CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 
 DRAMATIC LIBRARY 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
Illl-'fll III ill 
 
 Cornell University Library 
 PR6029.U36B5 1914 
 
 Between sunset and dawn. 
 
 1924 013 660 646 
 
BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< 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/cu31924013660646 
 
BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN. A 
 PLAY IN FOUR SCENES, BY HERMON 
 OULD 
 
 LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD. 
 3 ADAM STREET, ADELPffl. MCMXIV. 
 
 Vo 
 
Copyright, 1914, by Sidgwick Sf Jackson, Ltd. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
TO 
 
 NORMAN M'^KINNEL 
 
Between Sunset and Dawn was produced for the first 
 time at the Vaudeville Theatre on the 23rd October 
 191 3j under the management of Messrs Norman 
 M^Kinnel and Frederick Whelen, the cast being as 
 follows : 
 
 Jim Harris . 
 
 Mrs Harris . 
 
 Liz Higgins 
 
 Bill Higgins . 
 
 Mrs Higgins . 
 
 Mrs Lansdowne 
 
 Curly Tom 
 
 An Old Man . 
 
 A Respectable Woman 
 
 Mr Norman M'^Kinnel 
 Miss Ada King 
 Miss May Blayney 
 Mr Edmond Breon 
 Miss Alice Mansfield 
 Miss Ethel Marryat 
 Mr Harold Bradly 
 Mr Ernest G. Cove 
 Miss Florence Harwood 
 
 The play produced hy Mr Norman M'^Kinnel. 
 
THE PERSONS CONCERNED 
 
 Jim Harris. 
 
 Mrs HarriSj his mother. 
 
 Bill Hiooins. 
 
 Liz Higgins, his wife. 
 
 Mrs Higgins, his mother. 
 
 Mrs Lansdowne, his landlady. 
 
 Curly Tom. 
 
 An Old Man. 
 
 A Respectable Woman. 
 
 The incident takes place in South London one Summer 
 night between sunset and dawn. 
 
BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 
 SCENE I 
 
 A June evening, about seven o'clock. 
 
 The kitchen of mrs Harris's " doss-house." 
 The room is sparsely furnished; a couple 
 of tables, a few wooden chairs, a gas-stove 
 and a cupboard make up the tale of movables. 
 The main door is in the background : enter- 
 ing this, the visitor looking to the right 
 would see the door leading to mrs Harris's 
 bedroom, and, in the back wall, a shutter let 
 into the wall inscribed " Pay Here." 
 
 MRS HARRIS, a woman of some sixty years, 
 fat, dirty, sharp-tempered occasionally, but 
 generally too lazy to be anything but fat and 
 dirty, is seated at one of the tables, sleeping, 
 with her head propped up by her arm. She 
 is not a pleasant person to contemplate, with 
 her dirty clothes carelessly put on. 
 
 Presently jim harris, her son, slouches 
 in from the main door. He is a big, bony 
 man of about thirty. His face is not un- 
 prepossessing : high cheek-bones, sleepy 
 
2 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 blue eyes, brown hair and moustache. He 
 has an air of dissatisfaction about him : one 
 feels he does not respect himself overmuch. 
 He is dressed in the nondescript garb peculiar 
 to the poorer classes not engaged in any dis- 
 tinctive occupation. He does not remove his 
 cap. 
 
 JIM. [as soon as he enters the room.] Any- 
 think feat ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [rousing herself.] Gawd, 'ow 
 you startled me ! Were did you spring from ? 
 
 JIM. [shortly.] Were d'yer fink ? [Peremp- 
 torily.] Got 'nythink t'w'eat ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [unconccmcdly.] I dessay you'll 
 find sutthink in the cupboard if yer take the 
 trouble ter look. 
 
 JIM eyes her with an air of disgust ; makes 
 no remark, but goes over to the cupboard 
 and extracts a plate of faggots. 
 JIM. 'Oo can eat faggits this weather I sh'd 
 like ter know ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS. [scttUng hcrsclf to sleep.] Go 
 withaht an' bust ! 
 
 JIM lifts his arm, threatening but not in- 
 tending to strike her. He makes for the 
 door. 
 
sc. i] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 3 
 
 JIM. I can get wot I want ahtside if you can't 
 pervide it. 
 
 He reaches the door and turns the handle : 
 
 this arottses mes harris, who gets off her 
 
 chair with a lazy air of long-suffering and 
 
 goes over to the cupboard. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Comc 'ere ! [jim turns.] 'Ere's 
 
 some 'am. Yer can't see a ninch before yer 
 
 bloomin' nose. 
 
 She takes a paper bag from the cupboard, 
 and gives it to jim, who extracts the ham, and 
 puts it on a plate, mrs Harris takes a 
 knife and fork from the table-drawer and 
 throws them down on the table unceremoni- 
 ously. They both sit dozen. 
 MRS HARRIS, [after a brief pause.] Were yer 
 bin terday ? Wotcher bin doin' ? 
 
 JIM. [satirically.] Anythink else yer'd like 
 ter know ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS. No, thank yer kindly, not jes' 
 nah. 
 
 JIM. [with his mouth full.] Well, if yer want 
 ter know, I ain't bin now'ere. I met Bill 
 'Iggins this mornin' ; ain't seen 'im fer some 
 time, SO we bin tergether all day. [He continues 
 in a tone of self-defence.] My work's 'ere of a 
 night, so don't you ferget it. If I spends the 'ole 
 
4 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 evenin' an' night 'ere, lookin' arter this 'ere 
 show, scarce gettin' a wink o' sleep, you ain't 
 git nothink ter say abaht wot I do wi' me 
 days. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Law lummy, 'oo's sayin' any- 
 think? 
 
 JIM. [imappeased.] Well, don't, that's all. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. You are a . . . [She mumbles 
 incoherently.] Wot's Bill 'Iggins bin doin' of 
 lately ? 
 
 JIM. [facetiously.] Ev'rybody 'e can so far's 
 I can tell. [He guffaws.] [Contemplatively.] 
 Funny bloke. Bill. Decent sort o' cove 'e seems, 
 but 'e ain't got no guts in 'im, Bill ain't ; 'e's 
 got a bloomin' 'andshake as flabby as a stick o' 
 rhubub. . . . 
 
 MRS HARRIS. I alwus liked Bill 'Iggins meself. 
 
 JIM. [contemptuously.] You would : sort a 
 man a woman would like. 'E's bin on the booze 
 an' 'is ole woman's gorne an' left 'im. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [sentcntiously.] Don't wonder 
 at it. A man wot don't drink is a sawny-suck- 
 eggs, but a man wot drinks more than's good fer 
 'im ain't fit comp'ny fer respectable people. 
 [She hugs herself comfortably.] Thank Gawd 
 I know w'en ter stop ! 
 
 JIM. The drink's got so soaked inter your 
 
sc. i] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 5 
 
 innards there ain't no need fer you ever ter stop. 
 [He guffaws.] 
 
 MRS HARRIS. [wMmpering.] That's 'ow yer 
 own kids speak abaht yer. On'y strangers 
 appreciates yer. 
 
 The sum goes behind a cloud and the room 
 becomes gradually darker. 
 
 JIM. [impatiently.] 01, shut up. [A slight 
 pause.] Ole Bill 'Iggins never could keep orf 
 the drink — 'im sech a 'an'some feller too : all 
 the gals mad arter 'im. 
 
 MBS HARRIS sighs. 
 
 I've arsked 'im ter pop rahnd ternight. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. 'Oo d'c marry ? 
 
 JIM. I dunno. Nob'dy dahn ahr way, s'far's 
 I know. . . . Emma Jenkins wantid 'im — made 
 up to 'im like one o'clock ; but 'e wasn't 'avin' 
 any. . . . 'E's a bit cut up abaht 'is ole gal 
 a-leavin' of 'im. A real elegant gal 'e says she 
 was. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [decisively.] Well, wot d'e go 
 an' knock 'er abaht for then ? 
 
 JIM. [protestingly.] I didn't say 'e knocked 
 'er abaht. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [knowingly.] Don't you tell 
 me ! Didn't say say, no ; but don't yer think 
 I know ? She wouldn't 'a' left 'im if 'e 'adn't 
 
6 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 'a' knocked 'er abaht : gals don't leave good 
 
 'omes fer nothink. 
 
 She grins knowingly and wriggles self- 
 complacently. 
 JIM. [philosophically.] 01, I dessay — ^w'en 
 
 'e's drank. 'E's not a bad sort, Bill, but 'e do 
 
 drink, no kid abaht it. 
 
 The pattering of rain is heard against the 
 window. 
 
 'UUo ! I thought we was goin' to 'ave a storm. 
 He goes to the window and looks out. 
 
 Blimy ! drops as big as tanners ! 
 MBS HARRIS, [complacently.] This'll fetch 'em 
 
 in. Wot's the time ? 
 JIM. Abaht seven or 'ar' parst. [He returns 
 
 to the table.] 
 
 A slight flash of lightning, followed by a 
 faint peal of thunder, jim looks up from 
 his plate, takes a final mouthful of ham 
 and puts his knife and fork back on the 
 table. 
 
 A shuffling of feet is heard outside ; then 
 a knock at the shutter, jim rises, crosses 
 over and pulls back the shutter, showing the 
 head of an old man through the aperture. 
 He is a poor old man, dirty and very weary. 
 He hands coins to jim. 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 7 
 
 OLD MAN. [shakily.] Two penn'orth ter- 
 night, Jim. 
 
 JIM takes a brass ticket from the wall and 
 hands it to the old man. 
 JIM. [kindly.] 'Ere y'are, Daddy. Fourth 
 floor ; you'll find someb'dy there. 
 OLD MAN. [groaning.] Awright. 
 
 JIM slams the shutter to, and one hears the 
 retreating footsteps of the old man ascend- 
 ing the stairs. 
 MRS harims. 'Oo wus that ? 
 JIM. Daddy Breakin'fast. On'y 'ad two 
 penn'orth ternight. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Things is gettin' wuss an' wuss, 
 wot wiv Cahnty Cahncil inspections an' the rest 
 of it, w'y ther ain't 'ardly any profit left fer 
 ahrselves. 
 
 JIM. [mumbling.] You make a tidy bit aht 
 of it ; don't try ter kid me. 
 
 JIM is about to sit down when another 
 footstep is heard off, followed by a knock 
 at the shutter, jim slouches complainingly 
 over to the shutter and draws it back. 
 Well? 
 
 The head of curly tom is protruded through 
 the opening. He is a lad of some nineteen 
 years, with a head of fiery curly hair. He is 
 
8 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 overflowing with mirth and good-humour. 
 His garments consist of a ragged pair of 
 striped trousers, a morning coat much too 
 large for him ; a" dicky " and the remnants 
 of a tie ; he wears neither waistcoat nor hat. 
 CURLY TOM. Pip, pip ! 
 
 JIM. [gruffly.] Nah then ! None o' yer 
 sauce ! Wotcher want ? 
 
 CURLY TOM. [sauvely.] My deah sir, my 
 modest requirements is merely a place upon 
 w'ich ter rest me weary limbs. 
 JIM. No 'ank ! 
 
