air 
 of suspicion and independence^ There's nobody as I can 
 see. 
 
 35 
 
Davis. I came up, well, as a matter of fact, look 
 you, I wanted to speak to this young fellow here — 
 you know the Gipsy King, as we call him in the 
 village. I suppose now you haven't any idea where 
 he might be ? 
 
 King. I've a very good idea. 
 
 Davis. Where then ? 
 
 King. Up'n my woods there. [He jerks his thumb 
 vaguely up towards the country beyond the quarry."] 
 
 Davis. What.'' After your pheasants, do you 
 think ? 
 
 King. I don't think nothing about it. 
 
 Davis. This is a new solution of the great riddle. 
 I must say, now, I've never heard anything of it 
 before. 
 
 King. Perhaps it's not all as has their eyes open. 
 I sized them up the first night as they come here. 
 Bristol Poachers — that's what I said to meself — 
 Bristol Poachers. 
 
 Davis. Well, you've had nearly three months, you 
 know, to catch them in. 
 
 King. Ah ! you can talk, sir, you can talk ; it's 
 very easy to talk, but Bristol Poachers takes a bit of 
 catching. 
 
 Davis [laughing at hini]. But I think you're 
 wrong. 
 
 King. You can think as you please. [He expecto- 
 rates again, and looks away over the top of the van."] 
 
 Davis, [taking out his watch and looking at ii\. 
 Twenty to nine. That, now, is the worst of being 
 a schoolmaster. As a small boy there was nobody 
 hated more than I to hear the clang, clang of the 
 school-bell, yet Fate in her irony has made the thing 
 perpetual to me. [A bell rings in the distance^ There 
 she goes. 
 
 36 
 
IKtng has not withdrawn his eyes from their focus over 
 the van.~\ 
 
 Will you have a pipe ? \_He produces a tobacco pouch 
 from one of his pockets.'] 
 
 King [relaxing nothing of his independence]. I don't 
 know as I won't. Thank you. 
 
 Davis. It's rather mild for you, probably. 
 
 King. Oh, I can smoke it, I dare say, and I've 
 none of mc own on me. \He takes some tobacco from 
 the pouch which Davis hands him, and fills a briar 
 pipe.] 
 
 Davis. My unfortunate habit is to roll cigarettes. 
 [He takes back his pouch, produces some papers from his 
 pocket, and rolling himself a cigarette goes over to one 
 of the soap-boxes, where he sits down ; King meanwhile 
 eyeing him shiftily.] You know, now, that's an 
 interesting idea of yours. Bristol Poachers ! It 
 sounds pleasantly romantic, too. 
 
 King. I don't know nothing about that. I know 
 I'd like to catch 'em at it. 'n I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised, neither, if somebody else as I could mention 
 wasn't in it. 
 
 Davis. Do you mean Tom Saunders, now.? 
 
 King. P'r'aps I do and p'r'aps I don't. 
 
 Davis. Indeed, now, that is the worst of being a 
 Radical. It seems to connect one with every crime 
 under the sun. 
 
 King. Well, what are you to think ? Here's he 
 lets these fellers come here, paying him ten bob a 
 week for their pitch, and defying Lady Parrish her- 
 self to turn them off. 
 
 Davis. But if Saunders farms the land I suppose 
 he can do as he likes. Ten shillings a week isn't 
 bad rent for a hole like this, you know. 
 
 37 
 
King. There's more than that behind it. What is 
 it that they're paying ten shillings /or? That's what 
 I want to know. 
 
 Davis. For the glorious privilege of independence, 
 perhaps. 
 
 King. Yes, the independence of placing theirselves 
 in the middle o' my woods. 
 
 Davis. But they don't keep a dog, even. 
 
 King. The first man as I suspects in a village is 
 the man as don't keep a dog. 
 
 Davis. Well, do you ever find any feathers or 
 things .'' 
 
 King. Now you've said something. That's one of 
 the most suspicious things agin them. I've been here 
 at all times, but, if you'll believe me, I've never 
 found so much as a feather nor a rabbit-skin on the 
 place. P'r'aps you can tell me, is that natural ? 
 
 Davis. Possibly the explanation is that they are 
 vegetarians. You are shedding a great deal of light, 
 King, if you only knew it, upon a most interesting 
 subject. [He gets up and commences to look about the 
 litter around the fire.~\ Hello ! here now ; what do 
 you make of this ? [He picks up an empty cardboard 
 box.'] ' VEGBUT, The Perfect Non-animal Substi- 
 tute for Lard.' King, the mystery deepens. 
 
 King. Let's have a look at it. 
 
 [He takes the box cautiously^ and' examines it, putting 
 one of his fingers inside and scooping up a little of 
 the remains of the mixture, which he smells suspici- 
 ously. Then he looks at Davis.~\ 
 
 That's partridge bait. [He holds his finger out under 
 Davis's nose.] 
 
 Davis. It certainly has a pleasant odour about it, 
 
 38 
 
King. Now I've got something. [//« puts the box 
 away in one of the deep pockets of his coat."] 
 
 Davis. "What are you going to do ? 
 
 King. I'm going to try this on some birds. That's 
 step number one, sir. Is there anything else about .'' 
 
 Davis. What's this now ? [He picks up a small 
 bottle which has contained some brown liquidJ] 
 
 King. Let's have a look at it. 
 
 Davis [before handing it to him]. ' NUT-CHAR- 
 COAL. The only Ideal Coffee Substitute. One 
 Teaspoonful in Distilled Water makes — ' 
 
 King. Here — let's have it. [He takes it from 
 Davis, smells it, and at once looks at him with serene 
 triumph.] That's poison. 
 
 Davis. Well, now what are you going to do.? 
 
 King. I'm going to get to the bottom of this 
 thing, sir. That's what I'm going to do — ^get to the 
 bottom of it. 
 
 [The bell rings again in the distance.] 
 
 Davis. Hang that bell ! Well, I've five more 
 minutes, and I want to see this chap. Are you going 
 to wait .'' 
 
 King. No, I've done here. I'll be getting ofF. 
 Don't mention this business, sir, whatever you do. 
 We must eatch 'em by surprise. 
 
 Davis. I shan't mention it. King — the honour 
 shall be all yours. 
 
 King. Hold on a minute ; there's some one 
 coming. [They both listen, and a clanging sound 
 proceeds from above, as if of two pails being jangled 
 together.] I'm ofF. 
 
 Davis. All right, Good morning. 
 
 King. Good morning, sir. [He goes off by the 
 left.] 
 
 39 
 
[^Davis now strolls over to the fire, where he takes up an 
 easy position, looking down at it as if waiting. At 
 this moment the door of the van opens and a young 
 girl steps out. She apparently thinks that both men 
 have gone, for, seeing Davis, she slips back again 
 unobserved, and closes the door. This girl is Isopel, a 
 dark beauty, dressed in a picturesque black dress, 
 with a yellow handkerchief about her neck — altogether 
 a very Romany-looking individual. 
 
 A few seconds later, Leatherhead, carrying two 
 buckets of water, appears at the top of the steps above 
 the quarry. He is not very easy to recognise, being 
 attired in breeches and gaiters, with a black-and-yellow 
 striped jersey, and a fur moleskin cap of the approved 
 burglar or gipsy type. He is having a good deal of 
 trouble with his buckets, and comes down cautiously .'\ 
 
 Leather. \_as a sudden jolt splashes a quantity of 
 water on to his legs\ Oh, damn ! [He stumbles again 
 and comes down with a rush, spilling more water, and 
 only just saving himself from falling^ 
 
 Davis [going towards him\ Good morning, sir. I 
 hope, now, I'm not intruding here. I've come over 
 from the village. I want, if I can, to see the — the 
 gentleman who belongs to this camp. 
 
 Leather, [who has barely recovered his breath]. 
 Do you mean . . . er .-' 
 
 Davis. Mr. Scarrot, I understand his name is. 
 
 Leather. Oh, yes — Mr. Scarrot ; well, I can't say 
 when he'll be here. [He takes out his glasses, puts 
 them on, and looks at Davis ; then, as if remembering 
 himself, he takes them off hastily and puts them back in 
 his pocket.] But perhaps it's something I can do for 
 you. 
 
 Davis. Well, as a matter of fact, now, look you, I 
 
 40 
 
think. I rather wanted to see him himself. [_He takes 
 out his watch.'] I'm so rushed for time, though. 
 Do you think it is any good my waiting three 
 minutes ? 
 
 Leather. He might be three minutes or he might 
 be three hours. 
 
 Davis. Well, I'll wait just that long, now, and 
 then, if he isn't here, I must leave my message with 
 you. As a matter of fact, it's from a third party, 
 and I was particularly asked to deliver it in person. 
 
 Leather. A third party? not — not — [with very 
 considerable hesitation] not anybody from the Manor 
 House up yonder ? 
 
 Davis. Well, as a matter of fact, now, that's just 
 where it is from. 
 
 Leather. From — from — 
 
 Davis. Lady Mendle-Parrish. 
 
 Leather. Oh, Lady Mendle-Parrish ! 
 
 Davis [looking at his watch]. I'd better tell you : 
 Lady Parrish asks, as a particular favour, that Mr. 
 Scarrot will be here to see her at half-past twelve to- 
 day. She has been past several times, but never 
 found any one here ; and she particularly requests 
 that Mr. Scarrot will be kind enough to see her. I 
 think those were the exact words of my message, 
 now. Would you be so very kind as to convey it 
 to Mr. Scarrot .-' 
 
 Leather. Well, really, I'd rather not — at least, not 
 exactly like that. 
 
 Davis. What do you mean .'' 
 
 Leather. Well, it's rather extraordinary, isn't it ? 
 
 Davis. How extraordinary ? 
 
 Leather. Well, for any one in Lady Mendle- 
 Parrish's position to put it quite like that to a — well 
 — er — bloke in the position of my boss. 
 
 41 
 
Davis. I think your boss is the sort of bloke who 
 will understand. Anyway, look you, you tell him. 
 
 Leather. I'll tell him, certainly, 
 
 Davis. Well, I shall have to be getting ofF. I ought 
 to have left my name — Davis — Owen Davis. I'm the 
 master at the National School down in the village 
 here, and, on my soul, now, don't I envy you. You 
 know, this is just what I should like, a holiday like 
 this. Just the life that would suit me down to the 
 ground, you know, for a month or two in the 
 summer. I've always fancied it. 
 
 Leather. A little practical experience is about the 
 best remedy that I can recommend. 
 
 Davis. Have you ever read a book called ' Vaneta, 
 or The Purple Van ' ? 
 
 Leather. ' The Purple Van ' .? 
 
 Davis. By this fellow Rawlings — haven't you 
 heard about him .'' 
 
 Leather. What? 
 
 Davis. Oh ! there's been a lot in the papers about 
 it ; he simply disappeared two or three months ago. 
 Threw up everything, and went off to lead the 
 Simple Life. Fine books he used to write, too. It 
 you haven't read that ' Purple Van,' now, look you, 
 you ought to. I've got it at home, and, now, I'll 
 lend it to you if you like. Shall I bring it up ? 
 
 Leather. My dear sir, I am a plain — er — chap ; I 
 never read anything, though I thank you all the 
 same, of course. As for making a holiday of this 
 sort of life, I suppose it does sound very well in a 
 book ; but when one has to do it for a living ! 
 
 \He makes a deprecating gesture^ 
 
 Davis. Well, if this is your living, they've got 
 some funny ideas about you in the village now, that's 
 
 42 
 
all I can say. I've heard you and your friend ex- 
 plained away in about twenty different fashions — 
 from German spies to Bristol poachers ; but I can 
 assure you that it has never occurred to a single soul 
 that you might be downright professional gipsies. 
 
 Leather. Oh.'' \He hesitates a moment^ And 
 what's your opinion, then ? 
 
 Davis. Well, my opinion of you, now, is that 
 you're a lucky dog. 
 
 Leather. Look here, [//i? looks about him in a 
 state of feverish anxiety ; then he advances upon Davis 
 with a sudden whining confidence in his voice.'] Look 
 here, I can't hold out any longer without telling 
 somebody — I mean somebody who might sympathise 
 with and feel for me. Sir, if you will believe me, far 
 from being the lucky dog you imagine me, I am abso- 
 lutely as miserable as they make them. 
 
 Davis. What ! miserable .'' 
 
 Leather. Absolutely miserable, sir. I don't know 
 why, I can't explain it ; but I feel somehow that I 
 can give you my confidence — that there is a mutual 
 sympathy between us. I've not slept in a decent 
 bed, or barely had my clothes oiF my back, or even 
 properly washed myself for months, and I am not 
 used to it. I've developed lumbago, which I never 
 had before, and generally when I haven't got tooth- 
 ache, I've got earache. Then the whole place is 
 infested with earwigs. We brought one with us, 
 meaning to let it go somewhere in the fields, but 
 somehow it was overlooked. It escaped, and within 
 a few weeks we were swarming with them — in the 
 van, in the tent, even in one's shoes. The thing 
 has become a nightmate, sir, an intolerable night- 
 mare ! 
 
 Davis. This must be a most painful situation, now. 
 
 43 
 
Leather. Even to hear of it is painful, isn't it? 
 Well, what must it be to live in it ? 
 