 CURLY TOM. Tryin' weather, eh, wot ! 
 JIM. [amgrily.] Stow it ; wotcher want ? 
 CURLY TOM. [drawling.] Don't be annoyed, 
 ole fellah ! [Then suddenly.] Penn'orth. [He 
 hands jim a coin.] 
 JIM. [briefly.] That's a bad un. [He returns it.] 
 CURLY TOM. A thousand pardons ! My mis- 
 take, my mistake entirely, ole chappie ! So sorry ! 
 Heah's anothah ! [He hands jim another 
 coin.] 
 
 JIM. [taking and examining the coin.] Aw 
 right. Come rahnd. 
 
 He shuts the shutter once more and crosses 
 over and unlocks the door, admitting curly 
 
 TOM.] 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 9 
 
 JIM. You can stop 'ere till bed-time ; then 
 up yer go and no 'ank. 
 
 CURLY TOM. [surveying the scene with quick, 
 sparkling eyes.] Bah jove ! The first arrival ! 
 [He crosses over to mrs harris, who smiles in- 
 dulgently upon him.] Business bad, madam ? 
 [He bows deferentially and she laughs coquettishly.] 
 MRS HARRIS. Alwus is. Never knoo the time 
 it wasn't. 
 
 CURLY TOM. Deah, deah ! The beastly fine 
 weather we've bin 'avin' of late I prezoom ! 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [endeavouring without success to 
 affect his " aristocratic " manner.] No daht, yer 
 Lordship, if yer'll excuse the impudence of me 
 addressin' of yer so familiar-like. 
 
 CURLY TOM. [grandiloquently.] Tut, tut ! 
 
 The rain is now falling heavily ; there are 
 intermittent Hashes of lightning and peals 
 of not very formidable thunder. 
 
 A timid footstep follows the swing of an 
 outer door, and then a timid knock at the 
 shutter. No notice is taken of this at first. 
 It is repeated, mrs harris and curly 
 TOM look up, but JIM — buried in thought — 
 apparently does not hear it. 
 MRS HARRIS. Someb'dy there. 
 JIM. Never 'eard nothink. 
 
10 BETAVEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 He crosses over to the shutter with a bad grace 
 and pulls it violently aside. The head of 
 LIZ HiGGiNS appears in the aperture. 
 Well? 
 
 LIZ HIGGINS. [in a low voice, timid and hesi- 
 tating.] Can I 'ave shelter 'ere fer the night an' 
 pay fer it in work ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS struts portentou^ly across the 
 room and speaks over jim's shoulder. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Wot's that ? 
 
 JIM. [indifferently.] Wants ter know whether 
 she can do a bit o' work instid o' payin' fer a 
 night's lodgin'. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [gruffly.] Ain't yer got no oof ? 
 LIZ. [meekly.] No. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Wotyer done wiv it ? . . . 'Ere, 
 come inside. Jim, open that there door. 
 
 JIM. [remonstrating.] Aw right, keep yer 'air 
 on. 
 
 He opens the door and holds it open, beckon- 
 ing to LIZ, who comes inside nervously. 
 
 She is a young woman of perhaps five- 
 and-twenty, rather short than tall, sUm but 
 not thin ; her features are remarkably 
 regular : the nose small, the mouth small also, 
 but the lips rather full and not without a 
 trace of sensuousness. She has a lot of red- 
 
sc. i] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 11 
 
 brown hair. Her eyes are large and un- 
 suspicious. Her movements are normally 
 slow : she lacks vitality. She is dressed 
 neatly in blouse and skirt, not yet visible 
 because they are covered by a long cloth coat. 
 
 CURLY TOM. Hullo, me old sport ! Dahn on 
 yer luck ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Shut Up, you, Curly Tom ; 
 speak w'en yer spoke to. . . . Nah then, young 
 woman, wot can yer do ? 
 
 LIZ. I can do anythink abaht the 'ouse, sech 
 as cleanin', or cookin', or washin' up. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [taking her measure.] Oh, yer 
 can, can yer ? [Giving the matter her considera- 
 tion.] Wot sort o' lodgin' d'y'expect ? 
 
 LIZ. [lethargically.] I don't care much wot 
 it is, s'long's it's shelter. It's pourin' 'eavens 
 'ard now an' I don't want ter stay out in it all 
 night. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [with the air of one granting a 
 favour.] You can sleep wiv the other women 
 if yer like, and clean the 'all in the mornin'. 
 [Half inclined to withdraw.] It don't want doin' 
 really — it wus on'y done a fortnight ago — but 
 I don't mind, if yer really 'ard up. 
 
 LIZ. Thank yer kindly. I'm very grateful. 
 
 CURLY TOM. [friskily]. Gaw' blimy, that 
 
12 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 takes the bally cake ! Thank yer far nothink. 
 
 Ain't I gen'rous, I don't think. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. 'Ere, you, if yer can't keep a 
 
 still tongue in yer 'ead you'd better clear aht 
 
 and keep yer dirty stivers. 
 JIM. {surlily.'] Chuck it, spoilin' business ! 
 
 Carn't yer take a joke ? 
 
 There is a tap at the shutter. When jim 
 draws back the shutter one catches a glimpse 
 of the head of a respectable woman. 
 RESPECTABLE WOMAN. Can I havc a room for 
 
 the night ? 
 
 JIM. [respectfully.] Yes'm. Six pence. [The 
 
 RESPECTABLE WOMAN, who is pale, tired, and 
 
 weary, hands jim a coin and he closes the shutter.] 
 
 Here's a lidy wants a room. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Aw right. Comin'. [She waddles 
 
 out hurriedly.] 
 
 When MRS HARRIS has left the room a hush 
 falls over the others and one can discern a 
 certain sheepishness in the manner of jim 
 and CURLY tom. The latter, after a 
 moment's pause, goes over to a corner of the 
 room and sits down on the floor, carefully 
 adjusting his troupers as he does so. He 
 then takes an apple from his trousers' 
 pocket and proceeds to pare it with the blade 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 13 
 
 of a handleless knife, removing the many 
 rotten parts and throwing them uncere- 
 moniously on the floor. He then eats it 
 slowly and with relish, paying little or no 
 heed to the conversation which ensues. 
 JIM. [going over to Liz, who has been standing 
 motionless hitherto, and speaking in a voice 
 which he makes as soft as possible.} There's a 
 chair if you'd like ter sit dahn. 
 LIZ, Thank yer. [She sits down.] 
 
 JIM looks down at her fixedly, admiration 
 warring with pity. He moves nearer to her. 
 JIM. You look tired. Bin walkin' far ? 
 LIZ. Good way — ^from Deptford — dahn by 
 the river, yer know. . . . 
 JIM. That's a good way. 
 LIZ. Yers. 
 
 JIM. Wot made yer come over 'ere ? 
 LIZ. [hesitating.] I dunno. Wantid ter get 
 away from that neighb'r'ood. 
 JIM. Don't yer like it then ? 
 LIZ. [vehemently.] I 'ate it ! 
 JIM. I know someb'dy lives there. 
 LIZ. [listlessly.] Oh ? Lots do. 
 JIM. Yus — 'e don't like it neither. 
 LIZ. Nobody do — really, {slight pause.] 
 JIM. Wot's yer name ? 
 
14 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 LIZ. [hesitating.] They call me Liz : Eliza- 
 beth's me real name, Elizabeth Ellen. 
 
 JIM. Good name, Liz. Liz wot ? 
 
 LIZ. It don't matter wot. 
 
 JIM. [tactfully.] Rather not say ? 
 
 LIZ. Yers. . . . 
 
 JIM. [sitting down near her.] Yer not married, 
 are yer ? 
 
 LIZ. [in a low voice.] Yers. 
 
 JIM. Ole man left yer ? 
 
 LIZ. [fiercely.] No. Me left 'im. 
 
 JIM. 01 ! Knock yer abaht ? 
 
 LIZ. Yers. 
 
 JIM. [grimly, between his teeth.] Damn rotter. 
 . . . W'ere's 'e nah ? 
 
 LIZ. Don't know. I left 'im this mornin' 
 an' don't never want ter see 'im ag'in, not if I 
 'ave ter starve first, ... I wouldn't 'a' mindid 
 so much 'im knockin' me abaht — ^they all do 
 that 
 
 JIM. [half-heartedly.] Not all. 
 
 LIZ. Nearly all. 'T any rate 'e did me, but 
 that wasn't the worst: 'e used ter treat me 
 uncommon bad, stoppin' aht all night an' then 
 comin' 'ome dead drunk — an' accusin' me . . . 
 o' doin' wot I'd no business ter do. 
 
 Jim. Wot was 'is name ? 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 15 
 
 LIZ. I don't care ter say. 
 JIM. 'Cawse, yer can do as yer like — 't ain't 
 none o' my business. . . . 
 LIZ. I don't like peachin'. 
 JIM. 'Cawse not. 
 
 LIZ, But you seem ter be a decent sort o' 
 chap ... 'is name was Bill, Bill 'Iggins. [jim 
 starts back.} 
 
 JIM. Go on ? Law' love a duck ! 
 LIZ. [frightened.] D'yer know 'im then ? 
 MKS HARMS cnters and regards them sus- 
 piciously. 
 JIM. Know 'im, yus ; I sh'd rather think I 
 do. 
 
 He turns r<mnd and stares at mrs harris 
 defiantly. 
 This young party [cocking his finger towards Liz] 
 'pears ter know old . . . [liz looks at him im- 
 ploringly] . . . you know, old Daddy Breakin'- 
 fast. 
 
 Liz's terrified expression gives way to one 
 
 of relief. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [suspiciously.] Well, wot abaht 
 
 it ? Nothink strange abaht that, is there ? 
 
 Ev'rybody . abaht 'ere knows ole Daddy 
 
 Breakin'fast, don't they ? 
 
 JIM. [on the defensive.] Awright, keep yer 
 
16 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 'air on : 'oo said there was anythink strange 
 abaht it, eh ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [increasingly suspicious.] You 
 seem ter be mighty interested in the young 
 woman's acquaintancis. 
 
 JIM. Wot the 'ell's that ter do wiv you ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [to LIZ.] 'Ere, you, keep yer- 
 self to yerself, if you please. 
 
 LIZ. [shrinking.] I ain't bin doin' no 'arm. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [wumingly .] Then don't. This 
 ain't a residential 'otel : it's a lodgin' 'ahse, 
 w'ere people keeps theirselves to theirselves, 
 so don't you fergit it. [She turns scowlingly 
 away.] 
 
 JIM. [rising.] Stow it, mother : the gal 
 wasn't doin' no 'arm. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [tuming on him sharply.] That's 
 my business. If she don't like it she can clear 
 aht. 
 
 LIZ. [making for the door.] P'raps I'd better 
 — ^ter save unpleasantness. 
 
 JIM. [authoritatively.] No yer don't ; yer 
 stay 'ere. [To mrs Harris.] If you think yo're 
 gain' ter treat me like a bloomin' kid yo're 
 mistaken. Look 'ere, miss ; you stays 'ere, 
 because I says so. 
 
 LIZ. [piteously.] Really I'd rather go if I'm 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 17 
 
 gain' ter cause any unpleasantness. [She walks 
 towards the door.] 
 MES HAEEis. [fiercely.] Yus, git aht of it ! 
 JIM. [violently.] Shut yer rah ! 
 