 Davis. I wish to heaven I could stop and chat 
 with you — I believe you're right when you say there 
 seems a sort of mutual sympathy between us. But 
 my wretched school has to be seen to. But look 
 you here, now, I tell you what, I've got this afternoon 
 off — it's one of our inspection days — shall you be 
 free about one o'clock, say, or a little before ? 
 
 Leather. I'll manage to be. I really should like 
 to see more of you. I feel the need of a friend — 
 the absolute need of one. 
 
 Davis. It's good of you to say that, now. Well, 
 look you, that's settled then, something before one. 
 I'll give Lady Parrish time to get her business over, 
 and then we might take a walk together somewhere, 
 or, perhaps now, you'll stroll towards the village 
 yourself and meet me. I've got a wife, you know, 
 but she'll be glad to see my back for a while ; I am 
 sure of that, now. 
 
 Leather. I shall count on you. I'll meet you if I 
 can, or if not you'll come here. 
 
 Davies. You ought to take something for that 
 toothache, now. Have you got any whiskey .'' 
 
 Leather. No — I — 
 
 Davis. Ah, now ! you ought to have some whiskey. 
 You get some — get some Irish whiskey ; there's 
 nothing like it. Mind you get Irish, now. I'll be 
 here before one, remember, if I don't meet you any- 
 where. [//(? takes Leatherhead' s hand.'] 
 
 Leather. You said Irish whiskey ? 
 
 Davis. Yes, Irish, certainly. 
 
 \The school-bell rings again.] 
 Oh, hang ! They're going in ! I'll be ten minutes 
 late now at the best, and perhaps the Inspector him- 
 
 44 
 
self there. Teh ! good gracious now ! I'll have to 
 run for it. [^fFith a parting wave of the hand he bolts 
 off at a trot.'\ 
 
 Leather, [shaking his head; looking after him]. 
 Lucky devil ! 
 
 IHe heaves a deep sigh and turns despondently back to- 
 wards the camp fire, but he has barely reached it 
 when the door of the van opens and Isopel comes out, 
 glowing with indignation.] 
 
 Isopel. Traitor! 
 
 [Leatherhead starts and stares at her with mingled guilt, 
 surprise, and expostulation?^ 
 
 heather. My dear young lady ! 
 
 Isopel. Oh ! how could you ? I should never have 
 believed it if I hadn't heard it with my own ears. 
 And I have trusted you so implicitly. I have put 
 such absolute confidence in you. Oh ! 
 
 Leather. \j)utting on his glasses]. My very dear 
 young lady. 
 
 Isopel. I don't mean anything against Owen Davis 
 — nobody can help liking him — I admit that, but, 
 oh, he's the biggest gossip and the biggest meddler 
 in the whole village, and the very worst person to let 
 find out anything. How could you do it.^ \She 
 comes down the steps to the ground.] 
 
 Leather. I assure you that you are unnecessarily 
 alarmed. I said nothing that could in any way have 
 compromised you. I merely referred to my — er — 
 health. I never dropped a hint of anything else — 
 and I must talk about these things to somebody. 
 
 Isopel. My reputation — my everything — is at 
 stake. 
 
 45 
 
Leather. Well, of course it's at stake. What else 
 are you to expect if you come down here, a young 
 lady of your age, and hide yourself in a gentleman's 
 caravan at this hour of the morning — or any other 
 time of the day, for the matter of that ? And what 
 about my reputation ? What about my character if 
 any one was to discover us here together, now, like 
 this? 
 
 Isofel. But it was you, Mr. Leatherhead, that I 
 came to see. 
 
 Leather. You came here to see me ? \Iie throws 
 up his hands.'] Miss Mendle-Parrish ! 
 
 Isofel. It's about this dreadful intention of my 
 mother's to come here herself to-day. I only heard 
 of it late last night, and I simply rushed here this 
 morning ; I got up at seven, leaving a note saying 
 that I was going out for a walk. Then I changed at 
 the summer-house as usual and came on. You see, 
 I knew he was away, because I caught a glimpse 
 of him riding on to the downs this morning, from 
 my window, and I thought I should catch you 
 alone. 
 
 Leather. I must protest. I really must protest. 
 
 Isopel. Then, you see, I had hardly got here when 
 King's dog came. I knew that meant King, so 1 
 dived into the van, just in the nick of time. Then 
 Davis came, and then you. That's the full history 
 of my being here, and now what we've got to 
 do, quickly, before he comes back, is to think of 
 some means — any means — to stop this thing from 
 happening. 
 
 Leather. Stop it? 
 Isopel. We must. 
 
 Leather. But how in the world am I to prevent 
 Lady Mendle-Parrish from coming here if she wants 
 
 46 
 
to ? It's a public footpath on her own estate in a 
 free country. I don't see how it's possible. 
 
 Isopel. I don't either, but you're so much cleverer 
 than I, and I've simply counted on you. Look how 
 you found me out, in a minute almost, and how 
 good you've been about that. You must, you must 
 think of something. 
 
 Leather. I may be very dull — perhaps I am — but 
 I don't even see that it's necessary. 
 
 Isopel. Not necessary ? Don't you understand .? 
 Mother is simply coming here to turn you ofF. 
 
 Leather. To turn us off.'' Well, thank Heaven ! 
 
 Isopel. Thank Heaven.'' 
 
 Leather. Certainly ; that is what I said. I would 
 not lift my little finger to prevent our being turned 
 ofF. I say it with the most intense feeling of which 
 I am capable — ^let there be an end of it all and 
 welcome. 
 
 , Isopel. So you think, then, that it is simply a 
 matter of his going — of that ending it. [She suddenly 
 sits down and presses her hands to her face.l Oh, I 
 wish it could, I wish it could. 
 
 Leather. And what is there to prevent it ^ Mr. 
 Rawlings simply thinks you're a gipsy, and you're sup- 
 posed to think that he's one, too. Lady Mendle- 
 Parrish he has never seen in his life, and certainly he 
 in no way connects her with you. Very well, she 
 comes down and orders him off, he goes, and there 
 you are — what could be simpler ? The end of it all 
 — just as you say you want it. 
 
 Isopel. Oh, you don't know mother. You'd see 
 the danger soon enough if you did. 
 
 Leather. Danger .? What danger ? 
 
 Isopel. I tell you you don't know mother. You've 
 no idea of the furious state she's in about Saunders 
 
 47 
 
letting you stop here. This is her last card, to come 
 herself, and she'll simply paint the whole place blue. 
 That's why she sent such a very polite message — to 
 make sure of his being here. 
 
 Leather. Well? 
 
 Isopel. Don't you see? What will inevitably 
 happen is that she will so bully and threaten poor 
 Mr. Rawlings that in self-defence he will tell her 
 who he is, which will mean the end — the real end — 
 of everything ; because mother, whose chief joy in 
 life is to know distinguished people — celebrities — 
 will then immediately drag him up to the house for 
 lunch. 
 
 Leather. Well, if nothing worse was to come of 
 it than an invitation for lunch — one properly cooked 
 meal — 
 
 Isofel. But don't you see — it would be utterly 
 fatal. We are exactly the very sort of people he is 
 trying to get away from. Just think of him with 
 mother — a passionate devotee of the drawing-room 
 sort of Simple Life and a member of the Guild of 
 Woodland Worshippers, whose Deity in Chief is 
 Rawlings himself. And me, to find that I was a 
 member of it, too, while all this time my one, one 
 attraction for him is that he thinks I'm the sort of 
 Wild Girl that he has always so loved to describe. 
 
 Leather. Yes ; that's the one weak point of your 
 disguise. You look exactly as if you had stepped 
 out of ' The Purple Van.' 
 
 Isopel. Vaneta was always my favourite heroine in 
 fiction. Mr. Leatherhead — don't you see it now — 
 don't you see that he would never forgive either 
 of us ? 
 
 Leather. Certainly I never looked at it in that light. 
 All that I can see at all clearly is that my position is 
 
 48 
 
rapidly becoming untenable. And a careful man 
 like I have always been. Great Heavens ! that I 
 should ever have allowed myself to become a party 
 to anything so manifestly improper. 1 shall never 
 forgive myself if it is found out. 
 
 Isopel. We're both in the same boat, aren't we ? 
 The only question is, how to stop it. 
 
 Leather, [with decision]. Miss Parrish. There is 
 but one way out of this difficulty : for you to con- 
 fess — to confess everything — to Mr. Rawlings. 
 Then, when it's all over, and he's gone, you will at 
 least be left with a clean conscience. Which is a 
 great deal, my young friend — a very great deal 
 indeed. 
 
 Isopel [slowly]. You think that we ought to con- 
 fess? 
 
 Leather. We.'' There is no need whatever to 
 drag me into it. My name need not in any way be 
 mentioned, 
 
 Isopel. Oh ! how could I .? From that very first 
 morning when I saw him from the motor in the 
 village, and recognised him, from that moment the 
 whole thing has been one long, unpardonable decep- 
 tion. 
 
 Leather. No, no, my dear young lady. Not un- 
 pardonable. Nothing is unpardonable. 
 
 Isopel. Why, why didn't you stop me at once when 
 you found it out.? It would have been so much, 
 much kinder. 
 
 Leather. Do you mean to say that you are now 
 actually going to turn round and blame me for every- 
 thing .? 
 
 Isopel. I cannot help blaming you, and you don't 
 realise how dreadfully serious it has become. 
 
 Leather, [sitting down on the soap-box and clasping 
 
 49 D 
 
his heair\. Oh ! Little we know the web we weave, 
 when first we practise to deceive. [He groans,] 
 
 Isopel. It's no good holding your head, you must 
 use it. What are you going to do ? 
 
 Leather, {springing up]. Listen ! He's coming ! 
 
 Isopel. Quick, then. How shall you stop it ? 
 
 Leather. I can't stop it, and I shan't try. I've 
 compromised myself quite enough, and you're far 
 better able to get out of it than I am. 
 
 Isttpel. Shh! 
 
 \A jingling sound is audihle from above.] 
 
 Leather. You can give him the schoolmaster's 
 message yourself — you heard it ; and he must make 
 what he can of it. 
 
 Isopel. Brute ! 
 
 Leather. Very well. 
 
 \They move apart from one another just as Godfrey 
 Rawlings appears at the top of the chalk steps, all the 
 requirements of the sentimental and romantic idea as 
 regards the gipsy embodied in his costume. Indeed, in 
 spite of certain incongruities, his appearance is for the 
 moment startlingly realistic. With a shabby, tight- 
 fitting twill suit of genuine showman's cut, tall corduroy 
 waistcoat, a brightly-coloured bandanna twisted round 
 his throat, and silver rings on his fingers, he has 
 arrived very creditably near the real thing ; but having 
 shied at a howler hat, and substituted a tall- crowned 
 article of soft black felt, something of the realism has 
 gone in exchange for the addition in picturesqueness 
 which it gives him. Still, he is very sun-burned, and 
 his hair, which has grown rather long, is very black, 
 and open suspicion is disarmed. Thus he comes lightly 
 down the chalk steps, carrying a saddle on his shoulder 
 and a bridle in his right hand, with, in his lefi, a 
 
 SO 
 
switch cut out of some hedge. Half-way down, he 
 stops, and stares at Isopel.'] 
 
 Rawlings. Belle ! 
 
 [H(? comes down the rest of the steps two at a time, and 
 then, pitching down what he is carrying, he goes eagerly 
 up to her, holding out his hand.'] 
 
 Isopel [speaking with something of the twang of a 
 cockney, the accent of the country, the sing-song of the 
 ' Irish Players,' and the drone of a mystical drawing- 
 room reciter, with underneath it all just a glimmer of an 
 innocently audacious girl keenly enjoying a prime joke\. 
 Good morning, young fellow. I have come early, 
 you see ; but it's late now, and it's a long time that 
 you've been. 
 
 Rawlings [speaking in the same spirit]. If I'd guessed 
 you were here, Belle, I'd not have dawdled as I have 
 done ; but I never thought for you to come in the 
 morning. 
 
 Isopel. I came because I wished to see you. There 
 is something, young fellow, which you should know, 
 which same I heard last night from my people, and 
 which I have heard again here this morning. 
 
 Leather, [who has been looking on at them with an 
 irritable impatience]. I'll be taking a feed up to the 
 mare if you like. 
 
 Rawlings. Thanks. [He turns back to Isopel.] What 
 is it, then, that you have come to tell me, Belle .'' 
 
 Isopel. Your friend there can tell you better than 
 I, for he heard it as it came there this morning. 
 
 Leather, [sourly looking up from getting a pail of 
 fodder from the sack.] You know it yourself, young 
 woman ; and you can tell it. 
 
 [He takes the pail, and goes off up the steps?^ 
 
 51 
 
Rawlings. What is it, Belle ? 
 
 Isopel. Only this, young fellow : there was a man 
 came up from the village, the master he is of the 
 school yonder, a man who goes by the name of 
 Davis, a Welshman from over the border, and he 
 brought this same news, which my people, I tell you, 
 had already heard of — no matter how, but after the 
 way of my people — last night. 
 
 Rawlings. But you haven't got to what it is at all 
 yet? 
 
 Isopel. It was a message that he brought from the 
 lady of the Great House, young fellow, which he gave 
 to your sulking friend, who has just gone up with a 
 feed for your mare. 
 
 Rawlings. And what was this message, Belle ? 
 
 Isopel. A message, I tell you, from the lady of the 
 Great House, young fellow, as how you was to be 
 here at half-past twelve o'clock to-day for tcf see her, 
 which same message means that she will be turning 
 you off, so your Belle came down from her people 
 to give you warning — do you understand ? — lest you 
 should take the message civilly, and be fool enough 
 to be here when her ladyship should be calling. 
 
 Rawlings. But, my dear Belle, though it was good 
 of you to come bringing this same warning, yet I 
 do not fear her ladyship of the Great House ; for it's 
 the farmer that let's me stop here, and he's willing 
 for it, in spite of the great lady herself, and, what is 
 more, I am willing for it, too, so what is there for 
 me to be fearing ? 
 
 Isopel. You don't know the lady of the Great 
 House, young fellow, or you'd talk differently. If 
 you'll take my advice, you'll not see her, I say, for 
 she'll talk you over ; and you'll find yourself saying, 
 * yes, you'll go,' before you know that you have 
 
 52 
 
opened your mouth in any speech at all. And, then, 
 what '11 your Belle be doing, with the dingle empty, 
 and no smoke coming up above the chalk to cheer 
 her when she comes this way for a bit of company, 
 when the lonesome fits be on her ? So saddle your 
 mare again, young man, and keep riding till it's past 
 the hour she'll be coming, for where's there's nothing 
 said there can't be no promises made nor broken. 
 
 Rawlings. So you think, then, that I'll be leaving 
 here, and while I've got my good Belle for a neigh- 
 bour ? \^He pauses, and then goes nearer to her.'] Now, 
 I tell you what, Belle, if all the lords and ladies in 
 England were to come to turn me off, I'd not go 
 while I'd got a good neighbour, so help me warm up 
 my breakfast, and take some with me. There's no 
 one makes such tea as you. Belle, and there's no one 
 appreciates it more than I. 
 
 Isopel. As for breakfast, there's others beside you 
 as is waiting for me to make their tea for them, and 
 I'll be going. But take my advice, now, I tell you 
 again, and don't see this lady from the Great House. 
 There'll be no good come from it, as I warn you. 
 
 Rawlings. You still think that I'll go. 
 
 Isopel. I still think that you'll go, young fellow. 
 
 Rawlings. Does something tell you that I will ? 
 
 Isopel. The evil spirits tell me so, young fellow. 
 
 Rawlings. That I will be gone before dark to-night, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Isopel. That you will be gone before dark to-night. 
 
 Rawlings. And shall I tell you how to combat 
 those same evil spirits, and to make sure that I shall 
 be here at dark to-night ? 
 
 Isopel. You may tell me that, young fellow. 
 
 Rawlings. Well, by your saying that you will 
 come down to me here at the time we speak of, 
 
 S2, 
 
Will you come to me, Belle, for a while in the 
 gloaming ? 
 
 Isopel [with a shade of hesitation]. Yes, I will come 
 down to you for a while in the gloaming. 
 
 Rawlings. You see, the evil spirits are banished 
 already. I shall be watching for you, and now let 
 your lady of the Great House come and smoke me 
 out, and still I'll be here. 
 
 Isopel. Good morning to you, then, young man. 
 
 {She holds out her hand?] 
 
 Rawlings [taking it]. Are you going, really .'' 
 
 Isabel. I ought to have gone a while ago. 
 
 Rawlings. And may I not walk a part of the way 
 with you ? 
 
 Isopel. You may never walk a part of the way 
 with me, as you know well enough. Good morning 
 to you again. 
 
 Rawlings. Good morning to you, Belle. Till to- 
 night, remember. 
 
 Isopel. Till to-night. 
 
 [She goes up the steps and away, Rawlings standing at 
 the bottom watching her until she has disappeared. 
 Then he goes to the van, and, resting his elbows on the 
 platform, buries his head in his arms, and becomes 
 convulsed with laughter. He is still in this position 
 when Leatherhead appears at the top of the steps, and 
 stares at him miserably.] 
 
 Leather, [coming down]. Might I ask to be allowed 
 to share the joke, Mr. Rawlings? Upon my soul, 
 I'm in need of one. 
 
 Rawlings. Leatherhead, it's that glorious girl — 
 that wonderflil mixture of hers, with nothing missing 
 in it — George Borrow — the Irish Players — Me — 
 
 54 
 
every romantic book about gipsies she could read 
 up, till she's got that marvellous composite type ! 
 Its too good to be true almost — 
 
 heather, [with a sudden dawning understanding.'\ 
 Mr. Rawlings ! [He goes towards him, greatly movedj] 
 
 Rawlings. Leatherhead, I am going to let you 
 into a secret which, if you weren't as blind as a bat 
 you would have found out for yourself, weeks ago. 
 That girl, Leatherhead, is the daughter — the daughter 
 of this Lady of the Manor, this self-same Lady 
 Mendle-Parrish who is coming here this morning. 
 Well ? [He waits in vain for Leatherhead to speakJ] 
 Why don't you say something ? 
 
 Leather. It is very complimentary, no doubt, to 
 be called a bat, I am greatly obliged to you for 
 such extravagant flattery and will try to deserve it, 
 but as a matter of fact I must disclaim, in this particu- 
 lar instance, any right to the appellation. I don't 
 say that I am not a bat ; I may be ; anyway, it's not 
 for me to decide, but will you allow me, please, to 
 tell you that I know this thing already — that I prob- 
 ably knew of it long before you ^ In fact, that it is 
 so stale that I am growing heartily sick of it. 
 
 Rawlings. What the deuce do you mean ? Lea- 
 therhead, you don't suggest that she — that she knows 
 who I am.-* 
 
 Leather. You forget that I am a bat, sir. I 
 don't pretend to know anything whatever about 
 either of your businesses. Those who look on 
 generally see most of the game, sir ; they generally 
 see most of it. And since even a bat might by touch 
 alone have divined that Miss Mendle-Parrish was no 
 gipsy, it is probable that being an intelligent young 
 lady she may have surmised that you were not one 
 either. Don't you want your breakfast } 
 
 SS 
 
Rawlings. But look here, Leatherhead ; it was 
 easy enough for me to find out about her — but for 
 her to find out about me — 
 
 Leather, [picking up a saucepan from the fire']. Bah! 
 Half-a-dozen earwigs in it ! 
 
 Rawlings. Never mind the earwigs. I can't eat 
 anything after this, anyway. I must speak to you — 
 
 Leather, \_groaning and suddenly holding his hand to 
 his mouth']. U'mmm ! ! ! ! 
 
 Rawlings. What's the matter ? 
 
 Leather. My confounded tooth again ! For 
 Heaven's sake don't talk to me now. \He begins to 
 walk up and down, holding his face.] 
 
 Rawlings. But, Leatherhead — 
 
 Leather. I can't, Mr. Rawlings, I can't talk now. 
 U'mmmmm ! Oh, dear .'' 
 
 Rawlings. But look here — this is most abominably 
 selfish of you. I simply must know how I stand. 
 
 Leather. Yes, selfish — selfish. I might have 
 known you'd say that. Anybody whose own selfish- 
 ness is encroached upon in the least degree jumps at 
 that word ; that's what it means — ^that somebody 
 else's own selfishness has been touched. Oh, Lord ! 
 
 Rawlings. But, Leatherhead — just one word. 
 
 Leather. Is there any whiskey.'' No, of course 
 there's not. In a place like this all those sort of 
 things ought to be kept handy, I tell you. \U.e 
 crosses Rawlings as far as to the extreme left, as if 
 going.] 
 
 Rawlings. Where the deuce are you going ? 
 
 Leather. I don't know ; I don't know or care 
 about anything. I'm going to get some whiskey. 
 O ! U'mmm ! [He goes off by the leftT] 
 
 S6 
 
ACT III. 
 
 ^he scene the same as before, only the fire is out and 
 the rays of the sun are more horizontal. 
 
 By the caravan, sitting on the grass with his bacic against 
 one of the wheels, is Godfrey Rawlings alone and ab- 
 sorbed in a show of the business of making clothes-pegs ; 
 a supply of wood, tin, nails, and a pair of shears beside 
 him. At the moment he is tacking a strip of tin on to a 
 • peg which he has evidently just fashioned, and, having 
 completed this operation, he holds the finished article out 
 at arm's length and eyes it doubtfully ; its length being 
 about twice that of an ordinary peg and its general appear- 
 ance proportionately original. Then he tosses it down, 
 and, taking up a sheet of tin, proceeds to shear off a 
 narrow strip, taking only a few seconds to cut himself 
 severely. 
 
 Rawlings {dropping the tiri\. Hang ! \He looks at 
 his hand, sucks it, and then proceeds to bandage himself 
 •with a green bandana which he produces from a pocket. 
 He is doing this when Walter King comes on — unobserved 
 by him — from the left, and stopping still stands eyeing 
 him with his usual sour and supercilious expression^ 
 
 Rawlings [taking up the shears again and com- 
 mencing to sing to himself '\ : 
 
 The gamekeeper was watching us, 
 
 For him we didn't care, 
 For we can wrestle and fight, my boys. 
 
 And jump out anywhere. 
 And it's my delight on a likely night. 
 
 In the season of the — 
 
 \_Js King loudly clears his throat^ Hello ! 
 
 57 
 
King. Hello to you. 
 
 Rawlings {collecting himself with an effort']. Pleasant 
 day. 
 
 King. Is it ^ 
 
 Rawlings [after looking at the other he resumes his 
 work, but at last speaks again, as King continues to 
 stand motionless in his original position']. Do you want 
 anything ? 
 
 King. Nothing particular. [He expectorates and, 
 making his changing movement from one hip to the 
 other, continues to stand watching Rawlings. The 
 latter, after endeavouring in vain to stare him out, goes 
 on with his work. Then, after a long silence. King 
 speaks again.] Busy ? 
 
 Rawlings. Are you ? 
 
 King. Nothing particular. 
 
 [Rawlings resumes his work, and King waits again 
 before at last speaking.] 
 
 Where's your mate.'' 
 
 Rawlings [putting aside his work]. That's just what 
 I was thinking of asking you. I suppose you don't 
 happen to have heard any one groaning in your 
 woods ? 
 
 King. What's that .? 
 
 Rawlings. My unfortunate companion happens to 
 be afflicted just now with toothache. He would 
 probably be audible at some distance, and I thought 
 possibly you might have overheard him ; that's all. 
 
 King [savagely]. Look here. 
 
 Rawlings [cutting himself again]. Oh, hang ! That's 
 twice. [He gets up, holding his hand.] 
 
 King. I suppose you think you're very funny ? 
 
 Rawlings [binding up his hand]. Not in the least. 
 That's quite the last idea that I should entertain as 
 
 58 
 
regards myself just now ; and I'm afraid that you'll 
 find my companion even more preternaturally dismal 
 this morning. 
 
 [Still holding his face, Leatherhead appears, and goes 
 directly over to one of the soap-boxesJ] 
 
 Leather. I couldn't come back before this. 
 Rawlings. No better? 
 
 Leather. Well, just now it is a little — but I can't 
 talk. 
 
 \frhen, as soon as Rawlings attention is engaged by the 
 keeper he produces a bottle of whisky from underneath 
 his coat, and deposits it cautiously inside his tent.~\ 
 
 Rawlings [to King"]. By the way, have you got any 
 business here.'' Because, if you haven't, I should 
 really like to be alone. 
 
 King. I dare say you would. Well, I've got 
 business here, too. 
 
 Rawlings. Oh.'' 
 
 [The village clock chimes the half-hour, and they both 
 listen. Then suddenly King breaks away to the left, 
 touching his hat ; his whole being transformed by a 
 surprising display of alacrity. '\ 
 
 King. Here, your ladyship. [He goes off to the left. 
 
 Rawlings [stepping forward and looking after hirri\. 
 Great Scott ! Leatherhead ! She's with her mother ! 
 
 Leather, [getting up\ I thought that'd happen. 
 Look here, Mr. Rawlings, I hope you understand 
 that this is your business entirely. I refuse to be 
 dragged into it, I — 
 
 Rawlings. Shut up ! 
 
 [Leatherhead goes back to his seat on the soap-box, while 
 there comes on from the left King, followed by Lady 
 Mendle-P arrish and Isopel. Lady Parrish proves 
 
 59 
 
to be a small spare and neurotic-looking woman of 
 fifty, dressed in the latest ' Garden-city ' or ' Nature ' 
 costume, composed of a sack-like jacket of green serge, 
 a short brown walking-skirt, sandals, and a necklace 
 of large amber beads. Her almost white hair, cut 
 short, is parted down the centre, and floats a little 
 over her eyes ; she walks with an ash-stick, and her 
 voice is distinguished mainly by a peculiarly snob-like 
 decisiveness. Isopel is all but unrecognisable in a 
 pair of motoring goggles, a tailor-made golfing costume 
 with pleated skirt, and a white tam d shanter hat.'] 
 
 King. That's them, your ladyship. \^He stands back. 
 
 Lady P. Ah! [She goes with a beaming countenance 
 to Rawlings.] Mr. Jasper Scarrot.'' 
 
 Rawlings [touching his hat, while he looks shifHly 
 across at Isopel.] That's me, lady. 
 