 A knock at the shutter. 
 MES HAEEIS. [dtstractcd from the trouble.] 
 The rain's adrivin' of 'em in. [She nods at jim.] 
 Jest see 'oo it is. 
 
 JIM goes over to the shutter and draws it 
 back and confronts bill higgins. He en- 
 deavours to keep the lattefs eyes away from 
 the contents of the room. 
 JIM. [greeting the newcomer heartily.] Hullo, 
 Bill, me ole pal ; 'ah goes it nah ? Come rahnd, 
 me ole sport. 
 
 He hangs the shutter to in some agitation 
 and hurries over to liz, who seems to be 
 almost turned to stone by a fleeting glimpse 
 of bill's visage. 
 JIM. [whispering excitedly to liz.] It's 'im. 
 MES HAERis. [thrusting her head forward.] 
 'Oo? 
 JIM. [brutally.] Mindyer own business. 
 MES HAEEIS. [cxaspcratcd.] Is that there 
 strumpet ter come before yer own mother ? 
 
 JIM. [threatening.] Shut up, carn't yer. 
 [To LIZ.] 'Ere, come in 'ere ole gal : I'll try an' 
 
 B 
 
18 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 git 'im away. [He pushes her with gentle force 
 towards the bedroom door, liz hardly protesting.] 
 LIZ. No, I'd better face it and 'ave it aht. 
 There is an impatient knock on the locked 
 door. 
 JIM. Aw right, I'm acomin'. 
 MBS HARRIS. [With increased exasperation.] 
 'Oo is it ? If you won't open the door, / will. 
 She makes a bee-line for the door, jim 
 takes hold of her arm and swings her rownd 
 into the middle of the room. 
 JIM. Git aht of it, carn't yer ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS starcs at him in stupefaction. 
 [To LIZ.] Nah, then, in 'ere or not ? I tell yer 
 I'll see yer aht o' the mess. 
 
 LIZ. [with a resisting sigh.] Oh, aw right 
 then. 
 
 LIZ allows JIM to usher her into the bedroom ; 
 he then turns the key in the lock. 
 MRS HARRIS, [bewildered.] Wot are yer ashov- 
 in' of 'er in there for ? 
 
 JIM. [fixing his eyes on her until she withdraws 
 hers.] Mind yer own business. 
 
 He crosses over and opens the door for bill 
 BIGGINS, who enters with a look of annoyed 
 surprise. 
 
 BILL is a slight figure of a man, rather better 
 
sc. i] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 19 
 
 dressed than jim ; he wears a " dicky " but 
 no collar ; a bright silk handkerchief, tied 
 with an eye to effect, adorns his neck. He 
 looks about thirty years of age, perhaps 
 somewhat younger. He has a small face, 
 rather well-farmed, with a small fair mous- 
 tache, well brushed fair hair, weak grey eyes, 
 full lips and a weak chin. As a rule he 
 walks slowly ; he is not very alert. He feels 
 more than he thinks, and the space between 
 his eyes is generally puckered. 
 BILL. Wot's the game ? \He sau/nters up the 
 room with his hands in his pockets.] 
 
 JIM. [shortly.] 'Ad to attend ter someb'dy 
 jest come in. 
 
 BILL. Ow ! [He turns and regards mrs haeris 
 with a bored expression.] Allow, Mrs 'Arris : 
 ain't see you fer a long time. 'Ow's things ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [wiping a dirty hand on a dirtier 
 apron and then extending it to him.] Middlin'. 
 'Ah's yerself ? 
 BILL, [gloomily.] Bally rotten. 
 MRS HARRIS. Ycr don't say so ; 'ah's that ? 
 BILL, [not over-inclined to expand.] I dunno. 
 A short silence ensues ; jim does not move 
 far from the door. They all regard each 
 other with an air of questioning. 
 
20 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 [Sarcastically.] Will I sit dahn ? Yes, cer- 
 tainly. [He helps himself to a chair at the table, 
 and continues sarcastically.] Thank yer kindly. 
 
 JIM. [staring fixedly at bill for a time.] Come 
 an' 'ave a drink. 
 
 MRS HARRIS. 'E don't want no drink. 
 
 BILL, [with sudden gloom.] Drink ? No, cuss 
 it! 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Wot, tumcd teetot'lcr all of a 
 sudden ? 
 
 JIM. [with affected gusto.] I don't think. 
 [He puts his hand on bill's shoulder.] Come 
 along, cocky ; come an' 'ave a wet. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [with an ugly guffaw.] Love a 
 duck, 'e'U get a wettin' 'e don't barg'in for if 
 'e goes aht in this rain. 'Ark at it ! 
 
 JIM. [with a snarl.] Funny, ain't yer ? 
 
 BILL, [contemplatively.] No, Jim, ole man : 
 I'm orf the drink fer a bit. 
 
 JIM. [impatiently.] Don't try ter kid me. 
 
 BILL, [solemnly.] It's Gawd's struth. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [inquisitively.] An' 'ah's that ? 
 
 BILL, [to JIM, indicating mrs Harris mth a 
 jerk of the thumb.] Don't she know ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [iutcrposing.] Know wot ? 
 
 BILL. Me ole woman's bin an' gawn an' 
 bunked. 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 21 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Yer don't say so ? 
 
 BILL. Yus. Me ways didn't please er 'ighness 
 an' so she 's skedaddled — 'opped it. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [conseqtientially .] Some women 
 do take it cool, blowed if they don't. My ole 
 man would 'a' give me a bash in the jaw if I'd'a' 
 tried that game on. 
 
 JIM. [disrespectfully.] Oh, you ! I can under- 
 stand you arilin' anybody. But 'er . . . [stops 
 short.] 
 
 BILL, [suspiciously.] D'you know my ole 
 woman then ? 
 
 JIM. [in some confusion.] On'y by wot you've 
 tole me. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [suspiciously.] Wot's she like, 
 Bill 'Iggins ? 
 
 BILL. Wotcher wanter know for ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS. I dunno ; I might 'a' seen 'er, 
 that's all. We sees all sorts 'ere yer know. 
 
 JIM. [glaring at her.] Garn, you ain't seen 
 'er. . . . 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [tartly.] 'ahd' yer know ? 
 
 BILL. Well, she's a good-lookin' young woman, 
 rather short, not staht, ner yet thin. . . . 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [conclusively .] Wot colour 'air ? 
 
 BILL. Jolly funny colour, give yer my word. 
 A sort of reddy-brahn — 'twixt an' between like. 
 
22 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 MES HARRIS, [jumping up excitedly.] Thought 
 as much ! That there young . . , 
 
 JIM leaps to his feet and a dangerous glitter 
 appears in Ms eyes ; he raises his fist as 
 if to strike mrs Harris, who sinks back into 
 her chair, cowed. 
 JIM. [with intense feeling.] If yer don't 'old 
 yer blasted tongue I'll split yer 'ead fer yer. . . . 
 MRS HARRIS, [startled.] Gawd lummy ! Wo't 
 'ave I done ter yer ? 
 BILL, [also alarmed.] Wot's up, Jim ? 
 JIM. [walking away sullenly.] Never you 
 mind. [He grabs hold of bill's arm and pulls 
 him away.] 'Ere, come aht o' this or else there'll 
 be trouble. 
 
 BILL, [suspiciously, to mrs Harris.] 'Ere, 
 I say, 'ave yer seen my ole woman or 'ave yer 
 not. I wantter know. 
 
 JIM drops bill's arm and looks threaten- 
 ingly at MRS HARRIS. 
 MRS HARRIS. [sulkHy, to BILL.] I tell yer 
 she's . . . [She suddenly stops, as jim again 
 threatens her.] Strike me lucky, wot's come 
 over yer ? 
 JIM. [to BILL.] Come aht o' this, I tell yer. 
 He pulls BILL towards the door, bill re- 
 sisting. 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 23 
 
 BILL. No, 't ain't likely. I'm again' ter see 
 this through. 
 
 JIM. [desperately.] And I say yer gain' ter 
 clear aht. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [to BILL.] Look 'ere. Bill 'Iggins, 
 if you keep 'im away from me, p'raps I can 
 show yer somethink yer wantter see. 
 
 JIM. Wot's yo'r game ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS. [Going towards the bedroom door.] 
 Never you mind. 
 
 JIM releases bill's arm and precedes mrs 
 HARRIS to the door, taking up his position 
 in front of it. 
 
 JIM. Try it on, try it on ! 
 
 BILL, [bewildered.] Wot's all this mean ? 
 Is my ole woman in that there room and you 
 atryin' ter keep 'er from me ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS. I don't go SO fur as ter say that, 
 but I 'ave me suspicions. 
 
 BILL, [to JIM insinuatingly.] Wot's the 
 matter, Jim 'Arris ? 
 
 JIM surveys him coolly and contemptuously, 
 but remains silent. 
 Ain't yer gain' to answer ? 
 
 JIM. [curtly.] No. 
 
 BILL, [going forward.] Damn yer ; git aht 
 uv it ! [He rushes at jim, who hurls him to the 
 
24 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 ground, bill struggles to his feet, not cowed.] 
 I'll 'ave the Law on ter yer. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [determinedly, to jim.] Look 
 'ere, me boy : don't yer think yer again' ter play 
 any o' them there tricks wi' me, 'cause yo'r 
 not. If yer don't git aht o' the way o' that there 
 dore, I'll give yer away, as sure as I'm a livin' 
 woman I'll give yer 'way. 
 
 JIM, Do wot yer bally well like, but if yer 
 come pokin' yer nose rahnd 'ere I'll twist yer 
 neck fer yer. [This remark is addressed to mrs 
 HARRIS and BILL indifferently.] 
 
 There is a timid knock at the bedroom door. 
 [Surlily, to Liz off.] Well ? 
 
 LIZ. [from within.] It ain't no good ; lemme 
 aht ; he's bahnd ter git 'old o' me sooner or later. 
 
 JIM. [severely.] 'Old yer rah ! 
 
 Bill. So it is my ole woman. Nah we know 
 
 w'ere we are. [He poses the problem.] 'Ere's a 
 
 man tryin' ter keep lawful wedded couples apart. 
 
 Oh, we'll see abaht that. [He makes for the door.] 
 
 Oh ! it's a pritty fine thing w'en a man carn't do 
 
 wot 'e likes with 'is own wife ! We'll soon see ! 
 
 He grasps the handle of the main door, and, 
 
 finding it locked, turns round with a savage 
 
 gesture of bafflement. 
 
 W'ere's the key o' this 'ere dore ? 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 25 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [hclplessly.] 'E's got it. 
 
 BILL, [with fierce recognition of his im- 
 potence.] Damn 'im. 
 
 LIZ. [piteously.] Let me come aht ! 
 
 JIM. [to LIZ, peremptorily.] 'Old yer rah ! 
 
 LIZ. [off, imploringly.] I'd rather, reely. 
 
 JIM. [turns impatiently and opens the door 
 violently, changing his position to enable liz to 
 emerge.] Nah, yer've got yer own way. 
 
 LIZ stands still, just inside the room, and 
 regards bill with fear. 
 
 BILL, [with bitter sarcasm.] Oh, so that's 
 w'y yer lef me, is it ? 
 
 LIZ. [tremulously.] Wot yer mean. Bill ? 
 