 Lady P. I am just a little deaf. What does he 
 say, Muriel? 
 
 Isopel [with an effort] . He said, ' That's me, lady.' 
 
 Leather, [exclaiming convulsively]. Oh, Lor! 
 
 [They look round at him. 
 
 Lady P. What was that ? 
 
 Rawlings [impatiently to Leatherhead]. What is it ? 
 
 Leather. Only my tooth — excuse me — I couldn't 
 help it. 
 
 Lady P. [looking at Rawlings]. Your friend, is he? 
 
 Rawlings. My mate, lady. 
 
 Lady P. Ah! [She bows affably towards him.] 
 Well, now, this is very good of you indeed to be 
 here like this to see me. I called at the school as 
 we drove by, and heard from the schoolmaster that 
 you had got my message. [She breaks off abruptly, 
 turning to the keeper] . King ? 
 
 King [stepping up]. Your ladyship ? 
 
 60 
 
Lady P. I shall not require you — you can go. 
 King [doubtfully]. Very good, my lady. 
 
 [He turns away to the right with great hesitation, finally 
 turning back uncomfortably.] 
 
 Lady P. Yes ? Yes.? What is it ? 
 
 King. Hadn't I better stop somewhere near .'' 
 
 Lady P. I think I told you I should not require 
 you. [She fixes him with her eye, smiling self-con- 
 saously, as one who is dealing with an idiot, and, flinch- 
 ing, he goes to pass her towards the left.] No, no, the 
 car will be quite all right. You removed the plug, 
 Muriel ? 
 
 Isopel. Yes, Mother. 
 
 Lady P. [to King]. Very well. [She fixes him 
 again, and finally he goes off by the steps to the right. 
 Then she turns back to Rawlings.] You will excuse 
 him, of course — such a devoted creature. He always 
 seems to have that idea, that 1 want looking after. 
 
 Rawlings. Yes, lady.'' 
 
 Lady P. Please don't do that again — you don't 
 do it at all well, really. [She turns to her daughter.] 
 Muriel ! 
 
 Lopel. Mother? 
 
 Lady P. Please remove those absurd goggles. 
 
 [She looks at her daughter. Rawling stares at her in 
 suspense, and Leathffrhead makes a startled movement^ 
 
 Isopel. Really I— 1 — I would really rather not ; 
 this chalk makes the light so glaring, I — 
 
 Lady P. Weaker eyes than your mother, darling, 
 as I am going to show you. [She turns back to Raw- 
 lings.] Mr. Scarrot, do you know what I have come 
 to tell you .-' 
 
 Rawlings [with the utmost confusion.] No — at least 
 — no, I don't at all. 
 
 6i 
 
Lady P. I have found you out. 
 
 [She folds her arms and stands smiling serenely at him. 
 her head on one side. Isopel, Leatherhead, and 
 Rawlings each start involuntarily, the latter checked in 
 the middle of a breath.'\ 
 
 Isopel. Mother! 
 
 Lady P. Yes. Though your disguise is quite 
 good, I can see through it. The Simple Life — that's 
 what has brought you here, Mr. Scarrot. [She stands 
 hack and looks triumphantly at him. Then, as Rawlings 
 attempts to speak, she continues, with a smile.'\ No, no, 
 no ; you can't deny it — I can see it in your eye. 
 And you needn't look so startled. I am a nature- 
 lover myself, and deeply interested in tramps and 
 gipsies, and all other sorts of wild-nature people ; 
 Muriel, darling, am I not.'' 
 
 Muriel. But, mother — 
 
 Rawlings {turning appealingly to her"]. I can't under- 
 stand the lady at all, miss. I'm only a plain chap. 
 
 Leather, [emitting an exclamation of disgust"]. Ow ! 
 
 [They turn to look at him, and find him gripping his 
 mouth in apparent agony. 1 
 
 Lady P. This is absurd. I shall get cross in a 
 minute, because I know that you are what I say. I 
 assure you, Lydia Mendle-Parrish is quite the last 
 person that any Nature Student need be afraid of. I 
 think any one will tell you that. Do you know that 
 I am Honorary Secretary of the Somerset branch of 
 the Guild of Woodland Worshippers, and one of 
 the oldest members — in fact, one of the founders — 
 of the Keen Order of Tinker-Lovers .? Come, come, 
 now, Mr. Scarrot. Put this reserve on one side. 
 Make friends. 
 
 62 
 
Isopel [hastily y as Rawlings shows some slight signs of 
 wavering]. But, mother, it is so obvious that you are 
 mistaken. 
 
 Rawlings. Certainly the lady is. 
 
 Lady P. Nonsense, Muriel. It's not a bit of 
 good Mr. Scarrot trying to deceive me. I've been 
 puzzled about him for a long time — ever since he 
 came here, in fact, as you know ; but only just now 
 Owen Davis, who is no fool either, gave me exactly 
 the clue I wanted. [She looks at Rawlings again.] 
 You are a vegetarian. 
 
 Rawlings. I don't know anything about all this 
 at all. 
 
 Lady P. Listen, Muriel. [She turns back to Raw- 
 lings.] This morning an empty box of ' Vegbut ' 
 and a bottle of ' Nut-Charcoal ' was found here in 
 your camp. Pray, how do you account for that ? 
 
 Rawlings. Easily enough, lady. They were given 
 to us on the road a long time back, and we had 
 them with us for months, until iat last we ate them — 
 one day it was when we was extraordinary hungry. 
 
 Lopel. There, mother ! 
 
 Lady P. [beginning to lose some of her confidence, a note 
 of authority creeping into her voice]. Do you totally 
 deny that you are a vegetarian ? 
 
 Rawlings. I don't even know what you mean, 
 lady. 
 
 Lady P. [with a complete change of voice]. Who are 
 you, then ? 
 
 [Leatherhead stirs restlessly in the background^] 
 
 Rawlings. My name's on the van. 
 Lady P. And what are you doing here ? 
 Rawlings. Clothes-pegs, or a bit of dealing, or 
 anything else that comes handy-like, lady. 
 
 63 
 
Lady P. Muriel ! What am I to think ? 
 
 Isopel. I think you had better come away, mother. 
 
 Lady P. I shall not leave here until I know who 
 this man is, and by what rights he is on my pro- 
 perty. 
 
 Leather, [suddenly breaking oui\. We are here, 
 madam, because — 
 
 Rawlings. Hold your tongue ! 
 
 Lady P. [looking at Leatherhead with a freezing 
 stare']. Who is this man ? 
 
 Leather. My name, madam, is — 
 
 Rawlings. Chawney. Chawney Todd, we call 
 him. Sit down. 
 
 Lady P. A most suspicious-looking person. 
 
 [Leatherhead gasps, almost paralysed.] 
 
 Rawlings. Now, Chawney, keep quiet. Look 
 here, lady, I'm paying rent here, and anything you've 
 got to say had much better be said to the gentleman 
 what I hires the land from. 
 
 Lady P. The gentleman you hire the land from, 
 indeed ! Do you know that you are speaking to the 
 lady of this manor, and that every inch of this 
 ground here is my private property ? 
 
 Rawlings. I did understand you to say something 
 about your property ; yes, lady. 
 
 Lady P. [rapidly bristling up into a state of furious 
 indignation]. Then please to understand that I will 
 not have you here. By your own confession you 
 are a — a tramp — a gipsy. 
 
 Rawlings. More of a tinker, lady. And with 
 your deep interest in us I hope as 'ow — 
 
 Lady P. I said I was interested in the subject. 
 Very likely, though, if you had come to me openly 
 in the first place I should have let you stop some- 
 
 64 
 
where on the estate. [To Muriel.l There is that 
 piece of waste land behind the new tin Mission Hall, 
 Muriel, where the ash-pit for the village is — quite 
 likely I would have allowed them to have stopped 
 there — for a few nights, at any rate. [She turns back 
 to Rawlings,] But you have preferred to defy me. 
 You have made some illegal arrangement with 
 Thomas Saunders. An arrangement of a highly 
 suspicious character. Now just you understand me. 
 I won't have you here. I won't have you here 
 at all. 
 
 Rawlings. I am afraid it wouldn't be very con- 
 venient for me to go just now. 
 
 Lady P. Do I understand that you refuse to leave. 
 
 Rawlings. Well, of course, I shan't be here for 
 ever. 
 
 Lady P. I give you twenty-four hours in which 
 to quit. 
 
 Leather, [coming forward again"]. Look here. 
 Take my advice — go ! 
 
 Rawlings [folding his arms~\. I'll think it over. 
 
 Lady P. I insist upon my answer now. 
 
 Rawlings. I'll give it you inside the twenty-four 
 hours, my lady. 
 
 Isopel. I think you had better come away, mother. 
 Very likely Mr. Scarrot will decide to leave. 
 
 Lady P. Look here now, Scarrot, I will make 
 you an offer. If you leave here before dark to-night, 
 you shall have a fortnight rent-free at the place I 
 mentioned. Now that is a fair offer. A much 
 fairer one than I ought to make. 
 
 Leather, [hotly']. The village ash-pit ! 
 
 Rawlings. I think it's another case for thinking 
 over, my lady. 
 
 Lady P. The conditions are that you go to-night. 
 
 65 E 
 
Leather. I have only two words to say. They are 
 that if this contemplated removal takes place — 
 
 Rawlings. Shut up ! \_He stares Leatherhead out 
 of countenance.'] What I want to know, lady, is what 
 will happen if I prefer not to accept this benevolent 
 offer of yours ? 
 
 Lady P. Then 1 shall take the necessary steps to 
 have you summarily ejected. Thomas Saunders has 
 no power whatever to sublet one inch of his farm. 
 I shall simply telephone to Cheddar for the police. 
 
 Leather, \coming forward again, in feverish alarm}. 
 The police. My dear madam ! 
 
 Rawlings. Now Chawney, Chawney, keep quiet. 
 \_jifter a moment of contemplated revolt Leatherhead 
 goes back.'] I don't want any unpleasantness, you 
 know, lady. 
 
 Leather. Most certainly we do not. 
 
 Rawlings. I think you said behind the new tin 
 Mission Hall .? 
 
 Lady P. Yes ; there is just room enough for you 
 to pull your van in. 
 
 Rawlings [after considering for a few moments, and 
 then suddenly, apparently, making up his mind, speaking 
 with something of a sigh]. All right. I'll go. 
 
 [Isopel starts involuntarily, and is immediately covered 
 with confusion.] 
 
 Lady P. Ah, I thought you'd listen to reason. 
 By dark to-night .'' 
 
 Rawlings. By nine o'clock say. 
 
 Lady P. Very good. I will see to it that the 
 gate going into the place is unpadlocked. It will be 
 band practice this evening, so make as little noise as 
 possible, and should you see any children throwing 
 stones on to the roof, please to stop them. Muriel, 
 
 66 
 
we will be going back. Oh, and any litter you have 
 made here you will clear away, leaving the place 
 precisely as you found it. The same applies to 
 where you are going. 
 Rawlings. Thank you. 
 
 Lady P. Oh, there is one other question I must 
 ask you. You have no women with you, of course ? 
 Leather, [leaping to his feet\. Most certainly not, 
 madam. 
 
 Rawlings \while Lady Parrish fixes Leatherhead 
 with another of her freezing stares']. Look here, 
 Chawney, will you just go and see if the mare's all 
 right .'' 
 
 Leather, [again nearly revolting and then going off 
 on the verge of exploding his suppressed fury\ Very 
 well. [He goes up the chalk steps, and they watch him 
 until he has disappeared^ 
 
 Lady P- I hope you didn't pick that man up pro- 
 miscuously on the road ? I hope you know something 
 about him. 
 
 Rawlings. Chawney's quite harmless, lady, I can 
 assure you of that. 
 
 Lady P. Quite a criminal cast of countenance. 
 Well, that is all, then, Scarrot. Good morning. 
 
 Rawlings [touching his hat]. Good morning to you, 
 my lady. 
 
 Lady P. Come along, Muriel. 
 
 [She turns away to the left, and Muriel, who is stand- 
 ing near the chalk steps, hesitates a moment before 
 following her. Rawlings watches Lady Parrish 
 until she has rounded the van ; then he swings about 
 and steps up to the girl, speaking in a sharp and 
 almost breathless whisper. ~\ 
 
 ^s. Isopel, I know you for who you are. 
 67 
 
What I've done was necessary. You will keep your 
 appointment with me here to-night ? 
 
 Isopel. Oh ! I will not. 
 
 Rawlings. You must, or I shall speak now. 
 
 Lady P. [calling from the extreme left\. Muriel! 
 
 Rawlings [catching her wrist']. You will keep it. 
 
 Muriel, in a frightened whisper]. Yes — here, 
 mother — yes, I will. 
 
 [She breaks away from him just as Lady Par risk turns 
 back.] 
 
 Lady P. Muriel ! 
 
 Isopel. I was just looking at those clothes-pegs. 
 Lady P. Come along, come along ! we have plenty 
 of those. 
 
 [Rawlings, with a deep breath of relief, stands watch- 
 ing them until they have disappeared, and a moment 
 later Leatherhead comes back down the chalk steps 
 spluttering with rage.] 
 
 Leather. Well, I hope you are satisfied. You 
 have exposed me to insults such as I have never 
 received in my life ; you have humiliated me un- 
 speakably ; you have branded me with an abominable 
 appellation. I can stand a great deal, sir, but your 
 Chawney Todd I refuse absolutely to swallow. On 
 the top of it all, I understand that you propose re- 
 moving to the village ash-pit. Let me tell you, Mr. 
 Rawlings, that I reftxse to join you, that I am sick of 
 the whole business, that — 
 
 Rawlings. My dear Leatherhead, you are unneces- 
 sarily disturbing yourself. I apologise for the 
 Chawney Todd, but it was the first name that 
 entered my head — as a matter of fact, I very nearly 
 said ' Sweeny Todd.' As for the ash-pit, I have not 
 
 68 
 
the remotest idea of going within a hundred miles 
 of it. 
 
 Leather. Oh ! 
 
 Rawlings. A new chapter of our adventures begins 
 to-night. [^He picks up the bridle I\ I am going now 
 into Cheddar to hire the fastest motor that money 
 can secure, and by this time to-morrow — well, I 
 won't go into details, but we won't be here. 
 
 Leather. What — what do you mean by all this.'' 
 
 Rawlings. Content yourself, Leatherhead, with 
 the knowledge that your martyrdom, here, at least, 
 is at an end. If you are sick of it all, I can drop 
 you somewhere on the way to London to-morrow ; 
 but as for me — well, the game is only just beginning. 
 
 Leather. Mr. Rawlings, there is something about 
 your manner that alarms me, something distinctly 
 unnatural and feverish. I have seen it once before, 
 when an over-dose of strychnine tonic induced you 
 to abandon your career and adopt this present 
 deplorable mode of existence. You are not taking 
 the syrup now, and I repeat I am alarmed about 
 you. 
 
 Rawlings. Don't worry. \He picks up the saddle^ 
 You prepare to strike camp to-night, and in the 
 meantime take things quietly. Matters have come 
 to a head, and I intend to put them straight. Rest 
 satisfied with that. 
 
 Leather. I shall do nothing of the sort. I insist, 
 sir, upon asking you a question, and I insist also 
 upon your answering it. My honour is at stake, 
 and I ask you, are yoy harbouring some dishonour- 
 able intention towards that poor girl .'' 
 
 Rawlings \flinching\. Leatherhead, I don't even 
 know myself. My brain is on fire, and I am going 
 to cool it. After Cheddar I shall ride to the devil 
 
 69 
 
perhaps ; but you can expect me back, I say, before 
 dark. 
 
 Leather. You have tacitly admitted, sir, that your 
 intentions towards Miss Mendle - Parrish are not 
 honourable. Let me tell you, that I now consider 
 that young lady to be under my personal protection, 
 and that I will defend her honour, which is my 
 honour, so long as there is one drop of blood left 
 coursing through my veins — one drop, sir ! 
 
 Rawlings. Spoken like a man, Leatherhead ! But 
 I have nothing to say to it, because I know nothing. 
 Keep the fire alight. So long. 
 
 [He goes off up the chalk path two steps at a time, while 
 Leatherhead, taken by surprise at this sudden de- 
 parture, is left momentarily speechless. 'The next 
 instant a low whistle is heard from the left, and he 
 swings roundJ] 
 
 Leather. Hello ! [He steps forward and looks 
 through the trees; then he advances eagerly."^ All 
 right, all right ! 
 
 [Davis comes on with outstretched hand.] 
 
 Davis. I thought I saw him going off through 
 the trees. 
 
 Leather, [taking Davis's hand, and continuing to 
 hold it while he speaks]. Mr. Davis, you could not 
 possibly have come at a more opportune moment. I 
 am in trouble. I need the counsels of a friend, and 
 I rely upon your sympathy. 
 
 Davis. Indeed, now, I am sorry that you should 
 be in any more trouble now. Indeed I am. 
 
 Leather, [releasing Davis's hand]. One moment, 
 just one moment. I must see if he is really 
 gone. 
 
 70 
 
\_He goes off up the chalk steps, leaving Davis mean- 
 while standing alone for a few moments looking about 
 him with the utmost interest and curiosity. Then 
 Leatherhead returns^ 
 
 Davis. He is off", then, somewhere ? 
 
 Leather. Riding to the devil, to use his own words. 
 Mr. Davis, if I appear in any degree cool, if there 
 is no apparent warmth in my welcome, do not attri- 
 bute it to any want of hospitality. I have just 
 received a shock, sir, a very severe shock ; and the 
 effect of a shock to me is always that I appear un- 
 naturally calm. Sit down, sit down. 
 
 Davis. I had an idea, now, that there was some 
 trouble on foot when I passed Lady Parrish and 
 her daughter in the car, only just now. They did 
 not stop as I should have thought they would, and 
 there was a peculiarly cold look in her ladyship's 
 eye — most noticeable it was, now. I am sorry if 
 you have been involved in any scene. 
 
 Leather. I have been subjected, Mr. Davis, to 
 unheard-of, unspeakable calumny, but I will not 
 dwell upon it. I will not dwell upon my own 
 sufferings. It is for another, Mr. Davis, that I am 
 concerned, for another. 
 
 Davis. Oh.? 
 
 Leather. One moment. That whiskey. [He goes 
 into the tent and comes out with the bottle r\ I got a 
 bottle, as you recommended. I hope you drink it. 
 
 Davis. Indeed, now, I will drink with you. 
 
 Leather, [standing with the bottle in his hand\. Mr. 
 Davis, I cannot express the relief which your presence 
 here gives me. I count upon your support, Mr. 
 Davis. You will not deny it me } 
 
 Davis. I am your servant, now. 
 
 71 
 
Leather. I will get some glasses. \^He puts down 
 the bottle and goes to the van. ' At the foot of the steps 
 he turns hack^ Mr. Davis, I want your hand. I 
 want your hand again. \^hey shake hands. Leather- 
 head holding Davis's with much solemnity.] It is 
 weeks since I have been able to speak to any one in 
 a civilised fashion, and I have a great deal to say. 
 
 Davis. You know you have never told me your 
 name. 
 
 Leather. Leatherhead — Martin Leatherhead. 
 
 Davis. Now, I count this acquaintance with you, 
 Mr. Leatherhead, as one of the happiest events of 
 my life. I do, indeed, now. 
 
 Leather. I will get those glasses. [He goes into the 
 van, reappearing a moment later with a couple of 
 tumblers and a Jug.] Here, now. Sit down, sir ; 
 sit down. Make yourself as comfortable as such a 
 wretched condition of things permits. 
 
 Davis [sitting down on one of the soap-boxes]. I was 
 just thinking, now, that this was really glorious — 
 perfectly sylvan — [he picks up the whiskey-bottle] — a 
 pastoral in every true sense of the word. 
 
 Leather, [almost dropping one of the glasses, and then- 
 shaking an earwig from it.] Ughrrr ! 
 
 Davis. What's the matter ? 
 
 Leather. Nothing. We won't talk about them. 
 [He hands Davis a glassT] Here, help yourself, now, 
 and I'll get some water. 
 
 [He dips up a jugful from one of the pails of water and 
 places it between them.] 
 
 Davis ^pouring out half a tumblerful of the spirits, 
 which he hands to Leatherhead.] Here, now. 
 
 Leather. My dear sir, I am practically a teetotaler. 
 Davis. Go on! that won't hurt you, man. [Leather- 
 
 72 
 
heaa takes the glass doubtfully, and he lifts his own.'] 
 Here is to good fellowship ! 
 Leather. Good fellowship ! 
 
 \^hey touch glasses, and Leatherhead, swallowing a 
 mouthful, almost chokes himself as a result.] 
 
 Davis. I wish to goodness that you would come 
 up one night and have a bit of supper along with me 
 and the missus, now ; I do, indeed. 
 
 Leather, [blinking down the spirits]. Nothing would 
 give me greater pleasure ; nothing on earth. But 
 just now, Mr. Davis, as I have already hinted, I am 
 in trouble, very serious trouble. [He gets up, carry- 
 ing his glass, and commences to walk feverishly up and 
 down.] Mr. Davis, I hope that I am not mistaken. 
 I trust that my generally accurate judgment of human 
 nature is at no fault when I say that I seem to see in 
 you a man who is to be trusted. 
 
 Davis. I think I can at least claim that, Mr. 
 Leatherhead. I think that most people would say 
 that much for me. 
 
 Leather, [taking his hand again]. I am sure of it. 
 I knew it, in fact, the moment that I first set eyes 
 upon you. I might say that I could see it, sir, stick- 
 ing a foot out of your face. [He looks at Davis 
 dramatically^ Mr. Davis, I have been outrageously 
 treated. 
 
 Davis. All this is peculiarly distressing to me ; it 
 is indeed, now. 
 
 Leather. Chawney Todd, that is what I have 
 been called, sir, and in the presence of a lady — in 
 the presence of two ladies. Moreover, one of the 
 two ladies in question — Lady Mendle-Parrish her- 
 self, sir — declared me to be a suspicious-looking 
 person. 
 
 73 
 
Davis. No, no, no ! Impossible that ! 
 
 Leather. What is more, sir, the statement was 
 allowed to pass unchallenged. That is how I stand 
 before you now, sir, branded publicly a suspicious- 
 looking person — one by the name of Todd. 
 
 Davis {Jilling Leatherhead' s glass afresK\. Dear, 
 dear, now ! I am truly sorry. And you said some- 
 thing, too, about being concerned for another. 
 
 Leather. Certainly — of course— it is for another 
 that I am concerned. It is not my habit, sir, to 
 allow my own personal misfortunes to stand before 
 the misfortunes of others. I believe my character is 
 a very contrary one to that. 
 
 Davis. I am quite sure of it. Indeed, now, one 
 has only to talk with you to see it. 
 
 Leather. And in this case my feelings are par- 
 ticularly poignant, because the object of them is one 
 young and tender, and as yet unsullied. 
 
 Davis. Ah? 
 
 Leather. Mr. Davis, I have a story to unfold 
 which will amaze you, which well might amaze any- 
 body. You were sharp enough when you came here 
 this morning to see that I am not the person I 
 am disguised to represent — I mean not the sort of 
 person. When you hear the full story of the decep- 
 tion which has been practised here you will under- 
 stand something of what I have suffered. The thing 
 has been one long, gross deception from beginning 
 to end. 
 
 Davis. I guessed it, Mr. Leatherhead, I guessed it 
 in a moment. 
 
 Leather. Not a deception upon my part, you 
 understand — my hands are clean. I have been a 
 catspaw, I may have been a fool ; but I have deceived 
 no one. I have stood by and watched it, but I will 
 
 74 
 
stand by no longer. Mr, Davis, there is something 
 on foot which must be stopped, 
 
 Davis. You can count on me to stop anything — 
 anything that it lies in my power to stop. 
 
 Leather. I have the strongest reasons to suspect, 
 sir, that there is an elopement on foot. Nothing less 
 than an elopement. 
 
 Davis. Between who ? 
 
 Leather. Between Miss Mendle-Parrish and God- 
 frey Rawlings. 
 
 Davis. Godfrey Rawlings ? [He gets up with the 
 glass in his hand^ I say — what's that ^ 
 
 Leather. Godfrey Rawlings, sir. The very man 
 that you mentioned this morning ; this Jasper Scarrot 
 is no one else, 
 
 Davis. I say, Good gracious, now. Are you 
 surel 
 
 Leather. Sure ! I've been his secretary for three 
 years, so I ought to be. I typed every word of the 
 ' Purple Van.' I know him better than he knows 
 himself 
 
 Davis. This is a wonderful piece of information. 
 By Jove ! of course — I recognise you now ; there was 
 a photograph of you in the ' Daily Mirror ' at the 
 time that he went away. 
 
 Leather. What ! Me .? In the * Daily Mirror ' ? 
 Was there really .? I say — what date would that be. 
 I should like to see it. 
 
 Davis. You shall ; I've got it filed at home. But 
 look here — what about Miss Parrish.? Does she 
 know who he is ? 
 
 Leather. She's known all along. She recognised 
 him, you understand, almost as soon as he got here ; 
 and since then she's been coming disguised — as she 
 calls it — as a sort of a gipsy tramp. 
 
 75 
 
Davis. Then he doesn't know who she is ? 
 
 Leather. Oh, yes, he's known that from the start, 
 apparently. 
 
 Davis. They both know each other, then ? 
 
 Leather. No, they don't. At least neither of them 
 knows that the other knows it. You see, he knows 
 who she is, and she knows who he is ; but he doesn't 
 know that she knows who he is, any more than she 
 knows that he knows who she is. They both 
 think that the other one thinks they're who they're 
 supposed to be. 
 
 Davis. But what the blazers happened here this 
 morning when her mother came ? Do you mean to 
 say that she knows too. 
 
 Leather. Certainly not. And, of course, he didn't 
 recognise her — I mean the daughter ; at least he pre- 
 tended not to. Lady Parrish first of all hailed him 
 as a vegetarian. He denied it — swore he was a 
 tinker — and she ordered him off. He has agreed to 
 go, and that's where my suspicions are aroused, for 
 he has ridden ofF into Cheddar now to hire a motor- 
 car, and I know that she is comiijg here to-night. 
 
 Davis. Indeed, now, this is romantic. In the true 
 sense of the word this is romantic. 
 