 BILL, [sarcastically.] Mean ? Nah, I wonder 
 wot I can mean. Hextre-ordinary, ain't it ? 
 D'you 'appen ter know wot I mean, Mrs 
 'Arris ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [with a fat chuckle.] Well, I 
 'ave me suspicions. 
 
 BILL, [in the same tone.] Er cawse you mean 
 ter stand me aht thet y've never set eyes on 
 this gent — [he pauses and adds deferentially] 
 — this gent afore. Er cawse yer do. [His tone 
 changes suddenly to one of anger.] Well, it won't 
 wash ! 
 
 LIZ. [to JIM.] Wot's 'e mean ? 
 
26 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 JIM. [blimtly.] 'E means as 'ow you've bin 
 acarryin' on wi' me. 
 
 LIZ, [shrinking.] It ain't true, reely it ain't, 
 Bill ; true as I stand 'ere. 
 
 BILL. You carn't kid me ; you ain't no 
 better'n you oughter be and I alwus knoo it. 
 
 JIM. [interrupting liz, who was about to speak.] 
 Don't answer 'im. It's on'y 'is dirty soul oozin' 
 aht of 'is dirty mouth. If 'e wasn't a dirty mean 
 cad 'e wouldn't accuse yer. [bill strides over to 
 him.] And you know it. And wot's more, I've 
 'ad abaht anough o' this 'ere twaddle. Let's 
 git ter business. Er you gain' ter treat this gal 
 fair an' square ? 
 
 BILL, [thrusting his head forward.] Wot the 
 'ell's that got ter do wiv you ? 
 
 JIM. [ignoring him.] 'Cawse if you ain't, 
 she's not goin' back ter yer, an' that's all abaht 
 it. 
 
 He strolls away from bill, affecting in- 
 difference. 
 
 BILL, [exasperated.] Is she my ole woman, or 
 is she not ? 
 
 JIM. [calmly.] That ain't nothink ter do with 
 it. We're gain' to 'ave my law for a change. 
 [He comes forward, propitiating but determined.] 
 If you take yer dyin' solemn oath that you'll 
 
sc. I] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 27 
 
 do wot's right by 'er, I won't 'ave no more ter say 
 in the matter. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [getting in a word.] And ain't 
 the gal gain' to 'ave no say in the matter at 
 all? 
 
 JIM. No, she ain't. The gal's that soft she'd 
 put 'erself under 'is thumb as soon as look at 'im 
 if I'd let 'er. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [contemptuously.] Yo're mad 
 — like yer father ; you got a tile orf. An' w'y, 
 if it ain't rude to arsk, d^you take a sudden 
 int'rest in the lidy ? 
 
 JIM. Becawse it pleases me. 
 
 BILL, [almost hysterically.] An' it pleases 
 me to 'ave me own wife, and I'll jolly well 'ave 
 'er too. — Liz, come 'ere. [She shrinks. He 
 thunders.] Come 'ere ! [She looks up at jim, 
 as if for permission ; he evades her glance. She 
 moves hesitatingly towards bill, who advances 
 to meet her, making a grab at her sleeve, jim 
 steps between them.] 
 
 JIM. 'Ands orf. [He pushes bill away, and 
 then keeping his eyes fixed on him crosses over to 
 the door and unlocks it, the others in the room follow- 
 ing him with their eyes as if fascinated.] Nah 
 then ; the dore's open. Gimme yer promise 
 and I'll say no more. 
 
28 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. i 
 
 BILL. I'll see you damned first. 
 JIM. [calmly.] Then you'll see me damned 
 first. [To LIZ.] 'Ere, clear aht o' this. [He 
 stands between liz and bill, liz moves timidly 
 towards him.] Hurry up ! [bill makes a dash 
 at LIZ, who, frightened, rushes from him through 
 the open door, bill rushes to the door, but jim 
 bangs it to in time to prevent him escaping, jim 
 stands with his back to the door, spreading out his 
 arms cross-wise,] Nah then ! 
 
 There is a moment's flurried pause and then 
 BILL rushes violently at jim, xmth the in- 
 tention of kicking him. jim grabs him by 
 the foot and pushes him back, bill sprawls 
 over the floor, much to the amusement of 
 CURLY TOM, and a few seconds pass before 
 he is able to regain his feet. When he is 
 up he looks round with an angry scowl and 
 addresses curly tom. 
 BILL. Cahd ! [coward !] See a man kep' away 
 from 'is own wife an' insulted by a lahsy rotter 
 like 'im and don't orfer a 'elpin' 'and ! 
 
 CURLY TOM. [looking up from his apple with 
 the utmost indifference.] This ain't my affair. 
 I ain't again' ter interfere wiv things wot don't 
 concern me. 'Sides, I wouldn't raise me 'and 
 to 'elp you. [He throws the core of his apple on 
 
sc. i] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 29 
 
 to the floor and contemplates the scene with the 
 quizzical glance of a connoisseur.] 
 
 BILL, [regarding him with infinite contempt, 
 and then addressing jim.J Nah then, Jim 'Arris, 
 are you gain' ter let me aht of 'ere or are yer gain' 
 ter take the consequences ? 
 
 JIM. [remaining in the same position, and 
 speaking in a dull, heavy tone.] I'm ready ter 
 take wotever consequences there may be. 
 
 BILL, [still showing his sense of his weakness.] 
 I tell yer straight, I ain't again' ter stand no 
 muckin' abaht. If yer don't let me aht nah, 
 you've got ter let me aht later ; and then we'll 
 see w'ether a man ain't got no right to 'is own 
 wife or not. 
 
 JIM. [calmly.] I'm givin' yer wife time ter 
 git away ; if she don't want ter git away, you'll 
 find 'er ahtside w'en yer git there ; if she do, 
 then " Good luck to 'er," says I. So nah yer 
 know. 
 
 CURLY TOM. [chirruping.] An' so say all of 
 us ! 
 
 JIM. [to BILL.] It ain't no good o' you 
 standin' there like that : I ain't again' ter budge 
 from this 'ere door for a nour, so yer can do wot 
 yer like. If yer take my advice you'll go and 
 sit dahn and make yerself comfortable. 
 
30 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. ii 
 
 BILL, [after a pause.] You wait till I git 
 you aht ! 
 
 He slouches back and goes over to the window, 
 staring moodily into the street, his hands 
 forced deep into his trousers' pockets. 
 
 MRS HARRIS riscs, starcs at jim, shakes 
 herself, and decides that interference is use- 
 less ; she sits down. 
 MRS HARRIS. Well, I nevcr 'card o' sech a thing, 
 CURLY TOM moves backward to the wall, 
 without rising, and yawns. 
 
 JIM lets his arms drop to his sides, but re- 
 mains with his back to the door. There is a 
 short brooding silence. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 About midnight. The curtains have been drawn 
 together and the blind lowered. The caged 
 gas is alight, but the flame is faint and 
 flickering. 
 
 JIM is seated at one of the tables ; his right 
 arm rests on the table and supports his head : 
 he is dozing. After a few minutes of silence 
 a slow footstep is heard outside, followed by 
 a light tap at the shutter, jim does not hear 
 and the knock is repeated. He raises his 
 
sc. II] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 31 
 
 head sleepily and rises wearily ; with drag- 
 ging footsteps he goes to the shutter and draws 
 it aside, jat. stands outside. 
 
 JIM. [surprised.] You back again ? 
 
 LIZ. Yers. 
 
 JIM. Woffor ? 
 
 LIZ. Lemme come in. 
 
 JIM gives a hasty glance around the room, 
 closes the shutter, and opens the door. He 
 puts his finger to his lips to command silence. 
 LIZ enters slowly and looks about the room 
 with a half-scared glance. She is white 
 and her clothes are damp. She peers into 
 the darkness, jim locks the door and then 
 follows her into the room. 
 
 LIZ. W'ere's ev'rybody ? 
 
 JIM. Abed, [warningly.] Don't make a rah ; 
 we don't want ter wake anybody up. Ain't 
 many 'ere temight as it 'appens. . . . since 
 the rain give over : I 'spose they're sleepin' aht. 
 Phew! ain't it 'ot? 
 
 LIZ. W'ere's 'e ? 
 
 JIM. [feigning not to understand.] 'Oo ? 
 
 LIZ. My ole man ? 
 
 JIM. [making light of the matter.] Oh, 'm. 
 he's gome. 
 
 LIZ. Gome w'ere ? 
 
32 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. ii 
 
 JIM. Gawd knows : I don't. 
 
 LIZ. Wot 'appened w'en I left ? 
 
 JIM. Weil, I give you time ter sling yer 'ook 
 and then I let 'im aht. . . . Ain't yer gain' ter 
 sit dahn ? 
 
 He crosses over to a chair near the table and 
 pulls one into position for her. She sits 
 down lethargically and he sits down on the 
 other side of the same table. 
 Cam't make aht wot you've come back for. 
 
 LIZ. 'Ardly know meself. [In a louder voice.] 
 Wot was I ter do ? Pouring 'eavens 'ard, 
 now'ere ter go unless I went 'ome. [She rises 
 and moves away from the table.] And I felt as 
 though I couldn't go 'ome any more. [She 
 drops heavily into the chair again, and concludes 
 hopelessly.] So I come back 'ere. 
 
 JIM. But 'e might 'a' still bin 'ere. 
 
 LIZ. I thought o' that — ^risked it. I didn't 
 care. After all, if I did 'ave ter go back wiv 
 'im, it ud be better'n the streets. 
 
 JIM. You know best. 
 
 LIZ. [quickly.] Wot d'yer take me for 
 then? 
 
 JIM. Oh, nothink. . . . But ain't yer got- 
 n'y relations you could go to ? 
 
 LIZ. No, on'y 'is relations. An' they wouldn't 
 
sc. II] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 33 
 
 think no wrong of 'im : it 'ud be all my fault. 
 Well, p'r'aps I'd better get orf. [She rises.] 
 
 JIM. [also rising and forcing her back into her 
 seat] Wot's the good o' you goin' nah ? It's 
 nearly twelve o'clock. May's well stop 'ere nah 
 until the mornin'. 
 
 LIZ. Wot, 'ere ? Wot'U they say ? 
 
 JIM. [asserting himself.] Let 'em say wot 
 they bally well like. 
 
 LIZ. [after a pause.] 'Ah abaht your missis ? 
 
 JIM. Ain't got no missis. 
 
 LIZ. [a gleam of pleasure crossing her face.] 
 Oh! 
 
 JIM. Wot if I 'ad ? I'm a man, ain't I ? 
 Got me rights, ain't I ? 
 
 LIZ. [surprised at his vehemence.] Yers, 'spose 
 so ; but she mightn't like it. Me an' you . . . 
 'ere . . . tergether alone. . . . 
 
 JIM. [light dawning.] Oh. [His hand falls 
 across the table and accidentally touches her arm.] 
 Lummy ! ain't your coat wet ! [She feels it] 
 Better take it orf and 'ang it over a chair till 
 the mornin'. 
 
 LIZ. [indifferently.] It don't matter. 
 
 JIM. [masterfully.] Yus it do matter. 
 
 He goes over to help her off with the coat. 
 She rises and submits. As they get closer 
 c 
 
34 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. ii 
 
 together a look of something like triumph 
 momentarily crosses Liz's face, jim gazes at 
 her sheepishly and returns backwards to his 
 chair, not removing his eyes from her face. 
 'Ah long you bin married ? 
 