 Leather. I see it, sir, in the light of a police-court 
 scandal, with my name dragged through the mire of 
 the Sunday papers. I say it must be stopped. 
 
 Davis. Certainly — of course — I agree to that. 
 What do you suggest .'' 
 
 Leather. I propose to wire to Mrs. Rawlings. 
 
 Davies. Is the scoundrel married, then ? 
 
 Leather, [now rapidly deteriorating]. No, no. His 
 mother. A fine, high-sholed, devoted mother. May 
 be counted on absholutely to shtop any such thing as 
 elopements or abductions. Marriage of courshe is 
 
 76 
 
another matter ; but elopements and abductions — 
 she would'n have them. 
 
 Davis. Where does she live ? 
 
 Leather. London. 
 
 Davis. All right. A telegram ought to get her 
 here easily by eight to-night. Probably before. 
 
 Leather. Wheresh telegraph office ? 
 
 Davis. I'll take you there. But, I say, look here, 
 Leatherhead, an idea's occurred to me — an inspir- 
 ation. 
 
 Leather. Inshpiration ^ 
 
 Davis. I have a niece, now, in London — Fanny — 
 Fanny Goldstone ; she's in the literary line, too — 
 she's a reporter on a fashion paper. Well, look here ; 
 I'll wire to her at the same time. She comes down 
 — ' Discovery of Godfrey Rawlings — Sfequel to the 
 Simple Life — Interview with the Secretary.' What .'' 
 . Leather. Whas sorsh girlsh Fanny.'' 
 
 Davis. You'd like Fanny — Fanny 'd like you. 
 
 Leather, [taking Davis's hand.'] Let her come. 
 [He looks at him solemnly, swaying a little.] Wheresh 
 telegraph office .'' 
 
 Davis [taking his arm]. Come on. I'll show you. 
 
 Leather. Shertainly. By all means. Shertainly, 
 Come on. 
 
 77 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 "The same as before, except that the red glow of 
 sunset is on the scene. 
 
 \_Davis is lolling against the van, with his elbows on the 
 platform, and his hat on the extreme back of his head. 
 From his appearance one may judge that he has only 
 just aroused himself from a long sleepy 
 
 Davis {after a pause^. Here, hurry up there ! 
 
 Leather, \_from inside the caravan]. All right. 
 Shan't be much longer. [Another pause.'] Have you 
 got such a thing as a collar-stud on you .? 
 
 Davis. A stud.'' All right, I've got one. 
 
 \He finds a stud in his waistcoat-pocket, and holds it up. 
 A long arm in an immaculate white shirt-sleeve pro- 
 trudes through the door, and takes it.] 
 
 Leather, [only his voice]. Thanks, ole man, 
 
 [There is a pause of several more moments. Then Davis 
 knocks impatiently on the platform with his pipe.] 
 
 Davis. Come on there ! 
 
 Leather, [still from inside]. All right, all right. 
 
 Davis [with sudden vehemence]. No, I say, hang it 
 all, not a silk hat now ! 
 
 Leather, [coming to the door in his black swallow-tailed 
 coat, etc., and a silk hat]. Why not .'' 
 
 Davis. No, no ; I'm not going to walk through 
 the village with you in that. 
 
 Leather. Nothing wrong with it, is there .'' 
 
 78 
 
[ He looks at Davis with the childish solicitousness 
 peculiar to a man inviting criticism of his hat.^ 
 
 Davis. We never see silk hats down here except 
 on coachmen. You'll have all the village after 
 you. 
 
 Leather. Coachman ! Do you suggest that I look 
 like a coachman ? 
 
 Davis. No, you couldn't, man, with that mous- 
 tache and those spectacles of yours. 
 
 Leather. Do you mean to imply that there is only 
 my moustache and a pair of spectacles standing be- 
 tween me and the appearance of a coachman .'' 
 
 Davis. That's what I say. You'll have all the 
 village after you. 
 
 Leather. But I've got nothing else to wear. 
 
 Davis. Wear your cap, man. 
 
 Leather. I will not wear that cap again. Under 
 no circumstances whatever will I pollute my person 
 with a single remnant of the clothes that I have been 
 wearing here. 
 
 Davis. Oh, come on, then. I don't care what you 
 do. I tell you we'll miss them at the station, and 
 have Rawlings back on us before we can get off. 
 
 Leather. Well, it's you that's causing all the delay, 
 you know. I'm ready. [He comes down the steps, 
 solemnly buttoning on a fair of black kid gloves,'] 
 What's the time.? 
 
 [The village clock begins to strike seven.] 
 
 Davis. Seven o'clock. The train's due at ten 
 past. We'll miss them altogether, before we've 
 done with it. 
 
 Leather. Just a second. Must put that bottle 
 away. 
 
 Davis. Chuck it in the tent. Come on. 
 
 79 
 
\He follows Leatherhead, impatiently, over to the boxes, 
 where the latter collects the now empty whiskey 
 bottle and the glasses^ 
 
 Leather, [abruptly"]. Listen. 
 
 \_He looks towards the chalk steps.! 
 Davis. What? 
 
 Leather, [in alarm']. It's some one. 
 Davis. Game on — out of it. 
 Leather, [clutching Davis's arm"]. Quick, man, 
 quick. [He dives into the tent, dragging Davis with him.] 
 
 [A moment later and Isopel comes down the chalk steps. 
 She is dressed in a dark evening gown, with a rich 
 Indian shawl over her head. Stopping as soon as she 
 has reached the lower ground she looks anxiously about 
 her. "Then she goes to the van, the door of which 
 Leatherhead had closed, and calls softly^ 
 
 Isopel. Is any one there ? [Leatherhead puts his 
 head cautiously round the side of the tent, and with- 
 draws it instantly]. [Leaning forward so as to rap 
 with her knuckles against the bottom of the door.] 
 Please. 
 
 [Hearing no response she comes back into the centre of 
 the camp and looks about her. A moment later and 
 Kings dog is heard barking to the left. Instantly she 
 goes into the van, fastening the doors behind her. 
 Leatherhead again looks cautiously out, and again 
 withdraws his head precipitously as King, accom- 
 panied by his dog, comes on from the left.] 
 
 King [to the dog]. Here, come out of it. Get be- 
 hind. 
 
 [He stands in his usual attitude towards the right; then 
 he mooches over towards the caravan, and again 
 
 80 
 
stands stock-still, staring up at it. He is in this 
 position when Rawlings comes down the chalk steps 
 to the right, carrying his saddle and bridle upon his 
 shoulder. Arriving at the bottom he stops upon seeing 
 King.l 
 
 Rawlings. Hello ! 
 
 King [turning round, his hands still in his pockets']. 
 Hello to you. 
 
 Rawlings [going over to the van, and throwing the 
 saddle and bridle down.] Look here, now, what is it 
 you want ? 
 
 King [expectorating]. Is that your business or 
 mine ? 
 
 Rawlings. I venture to think it's mine. 
 
 King. You can think just what you please. 
 
 Rawlings. Have you seen Lady Parrish since she 
 was here this morning .'' 
 
 King. Perhaps I have and perhaps I ain't. 
 
 Rawlings. She told you that I was leaving to- 
 night } 
 
 King. I've heard as you're supposed to be going. 
 
 Rawlings. Well.'' 
 
 King. That's what I've come down for now — to 
 see as you do go. 
 
 [The red glow has meanwhile been paling from the sky, 
 and the first shades of twilight falling. Rawlings 
 looks up at the sky and about him with an involun- 
 tary show of impatience^ 
 
 Rawlings. I can go without you standing there to 
 see to it. 
 
 King. And you can go very well with me a- 
 watching. 
 
 Rawlings [after a few moments pause]. All right. 
 8i ' F 
 
I've changed my mind, then. [He sits down on one of 
 the soap-boxes and folds his arms.'] I'm not going. 
 
 [ Leatherhead looks momentarily out in consternation^ 
 
 King. What? 
 
 Rawlings. Don't mind me. You can stand there 
 a week if you like. You're in nobody's way. In fact, 
 I should miss you if you did go. 
 
 King. You ain't a-going to quit this here place 
 at all? 
 
 Rawlings. No. I ain't a-going to quit it. 
 
 King. You defies Lady Parrish ? 
 
 Rawlings. I defies Lady Parrish. 
 
 King. We'll see about that. [He moves towards 
 the chalk steps.] 
 
 Rawlings. Quite true. 
 
 King. I say we shall see about it. 
 
 Rawlings. So do I, so do I. 
 
 King. And very soon. \_He looks Rawlings up and 
 down and finally goes off up the chalk steps, looking back 
 once again.] Very soon. \He disappears.] 
 
 Rawlings [getting up with a loud sigh of relief]. 
 Ah ! [He goes over to the caravan, mounts the steps, 
 and, as he goes to open the door, finds himself face to 
 face with ' Isopel.'] I beg your pardon. [They 
 stand together on the platform, both covered with a 
 momentary confusion. Davis and Leatherhead seize 
 the opportunity to escape. They emerge from the tent, 
 and, moving practically upon all fours, make rapidly off 
 by the left.] I'd — I'd no idea that you had come. 
 
 Isopel. I could not help hiding here — it was im- 
 possible to avoid it. I had to do something to 
 escape from King. 
 
 Rawlings. By dear Belle — 
 
 Isopel. Mr. Rawlings! 
 
 82 
 
Rawlings. I beg your pardon. Did you say 
 'Rawlings'? 
 
 Isopel. Of course I said ' Rawlings.' You don't 
 suppose I'm going to ' young fellow ' you any 
 more ? 
 
 Rawlings. Yes ; only I really didn't know, you 
 know, that you knew that my name was Rawlings. 
 Might I venture to ask how long you've been aware 
 of that? 
 
 Isopel. How long ! Why, of course I've always 
 known it. 
 
 Rawlings. Always.'' 
 
 Isopel. Of course I have. How long have you 
 known that my name is Mendle-Parrish .'' 
 
 Rawlings. Of course I've always known ihat. 
 
 Isopel. Always known it ? 
 ' Rawlings. Oh, of course — 
 
 Isopel. H'm. [There is a pause for some moments.^ 
 It's not very nice standing up here like this, is it .'' 
 I might easily fall off, you know. 
 
 Rawlings. I beg your pardon. \_He goes down the 
 steps and she moves along the platform to the head of 
 tkem.'l Allow me. [He gives her his hand and she 
 comes down.^ May I offer you a seat ? [He motions 
 to one of the soap-hxes.] 
 
 Isopel. Thank you. 
 
 [She sits down. Rawlings takes the other box, moving 
 it so that he is some distance away from her. They 
 sit in silence for some moments^ 
 
 Isopel. Do you feel at all uncomfortable .? 
 
 Rawlings. I must say that I should prefer a ham- 
 mock or a deck-chair. I never have got used to 
 these boxes. [He gets up.'] May I fold you a sack 
 or something to sit on .'' 
 
 83 
 
Isopel. Please don't be funny, Mr. Rawlings. I 
 don't mind confessing that I feel very uncomfortable 
 indeed. I certainly hope that you do, too. 
 
 Rawlings. Very charitable of you, I'm sure, [i/e 
 sits down again.'\ But if you mean about this 
 situation, I must say that my principal feeling at 
 this moment is one of intense relief. 
 
 Isopel. Oh, yes, relief, of course. Of course I'm 
 relieved that it's over at last, but you must be 
 feeling very, very ashamed of yourself. 
 
 Rawlings. Ashamed of myself? Good heavens, 
 no! 
 
 Isopel. You fail, then, to see that your having, as 
 you confess, always known, gives me some very 
 considerable grounds for being exceedingly angry ? 
 
 Rawlings. But, my dear Isopel ! 
 
 Isopel. Now look here, young fellow ! — I beg your 
 pardon. I meant, of course, to say ' Mr. Rawlings.' 
 
 Rawlings. I beg yours. I stand very much cor- 
 rected. But, Miss Mendle-Parrish, surely you see 
 how much more awkward it would be for both of us 
 if we hadn't always known who we were. Just think 
 how much it has simplified our getting on to the 
 next, and, I trust, final stage of this interesting 
 business. 
 
 Isopel [standing up]. What do you mean ? 
 
 Rawlings. Well, supposing all this time you had 
 really imagined me to be Jasper Scarrot — the living 
 incarnation of your romantic notion of a gipsy — 
 wouldn't it be rather painful if I had to confess that 
 I wasn't ? And supposing your identity was really 
 something new to me. Do you think I'd stand here 
 and calmly accept being deprived of my precious 
 Belle by a practical-joking twig of the aristocracy 
 who had been making a deliberate ass of me for the 
 
 84 
 
last three months? Great Heavens, I'd tear this 
 quarry down ! 
 
 Isopel. You are not daring to suggest that you 
 have ever taken me seriously ? 
 
 Rawlings. I certainly shouldn't dare to suggest 
 anything less. 
 
 Isopel. Oh ! \_She sits down again.^ Oh ! \_S/ie 
 gets upl\ And you seriously mean that you intend 
 to take advantage of me like this ? 
 
 Rawlings. I seriously mean that I have developed 
 an interest in you that will have to be satisfied now 
 to its very utmost limits. 
 
 Isopel. If this is your usual method of making 
 love, Mr. Rawlings, let me tell you, flatly and at 
 once, that I don't like it. 
 
 Rawlings. What does the method matter ? Surely 
 our indisputable unity of soul makes all that sort of 
 thing a matter of indifference. The air has suddenly 
 been most miraculously cleared, and all we've got to do 
 now is to get to business. The only doubtful factor 
 in the present situation is our being able to remain 
 here many minutes longer without being interrupted 
 by that lout of a gamekeeper of yours. 
 
 Isopel [standing back, away from him]. I'm not 
 -listening to a word you're saying. 
 
 Rawlings. To begin with, until you came here 
 into my life I had no idea that there really was any 
 such a woman as you existing on the earth. 
 
 Isopel. I'm not listening, I tell you. And, any- 
 way, that's simply silly. Whoever does know other 
 people until they meet them ? 
 
 Rawlings. We generally know them intimately. 
 The Joneses and the Smiths, the Sarahs and the 
 Janes — we meet them in dozens, every other day of 
 our lives, and they are all practically alike. But 
 
 8s 
 
that such a creature as you actually breathed the air 
 of this world I never dared to hope. 
 
 Isopil. Anyway, I'm probably not in the least like 
 you think I am. 
 
 Rawlings. But you are — absolutely and precisely. 
 By the way, I should like to break it gently to you 
 that I am an author. 
 
 Isopel. Oh, I know that, thank you. 
 
 Rawlings. Well, do you know why I am an 
 author .-' 
 
 Isopel. I suppose because you couldn't help it. 
 
 Rawlings. No. I took to writing in the first 
 place purely to be able to talk about you. 
 
 Isopel. I am beginning to think that you are not 
 quite right in your head, Mr. Rawlings. It's not a 
 moment ago that you were saying you had no sus- 
 picion till you came down here that such a creature 
 — I think that was your expression- — such a creature 
 as myself existed. 
 
 Rawlings. I took to writing, I was going to tell 
 you, because of the joy that I derived from analysing, 
 in her every detail my ideal of womanhood. I wrote 
 a book about you, so earnestly, with such an inspired 
 fervour, that I leapt into popularity at once. I 
 don't know if you have ever read it ; it was called 
 ' Vaneta ; or, the Purple Van.' 
 
 Isopel. The — er — ' Purple Van ' ? Yes ; I am 
 sorry to say I have read it. 
 
 Rawlings. You are Vaneta. 
 
 Isopel. Yes ; but I wasn't Vaneta till I read the 
 book. 
 
 Rawlings. You were Vaneta long before I ever 
 wrote it. I knew you, though I had never seen you. 
 I pictured you, I see now, not because you might be, 
 but because you were. 
 
 86 
 
Isopel. Well, I'm not now, anyway. 
 
 Rawlings. Oh, yes, you are. You always will be. 
 You could not avoid it if you tried. 
 
 Isopel. It is really very irritating to have one's 
 personality forced down one's throat like this. 
 
 Rawlings. My dear Isopel, we are wasting time ; 
 and now that the moment has arrived when there 
 need be no fiirther misunderstanding between us, 
 have you no hope to offer me — 
 ' Isopel. Oh, you are coming down to hoping some- 
 thing, then .'' 
 
 Rawlings. No hope, I was going to add, that we 
 might arrive at our inevitable agreement on this 
 matter before that fellow comes back, 
 
 Isopel. I tell you I will not be made love to like 
 this. I'm not used to it. 
 
 Rawlings. Well, if you will instruct me in any 
 other style ^ 
 
 Isopel. Oh ! you can't even have any respect for 
 me to talk like it. 
 
 Rawlings. There's the present fashion, with the 
 proposal of a three-year agreement — the tenant to 
 keep the property in good inside and outside repair, 
 but not to be responsible for the roof 
 
 Isopel [sitting down again and covering her eyes with 
 her hands'^, Oh ! what a horrible, hideous disillusion. 
 
 Rawlings [also sitting down and folding his arms 
 disconsolately^. Well, I don't know what to do with 
 you. 
 
 Isopel. Oh ! I would never have come anywhere 
 near you if I could have dreamed that you were like 
 this. 
 
 Rawlings. But, surely, you didn't imagine that I 
 had got nothing better to do with my valuable time 
 than to hang about this blighted spot just to amuse 
 
 87 
 
you in your idle moments ? I am a hard-working, 
 practical, level-headed, business man, and the only 
 hobby that my conscience would ever allow me to 
 abandon my work for, for any length of time, is 
 love-making — downright honest, earnest, English 
 love-making. All I ask to be allowed to do now is 
 to propose, and have done with it. 
 
 Isopel. A hard-working, practical, level-headed 
 business man ! and I understood that you were here 
 in answer to the Call of Nature. 
 
 Rawlings. The Call of Nature ! Ah ! I'd really 
 forgotten that expression since 1 left London. 
 
 Isopel. But haven't — Mr. Rawlings — haven't you 
 — come — back to the land ? 
 
 Rawlings. No. I came because I had been smok- 
 ing too much. 
 
 Isopel. Smoking too much. \_She sits down again.] 
 
 Rawlings. When I was ill in mind and body, an 
 absolute wreck, that was, in the most literal sense of 
 the word, a very likely candidate indeed for going 
 back to the land — six feet of it in the nearest cemetery 
 — I came down, more or less panic-stricken, to make 
 an offering of myself on the altar of the Simple Life. 
 But when a necessary rest, a little fresh air, a little 
 outdoor exercise, had restored my balance, I found 
 that I wanted to get back to my work, to pick up my 
 pen, and throw my weight about again. I wanted to 
 be where other people were, I wanted to take a really 
 elaborate Turkish bath, to have a row with my pub- 
 lisher ; I will even confess that I wanted to go 
 through an eight- or nine-course dinner somewhere. 
 In short, I made the discovery that there never has 
 been any Call that the breast of man has ever re- 
 sponded to but the call away from Nature. 
 
 Isopel. Please go on. 
 
Rawlings. I am only sorry that Leatherhead is 
 not present to hear me say it when I solemnly declare 
 that Man, Man, cannot live as the creatures of the 
 earth live. His very vanity makes it impossible ; 
 and the whole evolution of the race points to no 
 other possible conclusion. When we had tails, what 
 did we do with them ? We allowed them to grow 
 out of all use, to disappear, because we no longer 
 frittered our lives away swinging about upon them 
 among the trees. There was sterner work for us 
 than that. 
 
 Isope/. But Nature — the love of Nature — do you 
 deny that it exists for us at all .'' 
 
 Rawlings. I deny that any of us care enough for it 
 to make the simplest sacrifice on its behalf. There 
 is nothing to prevent any of those who make a fetish 
 of perpetually talking about it from walking out of 
 their houses to-night with sticks in their hands, and 
 crusts in their pockets, and living with Nature for 
 the rest of their lives. 
 
 Tsopel. Nothing, perhaps, but sundry laws and 
 regulations that make it illegal to live like that 
 nowadays. 
 
 Rawlings. Oh, it isn't the laws. They are merely 
 the expression of the popular opinion on the subject. 
 The whole idea of any person living simply and 
 naturally is repellent to the human instinct, and it 
 becomes more and more so as the race progresses. 
 Probably no lav/ was ever passed with less opposition 
 than the one that made ' sleeping out ' a crime, or 
 the ' being without visible means of support.' Ob- 
 viously the invisible means of support possessed by a 
 common tramp- — namely, his serene belief in his 
 ability to satisfy his needs from hour to hour — is ten 
 times the asset of a sovereign in the pocket of an 
 
 89 
 
average man, but all sense of logic is irresistibly 
 borne down by this instinctive fear and hatred of a 
 real freedom. No; the only thing that prevents 
 those who talk about the Simple Life from going out 
 and living it is their sheer inability to give up any- 
 thing. 
 
 Isopel. But what about your common tramp ? He 
 has given up everything. 
 
 Rawlings. He hasn't ; he's had it taken away 
 from him — if he ever had anything. The one ex- 
 ample of a really nature-loving people that we've got 
 in England are the gipsies, and they are running their 
 last lap, pursued with a relentless persecution that 
 would probably reach its zenith if a party of them 
 were to endeavour to camp on some common in the 
 Garden City. Just a very few cultured people have 
 the courage and the justice to befriend them, but how 
 many members of your ' Guild of Woodland Wor- 
 shippers ' or your ' Keen Order of Tinker-Lovers ' 
 have a particle of sympathy with any but the pic- 
 turesque side of it all. How much opposition do 
 you think they'll give when presently — very soon — 
 the inevitable law is passed that will imprison gipsy 
 children in board schools and drive their parents into 
 the pigsties that civilisation provides for her poor. 
 Three separate families of both sexes and ages may 
 be crowded into a slum garret the size of that van, 
 and nothing said ; but let one healthy old man pitch 
 his tent on the wildest waste of moorland, and see 
 how long they'll leave him there in peace. 
 
 Isopel [intensely^. But you — you yourself — do you 
 really and seriously mean that you don't intend to go 
 on with this life ? 
 
 Rawlings. If I really understood it, as a gipsy 
 does — if it really meant anything to me, as it does 
 
 9° 
 
tohim, I should like to. If I knew how to make 
 a passable clothes-peg, or could tell a wind-gall from 
 a spavin, I might even make a living out of it — but 
 I should never feel ' at home. To the gipsy it is 
 home, and that's the difference. 
 
 Isopel [with a sudden catch in her breatK\. Oh ! 
 
 Rawlings [with a note of alarm]. Belle ! 
 
 Isopel. Oh, it was my one horrible, horrible fear 
 that you meant to go on living this life— always, 
 always. I'd got so sick, so utterly sick of that sitting 
 outside the van there, and both of us pretending to 
 be what we really weren't. Of course it will be nice 
 to do it again sometimes, just for a little while, in 
 the summer, but I do want to be able to look after 
 my own house — a lovely house — full of lovely 
 things. 
 
 Rawlings. And, by Heaven, you shall ! 
 
 Isopel. Two houses — one in town and one in the 
 country. I do like the country, you know. 
 
 Rawlings. Of course you like the country — every- 
 body likes it. 
 
 Isopel. A rose-garden — I love a rose-garden — with 
 Chinese lanterns round it in the evening. 
 •■ Rawlings. You shall have them. 
 
 Isopel. And tennis — and golf — I couldnt give up 
 golf. 
 
 Rawlings [hoarsely]. You shan't, darling ; you 
 shan't give up anything ! 
 
 Isopel [with a crow of joy]. Young fellow ! [He 
 folds her in his arms, and immediately a dog yaps and 
 barks at them from the top of the chalk steps.] That's 
 King. 
 
 Rawlings [disengaging himself from her]. Of course 
 that's King. [He goes towards the steps and looks up.] 
 Your mother's with him. 
 
 91 
 
Is Opel [clutching Ms sleeve]. Not mother ! 
 Rawlings. Listen. 
 
 [They both pause, and Lady FarrisKs voice is heard, 
 loud and shrill, from above^ 
 
 Lady P. Now we'll very soon see what he has to 
 say for himself. 
 
 King [his voice just audible.] I shouldn't excite 
 yourself, my lady. 
 
 Isopel. Quick. It'll simply finish her if she finds 
 us here like this. 
 
 Rawlings. Nonsense, hold my arm. 
 
 Isopel. No, really. You must explain something 
 about it first — you really must. 
 
 [She darts away from him towards the van.] 
 
 Rawlings [going after her, alarmed]. No, I say, 
 look here, that's worse than ever. 
 
 Isopel [dodging his detaining hand, and escaping up 
 the steps]: It's not, you must explain, I tell you. 
 
 [She goes into the van and slams the door, leaving him 
 staring up after her^ 
 
 [Almost simultaneously Lady Mendle-Parrish comes 
 down the chalk steps, followed by King and his dog. 
 She goes directly up to Rawlings.] 
 
 Lady P. Now ! What is this I hear ? So you 
 refuse to go, do you .'' You refiise. Very well. AH 
 right, my man. I have had quite enough of your 
 impertinence. I will speak to you now in a manner 
 that you will perhaps understand. [Her voice rises 
 to a fine shrill point.] Be off, do you hear ? Right 
 away ! This moment. 
 
 King [touching her arm]. 1 shouldn't, my lady, I 
 shouldn't excite myself. 
 
 92 
 
Lady P. [^flapping at his hand, and continuing to 
 address Rawlings']. I won't have you on my place an 
 instant longer. Do you hear ? Be off ! Be off, 
 then! 
 
 Rawlings. Lady Parrish, that's all right ; that's 
 quite all right, I'm going ; but I have something of 
 the utmost importance that I wish to convey to you.' 
 Would you mind, would you just mind, allowing 
 that man to withdraw for a few moments ? 
 
 King. Don't you do anything of the sort, my lady. 
 
 Lady P. Certainly not. A most impertinent 
 request. 
 
 Rawlings. But it's quite justified by the circum- 
 stances, I assure you. If your ladyship will give me 
 only two minutes I will endeavour to explain every- 
 thing. 
 
 King. You'll get two months before you've done 
 with it, my lad ; that's what you'll get. Ask him 
 where his mate is, my lady ; that's more to the 
 point. 
 
 Lady P. A very proper question, King. Ex- 
 ceedingly suspicious that you should be alone here at 
 this hour of the evening. This is the hour at which 
 the rabbits spor.t, is it not. King ? 
 