 LIZ. Nigh two years. 
 
 JIM. Got 'ny httl'uns ? 
 
 LIZ. [shortly.] No. 
 
 JIM. Didn't yer know abaht 'im before yer 
 took on with 'im ? 
 
 LIZ. [reluctantly.] Yers, partly, but . . . 
 
 JIM. Wot yer marry 'im for then ? 
 
 LIZ. Well, you know. 
 
 JIM. Wot ? 
 
 LIZ. You know wot it is. I thought w'en we 
 was married 'e'd change. 'E promised over an' 
 over again 'e'd turn over a noo leaf. Of course 
 'e never did. Leastways, fer a few munts 'e 
 was awright ; then 'e started again. 
 
 JIM. I 'spose you liked 'im orlright ? 
 
 LIZ. [reluctantly.] Oh, yers — orlright — 
 then . . . 
 
 JIM. But nah ? 
 
 LIZ. You carn't go on fer ever likin' a man wot 
 treats yer like 'e do me. I wouldn't mind the 
 drink ser much ; but 'e says sech rotten things 
 . . . you 'card 'im yerself. 
 
sc. ii] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 35 
 
 JIM. [tmder his breath.] Swine ! Wot'll 'e 
 do nah, d'yer think ? 
 
 LIZ. Gawd on'y knows. Very likely carry 
 on with someb'dy else. 
 
 JIM. Think so ? — 'Spose 'e'd 'a' bin 'ere w'en 
 you come back, wot would you 'a' done ? 
 
 LIZ. [thinking before replying.] 'Spose I 
 would 'a' give way to 'im. [In desperation.] 
 Wot else could I 'a' done ? 
 
 JIM. I might 'a' bin able ter keep 'im away. 
 Couldn't you get a divorce ? 
 
 LIZ. Blimy, it ud cawst fifty pun if it cawst 
 a penny. Besides, 'ah 'm I ter prove anythink ? 
 
 JIM. [baffled.] Carn't yer git a seperation ? 
 
 LIZ. [impatiently.] 01, I dunno : I ain't 
 tried and don't know 'ah ter try. An' if I did, 
 'ah do I know 'e'd be bahnd ter keep me ? 
 
 JIM. Couldn't yer work ? 
 
 LIZ. 'Spose so. 
 
 JIM. Wot could yer do ? 
 
 LIZ. Sell flahrs ; go aht charrin' I 'spose. 
 [She rises, petulantly.] Oh, I'd better git orf. 
 I ain't wantid 'ere ! 
 
 JIM. [not attempting to stop her.] Wot'll you 
 do? 
 
 LIZ. [taking her coat from the chair.] I dunno. 
 
 JIM. Goin' back to 'im ? 
 
36 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. ii 
 
 LIZ. [fiercely.] Dunno. 
 
 JIM. D'you want ter go ? [She does not 
 answer ; she is sulky,] [Shouting at her.] D'yer 
 want ter go ? 
 
 LIZ. [struggling with her coat and speaking 
 petulantly.] I ain't wantid 'ere ; don't yer think 
 I can see that ? 
 
 JIM. [turning away from her with affected in- 
 difference.] 'Ave yer own way. 
 LIZ. Wot yer mean ? 
 JIM. [nonchalantly.] 01, nuffink. 
 LIZ. [making for the door.] Very well 
 then. 
 
 JIM does not shift his position. With her 
 hand on the door-handle she turns round to 
 him and confronts him archly. He shuffles 
 his feet and turns his eyes away ; she regards 
 him unflinchingly and speaks steadily. 
 You got a gal ? 
 JIM. No. 
 
 LIZ. [satisfied.] Oh. [She tries the handle 
 of the door.] This dore's locked. 
 JIM. Yers. 
 
 A blank pause. Presently he takes the key 
 from his pocket cmd goes over to the door. He 
 unlocks it. She puts her hand out to grasp 
 the handle; he does the same and their 
 
sc. ii] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 37 
 
 hands meet. She starts back : he grabs her by 
 the waist am,d roughly kisses her on the lips. 
 
 lAT.. [struggling from him and wiping her mouth 
 on the back of her hand.] Silly fool you ! 
 
 JIM. [vehemently, with intense passion.] I 
 like you. . . . 
 
 LIZ. [nervously.] Chuck it ! 
 
 JIM. I tell yer I like yer, an' I'm not again' 
 ter let yer go back ter that blasted Bill 'Iggins, 
 so nah then ! 
 
 LIZ. [nervously.] Don't play the fool. D'yer 
 fergit I'm married ? 
 
 JIM. No, faint likely. I don't fergit, ain't 
 likely ter fergit. Don't you fergit that you've 
 come 'ere in the middle o' the night and thrown 
 yerself in my 'ands. Nah you'll 'ave ter take 
 the consequences. You don't go back to 'im, 
 d'y'ear ? You do wot / tell yer. 
 
 LIZ. Law lummy, you're anough ter frighten 
 anybody. 
 
 JIM. May be I am. Take orf that coat. 
 
 LIZ. Woffor ? 
 
 JIM. [gruffly masterful.] 'Cause I tells yer 
 to. [They gradually approach the middle of the 
 room. She removes the coat.] Sit dahn ag'in. 
 
 LIZ. [resentfully.] Sha'n't. 
 
 JIM. [masterfully.] Yus you will. 
 
38 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. ii 
 
 LIZ. [protestingly.] Awright then. [She sits 
 down ; jim takes a chair and sits near her.] 
 
 There is a brief pause. They regard each 
 other closely, without a tremor on either 
 side. A heavy gloom overspreads jim's 
 features. Presently he looks down at his 
 feet, and Liz's eyes, thus released, also scan 
 the floor. A moment elapses and then jim 
 looks up again ; his glance encounters that 
 of LIZ and both of them turn uneasily away. 
 JIM. [seizing her hand."] D'yer like me ? 
 LIZ. [without hesitation.'] In wot way ? 
 JIM. You know wot way. Would yer marry 
 me? 
 
 LIZ. Garn, you know I carn't. 
 JIM. [impatiently.] Gawd ! Don't I know 
 that ? Would yer if yer could ? 
 LIZ. [listlessly.] I dessay. 
 JIM. I 'spose you 'ad plenty o' young men 
 w'en you was single ? 
 
 LIZ. A goodish few. . . . And you ain't 
 got a gal, eh ? 
 
 JIM. No : never liked gals some' ah. Shifty 
 lot : never mean wot they say an' never says 
 wot they mean. Think you ought to alwus be 
 a-spoonin' abaht with 'em. 
 
 LIZ. Theyn't all like that though. 
 
sc. II] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 39 
 
 JIM. [facetiously.] Oh ain't they though, I 
 don't fink ! 
 
 LIZ. [confidingly.] I ain't hke that meself. 
 
 JIM. [not having thought of her as a " gaZ."] 
 Oh you ! 
 
 LIZ. Well, after all, gals will go after decent- 
 lookin' fellers, jest as fellers will go after decent- 
 lookin' gals : it's on'y nach'ral. 
 
 JIM. [frankly.] I ain't wot you'd call decent- 
 lookin', am I ? 
 
 LIZ. [confused.] Wot a question ! 
 
 JIM. [persistently.] But really, am I ? 
 
 LIZ. [unwillingly.] Well, you ain't bad, as 
 men go ! 
 
 JIM. [pleased.] Never thought of that before. 
 He gets up and walks about the room a 
 -moment or two ; holds himself erect and pulls 
 up his troupers, which are supported by a belt. 
 
 LIZ. Garn ! [Reflectively.] But some men 
 don't. Gals alwus knows w'ether they're good- 
 lookin' or not, give yer my word. 
 
 JIM. [bending over her.] You're a beauty, 
 yer know. [He straightens himself up.] I got a 
 bit a money saved up. . . . I'm tired o' this 
 rotten 'ole. . . . 
 
 LIZ. [drily.] Wot yer torkin' abaht ? 
 
 JIM. You and me seem to 'it it awright. 
 
40 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. ii 
 
 LIZ. Wot yer mean ? 
 
 JIM. [he lecms over her chair and lets his right 
 arm fall on hers.] Couldn't we keep 'ahse 
 tergether somew'ere, you and me ? 
 
 LIZ. [intently.] Wot's that yo're sayin' ? 
 She remains perfectly motionless, staring 
 in front of her. 
 
 JIM. [earnestly.] I like you. ... I believe 
 you like me awright. I'd treat yer well, straight 
 I would ; I'd work me fingers ter the bone ter 
 make yer 'appy, 'struth I would. . . . Wot yer 
 say? 
 
 LIZ. [in a low voice.] An' me a respectable 
 woman ? 
 
 JIM. [raising his hand from her arm and putting 
 it on her shoulder as he holds himself more up- 
 right.] You'd be a jolly sight more respectable 
 then. . . . You married to a rotter like 'im, 
 not fit ter black yer boots . . . drunk . , . 
 p'raps worse. Wot d'yer owe 'im ? Nothink! 
 Wouldn't it be more respectable to live yer life 
 with someb'dy that would appreciate yer ? 
 [He waits for her reply, but she continues to look 
 steadily before her.] I promise yer I won't stay 
 aht late o' nights. I don't drink — ^nothink ter 
 speak of. I 'ate other gals . . . it's on'y you. 
 . . . Eh? 
 
sc. ii] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 41 
 
 LIZ. [with forced mockery.] Yers, and w'en 
 you git tired o' me, wot then ? 
 
 JIM. [passionately.] I wouldn't git tired o' 
 yer : I ain't that sort. 
 
 LIZ. And me married too ? 
 
 JIM. I don't call it married. [He bends over 
 her again, and speaks with great tenderness.] I 
 tell yer I like yer . . . [then with a tremendous 
 effort] love yer. 
 
 LIZ. [fearfully.] An' us not married. W'en 
 you'd 'ad anough o' me, you'd simply go aht one 
 night and never come back no more. I'd 'ave 
 no claim on yer, mind. 
 
 JIM. [dropping on his knees by the side of her 
 chair and speaking up into her face.] Liz, yer 
 don't know me, straight yer don't. I'd go 
 through fire an' water fer yer, I feel that strong 
 abaht yer. 
 
 LIZ. [struggling to resist.] We ain't known 
 each other more'n a few hahrs. 
 
 JIM. Don't matter ; I feel as tho' I'd known 
 yer all me life. Liz, I take me solemn dyin' 
 oath [he draws his hand symbolically across his 
 throat], and may I never stir from 'ere if I'm 
 a-kiddin' yer, I'll treat yer well. I'll do ev'ry- 
 think yer want me to. 
 
 LIZ. [fearing to yield.] But 'ow'd we git 
 
42 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. ii 
 
 away from 'im ? 'E'd track me dahn ; 'e's got 
 the law on 'is side, don't fergit. 
 
 JIM. 'E won't find us. We'll clear aht, far 
 away from 'ere. An' wot if 'e did ? 'E could 
 on'y git a divorce. We wouldn't mind that. 
 
 LIZ. [fearfully.] But 'e likes me, Jim. 'E 
 wouldn't be satisfied with no divorce, not 'im. 
 
 JIM. [confidently.] Wot 'ud 'e do then ? 
 
 LIZ. Gawd knows wot 'e'd do, 'e's that 
 spiteful. 
 
 JIM. [laughing.] If that's all you're thinkin' 
 of, you can set yer mind at rest. I'm a match 
 fer Bill 'Iggins any day and a dozen like 'im. 
 'E ain't got no more guts than a bundle o' lights. 
 . . . Nah then, make up yer mind. . . . We 
 couldn't 'ave a better chance than we got nah. 
 
 LIZ. [reluctantly.] Awright then. 
 
 At the sign of yielding he stoops down and 
 kisses her. She struggles. He releases her 
 and holds his fingers to his lips. 
 
 JIM. Sh ! You'll 'ave somebody dahn if 
 you ain't careful. 
 
 She is scared but says nothing. She 
 arranges her clothes preparatory to leaving. 
 Got'n'y money on yer ? 
 
 LIZ. [scornfully.] Is it likely ? 'Tain't 
 likely that I should 'a' come 'ere if I 'ad, is it ? 
 
sc. II] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAAVN 43 
 
 JIM. [feeling in his pocket.] 'Ere's a tanner ; 
 nex' door but two there's another doss-'ahse 
 — a better one than this ; you can get a decent 
 shake-dahn there fer a tanner. [He hands her 
 the money ; she takes it.] Meet me termorrer, 
 ten o'clock, corner o' Wa'wuf road, Elephant-an- 
 Carstle end ; then we can arrange things. 
 
 LIZ. [beginning to repent her decision.] 
 Jim . . . 
 
 JIM. [apprehensively.] Wot's the matter nah ? 
 
 LIZ. I s'pose it's awright ? 
 
 JIM. [reassuringly.] O' course it's awright. 
 
 LIZ. [hesitating.] On'y . . . me married an 
 all. . . . 
 
 JIM. [tenderly.] Don't you worry yer 'ead 
 abaht that. Trust me. I'm straight : I ain't 
 one ter speak abaht meself, but some'ah you seem 
 to 'a' give me the gift o' the gab and I feel as 
 though I could go on tawkin' fer ye'rs and ye'rs 
 jest ter say 'ah much I like yer. Take my word 
 fer it. [He takes hold of her shoulders and looks 
 straight into her eyes.] I tell yer I'm again' ter 
 make yer 'appy ; I'm gain' ter make yer fergit 
 that other cuss. . . . 
 
 LIZ. [wrenching herself free.] Nah then ! You 
 shut up abaht 'im ; 'e's my husban' w'en all's 
 said an' done. I liked 'im once. . . . 
 
44 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. ii 
 
 JIM. [propitiating.] Awright, awright. 
 LIZ. Oh, it's all very well far you ; but me 
 ... me married . . . 'tain't the same thing. . . . 
 JIM. You ain't a-tryin' ter back aht of it 
 nah, are yer ? 
 
 LIZ. 'Oo's a-backin' aht of it ? 
 JIM. [with renewed tenderness.] 'Ere, I say, 
 Liz, give a chap a chance : you ain't got nothink 
 ter fear. I'll look after yer. Nah then. Ter- 
 morrer ; ten o'clock ; Wa'wuf road ; Elephant- 
 an-Carstle end. 
 
 He opens the door for her ; she goes out 
 without making any rejoinder, her departing 
 figure showing indecision in every line. 
 Goo'bye fer the present, Liz. 
 
 LIZ. [as she turns the corner, not looking round.] 
 Goo'bye ! 
 
 JIM stands motionless ; there is the sound 
 of a swing door off ; then jim turns round. 
 The sound of a distant gate. He closes the 
 door, locking it and putting the key in his 
 pocket. He lowers the gas ; walks about 
 restlessly for a few seconds ; listens intently ; 
 rubs his eyes sleepily. Presently he returns 
 to the table, props his head up with his fore- 
 arm. He sleeps. 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 45 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The kitchen of iaz higgins' apartments in Dept- 
 ford, about half an hour later. Entering 
 the room from the ill-lit landing, one has on 
 one's left a well-filled dresser and a door 
 leading to the bedroom. The fireplace, also 
 on the left, has been energetically polished 
 and gleams in response to the light of the 
 lamp standing exactly in the centre of the 
 table, which, in its turn, stands in the pre- 
 cise centre of the room. Over the mantel- 
 piece, which boasts a ball-fringe and a number 
 of ornaments symmetrically arranged, is a 
 gay-coloured print, and in various parts of 
 the room are other pictures, representing good 
 people doing kind things. A few chairs 
 and a sofa in appropriate positions. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS comcs in, followed by the 
 landlady, mrs lansdowne. mrs higgins 
 is a plump little woman, about sixty years 
 of age and not more than five feet in height. 
 She retains a good complexion, but her hair 
 is nearly white. Although of a cheerful dis- 
 position, she, like her son bill, is inclined 
 to worry over trifles. She wears a dark 
 
46 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. in 
 
 skirt and black bodice ; at the present moment 
 she is dressed in her out-door clothes : a 
 black cape, a black bonnet with a red rose in 
 it, the ribbons tied under her chin primly. 
 Black cotton gloves, mrs lansdowne is 
 a tall woman of perhaps fifty-five ; her hair 
 is mouse colour ; her complexion pale, almost 
 sallow. She is dressed in black, but a white 
 apron bears witness to her industrious nature. 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. [folding her arms.] Well, 
 mum, I'm sorry, mum, but it ain't my fault. 
 
 MRS HiGGiNS. [plaintively.] 'Cawse it ain't 
 your fault, Mrs Lansdowne : I ain't sayin' it 
 is, am I now ? [She takes off her bonnet and cape 
 and puts them on the table.] But there you are ! 
 Something's wrong ; that's a dead cert. I was 
 arsked round 'ere — ^hinvited, mind yer — ^ter tea 
 an' all. And wot do I find ? Nob'dy at 'ome. 
 Well, wot's the reason ? that's all I arsk. 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. Reason, indeed ; that's 
 wot I want ter know. As I told yer, she went aht 
 at eleven o'clock this mornin'. " Were you 
 goin', Mrs 'Iggins ? " I says. " On'y ter get 
 some things in," she says ; " me mother-in-law " 
 — meanin' you^" 'is a-comin' ter tea," she says. 
 " Oh ! " I says. " Yers," she says. An' that's 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 47 
 
 all wot transpired. I did think she looked a bit 
 queer some'ah, but my motter bein' ter keep 
 meself to meself, I says to meself : "It ain't 
 none o' your business, Mary Lansdowne : 'old 
 yer tongue." So 'old me tongue I did. 
 
 MRS HiGGiNS. I'm sorry you did. [Hastily.] 
 Not that you could 'a' guessed. 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. Guess indeed ! 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. [contemplatively.] An' wot time 
 did 'e come 'ome ? 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. Same as usual, twenty 
 pars' twelve, fer 'is dinner. " Mrs Lansdowne," 
 'e says : " w'ere's my missis ? " Jest like that. 
 " Mr 'Iggins," I says, " 'ow do I know ? " 'E 
 looked a bit dahn in the mouth, so I said to 
 'im : " She went aht at eleven o'clock," I says, 
 " and I ain't seen 'er since," I says ; " said she 
 was goin' ter do a bit o' shoppin'," I says. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. An' wot did 'e do ? 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. Do ? Do ? Nothink — 
 not at first. He jest set dahn. 'Arf hour later 
 'e come dahn stairs ag'in. " Mrs Lansdowne," *e 
 says, " I'm again' ter find my missis." 'E 
 looked pale-like, and determined, and I wondered 
 w'ether 'e intended ter bash 'er or wot. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. An' between then and now you 
 ain't seen 'im at all ? 
 
48 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iii 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. [impatiently.] Ain't I 
 told yer so ? 
 
 MRS HiGGiNS. Wot's the time nah ? It mus' 
 be gittin' on. 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. The pubs is jest closin' ; 
 'ar' pars' twelve. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. Oh, dear : I dunno wot ter do. 
 She extends her arms helplessly, looking 
 over the table at mrs lansdowne, who 
 regards her impassively. 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. If you take my advice — 
 not that anybody ever does — ^but if you take my 
 advice you'd go 'ome 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. [in an outburst.] 'Ow can I 
 go 'ome and sleep knowin' my boy's in trouble ? 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. [resignedly.] I said I 
 didn't expec' yer ter take my advice ; 'same 
 time, yer needn't carry on so ; your son's big 
 anough ter take care of 'isself — ^man 'is age! 
 W'ether or no, I carn't stop up 'ere any longer ; 
 'ar' pars' twelve an' me not in bed . . . and got 
 ter get up at six o'clock in the mornin'. [mrs 
 HIGGINS pays no attention to her.] Would you 
 believe me, Mrs 'Iggins, I've bin up at six o'clock 
 ev'ry morning since I bin married. [She turns 
 away with a sigh.] Ah, well. It's an 'ard world 
 fer them as tries ter do their dooty. 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 49 
 
 Footsteps on the stairs. 
 MES HiGGiNS. [expectontly.] 'Ark ! 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. [showiug sowiB sigHS of in- 
 quisitive animation.] 'Ere 'e is ! 
 
 MRS HIGGINS moves towards the door, show- 
 ing signs of excitement as the footsteps 
 approach the room. Presently the door 
 opens and bill enters. He is a trifle the 
 worse for drink, but has apparently almost 
 complete control of himself. He scowls at 
 MRS LANSDOWNE / then Ms eyes alight 
 on his mother, who goes up to him with 
 outstretched arms. 
 MRS HIGGINS. My poor boy. 
 
 He does not resist her embrace and seems re- 
 lieved at being able to give way. mrs higgins 
 motions to mrs lansdowne to leave the 
 stage ; the latter feigns not to understand. 
 MRS HIGGINS. Thank yer kindly, Mrs Lans- 
 downe ; we sha'n't trouble you any more ter- 
 night. 
 
 MRS LANSDOWNE. \snortvng indignantly.] Oh, 
 indeed ! [She addresses the world at large.] 
 W'en you can be of some use you're wantid ; 
 but you can be done withaht quick anough 
 w'en they think you might 'ear somethink in- 
 terestin'. [She bounces out] 
 
50 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. in 
 
 BILL drcyps heavily mto an arm-chair, 
 followed by mrs higgins, who pets him. 
 Neither speaks for a moment or two. 
 
 MRS higgins. [anxiously.] Well, Bill, 'ave 
 yer seen 'er ? 
 
 BILL. Yers. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. [surprised.] Oh, you 'ave. W'ere's 
 she now ? 
 
 BILL. I dunno. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. [plaintively.] Wot's the mean- 
 in' of it all. Bill ? 
 
 BILL, [disconsolately.] Oh, she took offence 
 at me ways, as she calls 'em — and she 'opped 
 it. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. But, Bill, surely you could *a' 
 brought 'er back. 
 
 BILL, [sullenly.] No, I couldn't. She 
 managed ter give me the slip an' I ain't set eyes 
 on 'er since. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. [with conviction.] The 'ussy ! 
 
 BILL. Yer needn't take on agin' 'er, mother ; 
 p'raps it was partly my fault, but I didn't think 
 she'd 'op it altergether. . . . You git along 'ome, 
 mother ; 't ain't no good o' you stayin' 'ere. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. P'raps she'll come back. 
 