 King. This is when they come out. 
 
 Lady P. Then where is he — ^where is this Todd of 
 yours ? [A twig of wood snaps with d loud report in 
 the brushwood to the left of the top of the quarry. King 
 starts at once, bringing his gun down from under his 
 arm into his two hands; his eyes lighting up with a 
 cunning joy. 1 What was that ? 
 
 King. Shh ! my lady. 
 
 [He proceeds to walk with a crab-like stealth from left 
 to right, describing a semi-circle, and keeping his eyes 
 
 93 
 
fixed upon the spot from which the sound had pro- 
 ceeded.'\ 
 
 Lady P. But what is it ? 
 
 King. Shhh ! [He stands silently for several more 
 seconds, the others watching. Then suddenly he brings 
 his gun into position and calls out.'] Stand up there, or 
 I'll put a cartridge into you ! 
 
 \Leatherhead's voice proceeds at once from out of the 
 midst of the thicket^ 
 
 Leather. I will not stand up. I refiise to, abso- 
 lutely. I will not expose myself to that gun. 
 
 King. Stand up, or I'll put the charge through 
 you! 
 
 Rawlings \to King\. Look here, you fat-head, you ! 
 
 King. Stand up ! \Re is on the point of firing^ 
 
 Leather. Stop ! stop ! For Heaven's sake ! [His 
 silk hat on the end of a stick appears above the brush- 
 wood.] I surrender ! 
 
 \_Lady Parrish puts her fingers to her ears, and King 
 discharges his weapon — both barrels — while the hat 
 falls. Simultaneously Isopel appears at the door of 
 van, where she stands, startled but unobserved.] 
 
 [Appearing momentarily above the thicket.] You shall 
 
 pay for that, sir ! \He disappears again.] 
 
 Davis. I'll run him down, my lady. I shan't be 
 
 half a minute. [He bolts off up the chalk steps^ 
 
 [Lady Parrish goes over to the shot-beriddled hat and 
 ■picks it up, while Isopel springs down from the van 
 and reaches the centre unnoticed by her.] 
 
 Lady P. If there is any possible explanation, 
 psychical or otherwise, of the presence of this silk 
 hat here, Scarrot, let me have it. 
 
 Qa 
 
Isopel. Mother ! [Then, as they both swing round 
 towards her.'] It's Godfrey Rawlings — the Godfrey 
 Rawlings ! 
 
 [Lady Parrish, staring, dumfounded, from one to the 
 other, and at the hat.] 
 
 Lady P. Godfrey Rawlings? The Godfrey Raw- 
 lings ! Who is ? What is ? 
 Isopel. Mother — he is ! 
 
 [Lady Parrish turns to Rawlings, awestruck.] 
 
 Lady P. But do you mean to say that you are 
 Rawlings — the — THE Rawlings? 
 
 Rawlings. I am certainly a Rawlings. 
 
 Isopel. He is, mother — he is the Rawlings. 
 
 Rawlings. Whether ' a ' or ' the,' Lady Mendle- 
 Parrish, I want to tell you that I love your daughter, 
 that my love is returned, that — 
 
 Lady P. Oh ! but my dear Muriel, my dear child, 
 why didn't you tell me at once, how could you have 
 allowed me to remain in ignorance for one instant ? 
 Mr. Rawlings, my dear Mr. Rawlings — why, I am 
 one of your very greatest admirers, one of your — 
 
 Rawlings [retreating before her]. I wish, Lady 
 Parrish, in the simplest, the most direct, language, 
 to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage. Our 
 love is mutual, our temperaments compatible, my 
 income ample — 
 
 Lady p. Oh, my dear Mr. Rawlings, all that we 
 can quite take for granted. Besides, your income 
 was fully gone into in one of the papers only last 
 week, and I am quite satisfied, quite. I don't in the 
 least know how you have brought it all about, but I 
 knew from the first that there was some mystery 
 about you — I was sure of it — I could see it in your 
 eyes. 
 
 95 
 
Rawlings. If you will give me only a few minutes, 
 Lady Mendle-Parrish, I will guarantee to explain 
 everything to your entire satifaction. 
 
 Isopel. But mother is satisfied, and it would be 
 dark long before you had finished. Besides, you 
 couldn't possibly make her understand in anything 
 like a few minutes — 
 
 Lady P. Just stand on one side a moment, Muriel. 
 I was thinking what a perfect composition Mr. Raw- 
 lings makes as he stands there. Come here, darling, 
 by me, and see how wonderfully his head is silhouetted 
 against that last streak of light there ! Isn't it fine — 
 isn't it really fine f 
 
 Isopel {looking behind Rawlings and away through 
 the trees, where she stands^ But the light's moving. 
 What is it ? \T^hey all look in the direction^ 
 
 Lady P. Listen ! 
 
 Lope I. What in the world is it ? 
 
 Lady P- Listen, my dear. 
 
 [yf motor horn hoots three times from the left, dose at 
 hand.l 
 
 Rawlings [looking at his watch']. It won't be neces- 
 sary now. Lady Parrish, but apparently it is a motor- 
 car that I had hired with a view to carrying your 
 daughter forcibly off if I couldn't otherwise have 
 convinced her of our affinity. 
 
 Lopel. Oh! 
 
 Lady P. How delightfully pagan ! That is just 
 exactly what I should have imagined that you would 
 do! 
 
 \_The horn hoots again as before ; a little nearer.] 
 
 Isopel. Oh! 
 
 Rawlings. That was the preconcerted signal. 
 
 96 
 
Lady P. Oh ! I think that's fine, that's really 
 ine. 
 
 Isopel. And do you dare to suggest that if I had 
 not chosen of my own free will to— to — have ac- 
 cepted you, you would have attempted to convey 
 me oiF on that car ? 
 
 Rawlings. My dear Belle, you have only got to 
 withdraw your acceptance, for me to give you an 
 immediate and practical demonstration of the truth 
 of it. 
 
 Lady P. Splendid ! What a healthy antidote to 
 modern feminism ! 
 
 Lopel. But you're forgetting that he would have 
 modern feminism to deal with. It's a pleasant idea, 
 I admit, but it would depend entirely upon the size 
 of the chauffeur. 
 
 [/f/ this moment a chauffeur of enormous stature appears 
 to the left. He is dressed in the regulation black 
 leather, and carries a bright lamp from off his car as 
 well as the horn.'] 
 
 Chauffeur. There you are, sir. I got you the six- 
 cylinder car, and she's ready down on the read, sir. 
 
 Lady P. How very convenient. He can drive 
 us up to the house. It will save our going through 
 the woods in the dark. 
 
 Chauffeur. How many of you, madam ? 
 
 [Isopel at this point puts her hand in Rawlings' s.] 
 
 Lady p. There's one, two, three — 
 
 \K.ing marches Leatherhead on by the chalk steps, hand- 
 cuffed.'] 
 
 King. I've got him, your ladyship. He gave me 
 all the trouble he could, but — [He stops abruptly, 
 and stares about him.] 
 
 91 G 
 
Leather, [with a grim dryness, while the Chauffeur 
 puts his lamp on the platform and leans back against the 
 near wheel']. Mr. Rawlings, and you ladies, both of 
 you, and \to the Chauffeur] you, sir, I draw your 
 attention to the fact that my wrists are in irons, and 
 that this man's hand is upon my collar. I may be 
 mistaken — I am no legal man — but I venture the 
 opinion that this is an assault with violence. 
 
 Isopel. You poor dear thing ! 
 
 Lady P. Surely — surely — this is your friend ; this 
 is Mr. Todd. 
 
 Rawlings [looking closely at him]. You're right 
 It is! 
 
 Lady P. King, unhand that gentleman at once ! 
 
 King. Well, I'm — ! [He stands back, amazed.] 
 
 Lady P. Dear Mr. Todd— 
 
 Leather. My name is not Todd, madam. My 
 name is Leatherhead. 
 
 Isopel. King, what are you thinking about .? Un- 
 lock Mr. Leatherhead's hands, at once. 
 
 King. But, Miss — 
 
 Lady P. King ! 
 
 [King looks at her, and in a sort of stupor obeys.] 
 
 Isopel [going to Leatherhead]. Do you see? It's 
 all right. 
 
 Leather, [brushing her aside]. Where is my hat.' 
 [He goes over and picks it up.] Mr. Rawlings, I have 
 a few words to say. I address them to the party 
 generally. I cannot pretend to know what has hap- 
 pened here during my absence, but fate apparently 
 has forestalled me in the steps I have taken this 
 afternoon to end that monstrous display of deceit and 
 hypocrisy which I have had to witness here during 
 the last three months. Mr. Rawlings I leave for his 
 
 98 
 
mother to deal with. For myself, I return to-night 
 to the Simple Life. 
 
 Isopel. Then you — 
 
 Leather, [lifting his hand dramatically, and checking 
 her]. I return, I say, to the Simple Life — that life 
 simplified by the invention and the ingenuity of man. 
 To the food that is cooked and served up to me by 
 somebody else, to the linen laundried by some person 
 other than myself, to the bed that I find ready made 
 and waiting for me by night. A roof for my head, 
 a pavement for my feet, a — 
 
 [The motor horn squeaks, abruptly.'] 
 
 Chauffeur. I beg your pardon, but I think that 
 other man over there has fainted. 
 
 [they all look towards King, who is in a state of col- 
 lapse by the chalk steps.] 
 
 King. No, no, my lady — I'm all right — I think 
 the heat has overcome me a bit. Don't take any 
 notice of me — I'll be better again presently. 
 
 Lady P. [turning back to Leatherhead]. But, surely, 
 Mr.— 
 
 Rawlings [hastily]. Leatherhead — 
 
 Lady P. Mr. Leatherhead, you are not such a 
 hopeless Philistine as all this. 
 
 Leather. And may I be smitten even as the Philis- 
 tines were smitten if ever I return to the country 
 except to some respectable lodging, wherein no ear- 
 wig has ever set its foot — or feet — and with a ticket 
 that will expire on the following Tuesday. 
 
 Lady P. Ah ! I see that I shall have to take you 
 in hand. Promise me that your first week-end shall 
 be spent with me, 
 
 Isopel. I think I can guarantee you all the simplicity 
 
 99 
 
you can possibly ask for. We even boast a lift up 
 in the house. I believe it is the only one in Somerset, 
 
 Leather. Then I shall be very happy indeed to 
 take the cure. 
 
 Lady P. Let me begin to-night. [She looks at 
 Rawlings.~\ Is there any reason why we shouldn't 
 go to dinner now ? 
 
 Isopel. Is there anything we are waiting for ? 
 
 Rawlings. Only the maternal blessing. 
 
 [Isopel takes his hand.'] 
 Lady P. Of course. I felt there was something. 
 
 [The horn squeaks again.] 
 
 Chauffeur. I beg your pardon, but I accidentally 
 put my elbow on it. 
 
 Lady P. Thank you. That was very thoughtful 
 of you. But in the presence of a young man of such 
 excellent taste I am sure we can feel quite at home. 
 [She places her hands on the heads of the pair.] Bless 
 you, my children ! 
 
 [ji sudden blinding glare lights up the scene, and the 
 voice of Fanny Goldstone, a young lady journalist, 
 who remains practically invisible in the fast-gathering 
 gloom, proceeds from above.] 
 
 Fanny Goldstone. Don't be alarmed, Mr. Rawlings, 
 Only a flashlight photo for my Mag. Now, Mrs. 
 Rawlings, if you will run down I'll take another. 
 
 Mrs.R. Godfrey! 
 
 [She comes running down the chalk steps.] 
 
 Rawlings. Mother ! 
 
 Mrs. R. [running to him]. My sweet child, 
 Rawlings [keeping her away]. No, no, wait till 
 that photo's taken, 
 
 lOO 
 
[Another flash : discovering Rawlings warding his 
 mother o^] 
 
 Mrs. R. My beloved. [She embraces him violently. \ 
 I gave you to the end of October. I got your wire, 
 Mr. Leatherhead, just in time for the train ; and as 
 the lady up there with the camera was the only 
 other person to get out at the station, we came on 
 together. I think it was her brother who met us on 
 the road, and showed us the way here. [She leaves 
 off abruptly and looks about her.'] But you have a lot 
 of friends .'' 
 
 Rawlings. Mother, I must introduce you and Lady 
 Mendle-Parrish — Lady Mendle-Parrish — my mother 
 —Mother — Miss Muriel Mendle-Parrish, the lady 
 to whom I beg to announce my solemn engagement. 
 
 [Fanny Goldstone and Owen Davis come down.] 
 
 Davis. Engaged ! It's all right, then .'' 
 
 Mrs. R. Engaged ! My dear boy ! My dear 
 Lady Mendle-Parrish ! [The mothers embrace.] 
 
 Fanny. Engaged ! This is splendid ! I suppose 
 all this will be worked into your next. 
 
 Rawlings. Yes! Give me a pen, now, and I'll 
 commence it ! 
 
 Mrs. R. I said he'd last out till the end of October. 
 
 Fanny. And, Mr. Rawlings, what shall you call 
 the new book .'' 
 
 Rawlings. Well, a title for it has just occurred to 
 me — find me a pen there, somebody — I'm going to 
 call it ' When the Devil was III.' 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 lOI 
 
LONDON : STBANGBWAYS, PRINTERS.