 BILL. P'raps she won't. [With passion.] You 
 know 'ow I'm gome on that gal, mother ; if 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 51 
 
 she come back now I wouldn't say nothink ; 
 I'd jest let 'er settle dahn as she liked and let 
 the 'ole matter blow over. [Gloomily.] But she 
 won't come 'ome, no fear. [Fiercely.] If I 
 thought that Jim 'Arris was a-carryin' on with 
 'er I'd wring 'is blasted neck I would. 
 
 MRS HIG6INS. [surpnsed.] Jim 'Arris ? You 
 ain't seen 'im, 'ave yer ? 'E ain't got nothink 
 ter do with it, 'as 'e ? 
 
 BILL. I dunno. But she knows 'im. [He 
 turns his head away to avoid her too-concerned 
 glance.] Jim 'Arris is awright, but 'e's alwus bin a 
 queer cus — as 'igh an' mighty as they make 'em ; 
 reads books a lot, too. — Queer in 'is 'ead I reckon. 
 But 'ere, you git along 'ome, mother : yo're 
 tired ; leave me ter me own troubles. . . . 
 
 MRS HiGGiNS. [hurt.] Of course if yer'd 
 rather I went, I'll go. [She puts on her cape and 
 bonnet.] I don't want ter be in anybody's way. 
 I'll come rahnd in the mornin' and see if there's 
 anythink fresh. [She crosses over to the door, 
 turning back again before reaching it.] 
 
 BILL, [regarding her apathetically.] Awright. 
 
 MRS HIGGINS. [with her hand on the door.] 
 Thank Gawd you ain't bin an' gorne an' done 
 nothink desp'rit. [She goes back to bill and pats 
 him affectionately on the head.] Goo'hye, Bill. 
 
52 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iii 
 
 Keep yer pecker up. Gawd bless yer. [She 
 crosses to the door again, going out with a final] 
 Goo'bye. 
 
 BILL, [moodily.] Goo'bye, mother. 
 
 When the door closes bill's limbs drop loose 
 and he seems to doze. Suddenly coming 
 to himself, as the street door bangs, he rises, 
 stretches himself, yawns, rubs his eyes, and 
 goes to the table and fetches the lamp. With 
 unsteady limbs he walks into the bedroom, 
 leaving the room in complete darkness. 
 
 A minute or two elapse and then a key is 
 heard to fumble in a distant lock ; this is 
 followed by the sound of footsteps ascending 
 the stairs. The door opens and the landing 
 light shows the figure of Liz in the doorway. 
 She comes into the dark room, crosses over 
 to the mantelpiece and feels for matches ; 
 finds them and strikes one, going over to 
 the table and looking for the lamp. Not 
 finding it, she looks up in dismay : the match 
 goes out. There ensues a short pause and 
 then a blaze of light proceeds from the bed- 
 room door and bill comes in with the lamp. 
 On seeing him liz shrinks but does not move. 
 BILL seems, for the moment, nonplussed, 
 regarding her incredulously, lamp in trem- 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 53 
 
 bling hand. He rubs his eyes and doubts 
 his own soberness. He shambles back to 
 the table and puts down the lamp. When 
 he speaks his voice is hoarse.] 
 
 BILL. You've come back. 
 
 LIZ. [softly.] Yers. 
 
 BILL. Woffor ? 
 
 LIZ. [motionless.] I've changed me mind. 
 BILL drops heavily on to the sofa. 
 
 LIZ. I'm sorry, Bill. 
 
 BILL, [stupidly, looking straight at her.] 
 Woffor ? 
 
 LIZ. Fer runnin' away. 
 
 BILL. Wot yer do it for then ? 
 
 LIZ. You know. . . . 
 
 BILL, [petulantly.] Don't know. 
 
 LIZ. [almost apologetically.] You do drink 
 so, Bill. . . . 
 
 BILL, [reluctantly.] I know. 
 
 LIZ. An' w'en you're in drink you 'it me, 
 Bill. . . . 
 
 BILL, [quickly.] It's a lie ! 
 
 LIZ. 'Tain't a lie ; you know it ain't. [She 
 pulls up her sleeve and holds out her arm.] Look 
 at this. [He averts his eyes after a hasty glance.] 
 You don't know wot you are doin' w'en you've 
 bin on the drink. 
 
54 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iii 
 
 BILL, [heavily.] Gawd 'elp us. [Struck with 
 an excuse.] Gawd made the drink. . . . 
 
 LIZ. Let bygomes be bygomes. [She goes over 
 to him.] Promise me you'll turn over a noo leaf. 
 
 BILL. I promised that before. 
 
 LIZ. [coaxingly.] Yers, I know ; but this 
 time yer'U keep yer word, won't yer, Bill ? 
 
 BILL, [gloomily doubtful.] Yus. 'Cawse there's 
 got ter be give an' take in this 'ere job, yer 
 know. 
 
 LIZ. [not understcmding.] 'Ow, Bill ? Wot 
 d'yer mean ? 
 
 BILL, [ominously.] Nothink much. . . . You 
 stick ter me and I'll stick ter you, but none o' 
 yer 'anky-panky, mindjer. . . . 
 
 LIZ. I don't know wot yer mean, Bill. 
 
 BILL, [grimly.] You promise me you'll be 
 straight. 
 
 He breaks off suddenly and looks at her 
 fixedly ; she shrinks. 
 
 LIZ. Straight ? Me ? Ain't I alwus bin 
 straight with yer, Bill ? 
 
 BILL, [doggedly.] May be you 'ave, maybe 
 you 'aven't : I ain't sayin' nothink ; / dunno. 
 
 LIZ. Wot d'yer mean. Bill ? 
 
 BILL, [standing suddenly erect.] Wot abaht 
 Jim 'Arris ? 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 55 
 
 LIZ. [nervously.] W'y, nothink. 
 
 BILL. Oh, " nothink " ; I ain't so sure. 
 
 LIZ. But it's the truth, Bill. 
 
 BILL. Wot'd 'e take on so for ? 
 
 LIZ. I don't know. It wus the first time I 
 ever set eyes on 'im ternight, straight. Bill. 
 
 BILL. I ain't saying it wasn't, am I ? — Time 
 enough. . . . Wot 'ad 'e bin a-sayin' ter yer 
 before I come in ? 
 
 LIZ. Nothink much. Bill. 
 
 BILL. But wot ? 
 
 LIZ. [confused.] Oh, 'e arsked me w'ere I 
 come from, me name and so on ; that's all. 
 
 BILL, [menacingly.] 'E didn't make up ter 
 yer? 
 
 LIZ. No, I tell yer. 
 
 BILL, only half-convinced, sits down again. 
 LIZ crosses despondently over the room and 
 falls limply into am, arm-chair by the fire- 
 
 BiLL. Wot yer gome over there for ? [liz 
 does not reply.] Eh ? 
 
 LIZ. [sulkily.] Wot yer keep arskin' sech 
 questions for ? You make me sick, yer do, 
 you an' yer suspicions. 
 
 BILL, [propitiating.] Law lummy, you are 
 all right. 
 
56 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. in 
 
 LIZ. [sulkily.] Well, I don't like it, so there. 
 
 BILL, [affectionately.] 'Ere, come an' sit 'ere, 
 ole gal. . . . 
 
 LIZ. [xmwillvng to give way.] Don't want to, 
 
 BILL. Awright then. 
 
 LIZ. If yer gain' ter start yer ole pranks 
 again, I'll begin ter think it ud 'a' bin better if 
 I 'ad 'a' ran away. 
 
 BILL, alarmed, goes to her and bends over her. 
 
 BILL. Don't be silly. You know it wus on'y 
 
 my larks. I know I can trust yer . . . wouldn't 
 
 'a' married yer unless I knew you was straight. 
 
 He sits down at her feet. She lets her hand 
 
 caress his hair. 
 
 LIZ. Wot yer want ter say sech things for 
 then? 
 
 BILL, [escaping from her caresses and sitting 
 suddenly upright.] That Jim 'Arris — ^uppish 
 rotter I I thought 'e was sweet on yer — couldn't 
 stand any of 'is sauce. 'E 'ad the better o' me 
 then, the big lolloping bully, but I'll teach 'im 
 yet. 
 
 LIZ. [coaxingly, but unsteadily.] Let 'im alone, 
 Bill; 'e ain't worth troublin' abaht. Let 
 us live peaceful as we've done before, [bill 
 mumbles wnder his breath.] Bill, yer don't know 
 'ow sick I am of all this. I want ter start ag'in. 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 57 
 
 It's awful alwus bein' uncertain abaht wot's 
 goin' to 'appen. Let you an' me live quiet 
 tergether. . . . 'E's a big man is Jim 'Arris, 
 remember. . . . 
 
 BILL. Yus, I know 'e's a big man, and that's 
 w'y I'd like ter break 'is blasted neck . , . 
 pretendin' ter be yer pal and all the w'ile 'e's 
 a-foolin' arahnd yer ole woman. . . . 
 
 LIZ. [fiercely.] Stop that talk. Bill : I ain't 
 again' ter put up with it, ser don't yer think it. 
 
 BILL. Awright ; it slipped aht ; wasn't think- 
 in' o' you. . . . 
 
 LIZ. [only half propitiated.] Oh ! . . . It's 
 gittin' late. Bill ; must be nigh one o'clock. 
 Let's get ter bed . . . and promise me yer won't 
 interfere any more with them 'Arrises. 
 
 BILL, [sharply.] Wot yer mean, interfere 
 with the 'Arrises ? 
 
 LIZ. Leave 'em alone ; let 'em go their way 
 and we'll go ourn. [Unconvincingly.] They 
 aint' worth troublin' abaht. 
 
 BILL, [suspiciously.] You seem mighty anxi- 
 ous for me not to interfere with the 'Arrises. . . . 
 
 LIZ. I like a peaceful life. It don't seem 
 worth w'ile puttin' yer 'ead in the noose for 
 someb'dy else ter pull tight. 
 
 BILL, (aggressively.] An' so do I like a quiet 
 
58 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iii 
 
 life w'en I can git it withaht bein' sat on. . . . 
 No, me gal : this is my business. [He jumps up.] 
 I'm again' ter do wot I think fit in this 'ere 
 matter. [He takes the lamp and goes to the bed- 
 room door. LIZ does not move. He turns rownd 
 when he reaches the door.] Ain't yer comin' ? 
 LIZ. [sullenly.] No. [bill approaches her.] 
 BILL. Wot's the matter nah ? [liz does not 
 reply.] Aht wiv it ! 
 
 LIZ. You never does nothink I asks yer, Bill. 
 W'y carn't yer leave this 'ere affair ter blow over 
 by itself ? 
 
 BILL, [standing by the side of the arm-chair, 
 lamp in hand.] 'Cause I ain't again' to. 
 
 LIZ. Wot d'yer want ter meddle with it again 
 for ? You don't know w'ere it'll end. 'E may 
 do you an injury. An' even if 'e don't, you may 
 git yerself inter trouble . . . p'lice court, 
 p'r'aps . . . lose yer job an' all. 
 
 BILL stands looking straight in front of him 
 and makes no reply. A struggle seems to 
 be going on in his mind. Still holding the 
 lamp, he walks about the room, liz watches 
 his movements with an intent expression 
 on her face. The light of the lamp falling 
 on her shows that she is pale and overwrought. 
 Suddenly bill goes off at a tangent straight 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 59 
 
 up to her. His voice is fierce and deter- 
 mined. 
 BILL. Wot's this mean ? 
 LIZ. [cowering.] Mean ? 
 BILL. Yus, mean. 
 
 LIZ. [on the defensive, but frightened.] No- 
 think, Bill. You are one ter ketch people up. 
 I tell yer I'm sick of it all. If yo're gain' ter 
 make my life a misery talkin' abaht revenge on 
 Jim 'Arris, I tell yer straight I ain't again' ter 
 stand it, and you'll 'ave ter talk ter deaf walls 
 and empty grates . . . 'tain't likely I'm gain' 
 ter put up with yer continual snarlin' ... so 
 yer can please yerself. 
 
 BILL. That's wot I'm gain' ter do. Wot's 
 Jim 'Arris ter you I should like ter know. 
 
 LIZ. [provokingly.] Never you mind wot Jim 
 'Arris is ter me. That ain't the question. You 
 said yer could trust me ; well, if yer carn't, we'd 
 best part company. 
 
 BILL, [more tranquil.] Oh, awright ; sorry 
 I spoke ! [He goes to her.] 'Ere, come along, 
 Liz. 
 
 He makes to embrace her ; she repulses him. 
 He stands stiffly erect clenching the fist of 
 his right hand, his left holding the lamp over 
 his head. His face shows signs of inward 
 
60 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iii 
 
 torment, cmd his expression suddenly gives 
 place to one of ferocity. His next words 
 seem to burst from him. 
 'Ere, clear aht of it ! [She cowers.] D'y'ear ? 
 Git aht of it before I throw the lamp at yer 
 'ead. . . . 
 LIZ. [frightened.] Bill. . . . 
 BILL. Clear aht ! 
 LIZ. [leaping in terror from the chair.] But 
 
 w'y? 
 
 BILL, [at the top of his voice.] Never you mind 
 w'y ; you jest clear aht of it. [With suppressed 
 passion.] I can 'ardly keep meself dahn as it 
 is. If yer don't git aht of it at once I won't 
 answer fer the consequences. 
 
 LIZ. [hurrying away.] It's all a mistake, 
 Bill. 
 
 BILL places the lamp heavily on the table : 
 it goes out. He rushes menacingly in her 
 direction. There is the sound of a heavy 
 fall and a muttered " damn ! " Then the 
 door is opened and the landing-light shows 
 the hurrying form of Liz, who snatches a 
 shawl from the door-peg and makes her 
 escape. 
 
 BILL rises from the floor : he had stumbled 
 over a chair. He gropes about the room, 
 
sc. Ill] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 61 
 
 presently striking a match and lighting the 
 lamp. He looks about him with a scared air 
 and mutters " Gone." He opens the door 
 and looks over the landing banisters ; the 
 street door bangs. He returns to the room. 
 His arms fall limply to his sides. He 
 crosses heavily to the fireplace and learns 
 against the mantelpiece, his hand falling 
 on one of the ornaments. His mind wander- 
 ing, he examines the ornament with intense 
 curiosity, comes to his senses and flings it 
 violently into the fireplace. The noise seems 
 to please him : he takes its fellow and treats 
 it in the same manner. He laughs hysteric- 
 ally ; falls supine into the arm-chair and 
 gazes steadily in front of him with an 
 immobile face. Gradually his expression 
 changes from vacancy to discontent, then to 
 bitterness, to anger, to tenderness and anguish. 
 He is overcome by the torment of his conflict- 
 ing feelings. His head falls forward into 
 his hands and he sobs bitterly. 
 
62 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iv 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 The doss-house, between one and two o^clock. 
 
 JIM HARRIS is writing. He looks up 
 thoughtfully, dips his pen in the ink and 
 writes again. A few moments elapse and 
 then one hears the distant swing-door, fol- 
 lowed by a light tapping at the shutter, 
 JIM rises, pulls back the shutter and sees Liz. 
 He says nothing, closes the shutter, looks 
 surprised, and then opens the door, waiting 
 for LIZ to enter. She walks heavily and 
 wearily well into the room, glances at the 
 half-finished letter on the table. 
 
 JIM. Well ? 
 
 LIZ. Wot's that ? 
 
 JIM. A letter ter me mother : I got to ex- 
 plain things, yer know . . . keepin' back wot 
 I think proper. 
 
 LIZ. You may as well tear it up. 
 
 JIM. . [incredulously.] W'y, wot's the matter ? 
 
 LIZ. [vehemently.] Oh Gawd! 'Ow I 'ate 
 men ! 
 
 JIM. [going quickly to her side and putting his 
 arm on her shoulder.] Liz, dear, wot's up ? 
 
sc. IV] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 63 
 
 LIZ. [giving way and falling closer to him.] It's 
 all up. I've bin 'ome. 
 
 JIM. [standing back from her and regarding 
 her incredulously, but with dawning distress.] 
 Wot ? Bin 'ome ? 
 
 LIZ. Yers. 
 
 JIM. Woffor ? 
 
 LIZ. [distractedly.] Oh, I dunno. It's no 
 good o' you a-carryin' on abaht it. I done it 
 nah and it carn't be undone. 
 
 JIM. [nonplussed,] Done wot ? [Tenderly.] 
 Tell me wot you've bin and gorne an' done. 
 
 LIZ. [moving a little away from him and speaking 
 eagerly, but brokenly.] W'en I left you I come to 
 me senses. I knoo I'd never be able ter do wot 
 you wantid me to. I've alwus bin respectable 
 and that. ... I liked yer, Jim : I wasn't 
 kiddin' yer, straight. I like yer now better'n 
 'im, better'n any man I know of . . . but 
 some'ah I couldn't take the plunge. I bin 
 brought up respectable, and even if I 'ated 'im 
 ever so, I'd 'a' gorne back to 'im. ... I was 'is 
 wife an' all. Wot was I ter do ? 'Ere was you 
 ready an' willin' ter take me as I was, but 'avin' 
 no lawful claim on me ; there was 'im ready and 
 willin', too, and me bein' 'is lawful wife. I 
 liked you best, straight, Jim, and sometimes I 
 
64 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iv 
 
 feel as though I 'ated 'im, but ... oh ! 
 I dunno, but I wantid ter do the right 
 thing. . . . 
 
 JIM. [recoiling invohmtarily.] You couldn't 
 even come back and tell me ? 
 
 LIZ. I never thought o' that. Jest as I was 
 goin' inter that there lodgin' 'ouse up the road 
 it all seemed to come on me with a rush. [She 
 commences to sway as if in pain.] I didn't know 
 wot ter do ... I felt as though I was goin' all 
 wrong. . . . Men don't know wot it is. I saw 
 meself on the streets, and that. . . . An' swop 
 me bob, Jim, I never meant no 'arm ter you, but 
 I decided ter go back 'ome. 
 
 JIM. [steadily.] Well ? 
 
 LIZ. An' I went. 
 
 JIM. [harshly.] Well, an' wot' 'a' yer come 
 back 'ere for ? 
 
 She looks up at him sitddenly. 
 
 LIZ. 'E come 'ome ; we 'ad another rah and 
 'e turned me aht o' the 'ouse. 
 
 JIM. [steadily.] Wot did yer rah abaht ? 
 
 LIZ. You . . . 'e said you'd bin makin' up 
 ter me. 
 
 JIM. An' wot did you say ? 
 
 LIZ. I said you 'adn't. 
 
 JIM. You told a lie abaht it ? 
 
sc. IV] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 65 
 
 LIZ. Wot else was I ter do ? 'E would 'a' 
 murdered me if 'e'd 'a' knoo. 
 
 JIM. [going away from her.] Women are all 
 alike ; they ain't got no backbone. 
 
 LIZ. [persistently.] Wot could I 'a' done ? 
 
 JIM. [turning round on her swiftly.] Told 'im 
 the truth. 
 
 LIZ. An' bin killed ? 
 
 JIM. [fatalistically.] Well, you got ter die 
 once, ain't yer ? 
 
 LIZ. [anguishfully.] Wish I was dead now, 
 that I do. 
 
 JIM. [after a brief pause.] You ain't told me 
 yet wot you come rahnd 'ere ag'in for. 
 
 LIZ. You won't believe me if I do. 
 
 JIM. Yus, I will. 
 
 LIZ. [in a low voice.] 'E was in sech a 
 tearin' rage w'en I come away and was so 
 bitter agin' you, that I thought I'd come 'ere 
 an' warn yer. I don't want you ter suffer 
 from 'is rage. 
 
 JIM. [whimsically.] So yer come rahnd ter 
 save my life ? Poor Liz ! 
 
 LIZ. You don't know 'im w'en 'e's rahsed ; 
 'e's a match fer two men. 
 
 JIM. Not 'im. 
 
 LIZ. But can't yer keep aht of 'is way ? 
 
 E 
 
66 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iv 
 
 JIM. Wot, run away from 'im ? 'T ain't 
 likely. 
 
 LIZ. [pleading.] Oh, yer must, Jim, yer 
 must ; I'd never fergive meself if anythink was 
 to 'appen ter yer now. 
 
 JIM. [softening considerably.] Don't you worry 
 abaht me, ole gal ; I can look arter meself, don't 
 you fret. But 'ah abaht you ? 
 
 LIZ. [after a pau^e.] Jim, I might be inclined 
 nah, ter do wot you said. 
 
 JIM. [incredulously.] Wot, really ? 
 
 LIZ. [softly.] Yers, Jim. Yer see me feelin's 
 fer 'im 'as all turned ter bitterness, nah. 'E 
 would 'a' killed me if I'd stayed another minute, 
 and seein' 'im so bitter agin' me and not believin' 
 me an' all, made me feel that I couldn't never go 
 back to 'im. 
 
 JIM. But o' course 'e didn't believe yer ; 
 you wasn't tellin' 'im the truth. 
 
 LIZ. But 'e wasn't ter know. 
 
 JIM. Easy anough ter tell w'en people is 
 tellin' lies. . . . Tell yer straight, Liz, I don't 
 blame 'im. 
 
 LIZ. [surprised.] Yer don't ? Then prap's 
 yer don't want ipae ter go with you, nah ? 
 
 JIM. [after a fairly long silence.] No, Liz, 
 I don't think I do. 
 
sc. IV] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 67 
 
 LIZ. [helplessly.] All right, Jim. [She gets 
 up.] I can understand 'ah yer feel. But may 
 Gawd strike me dahn dead w'ere I stand if I'm 
 not tellin' yer the truth w'en I say I didn't 
 mean yer no 'arm. That you can believe, Jim. 
 JIM looks down at her moodily, the corners 
 of his mouth drawn grimly down. 
 
 LIZ draws her shawl tighter around her. 
 01, well ; goo'bye, Jim. [She holds out her hand.] 
 Sorry I bin the cause of all this 'ere bother. Take 
 care of yerself ; and Jim, fer my sake, don't 'ave 
 no truck with 'im. 'E may do yer some mischief. 
 JIM takes her hand in his, still staring 
 fixedly at her, saying nothing. He releases 
 her hand and his ozvn drops heavily to his 
 side. LIZ walks away towards the door, 
 JIM remains motionless with bowed head. 
 When she reaches the door she opens it and 
 gives one more look round. She extends her 
 arms, and looks at him imploringly. 
 [Plaintively.] Jim. . . . 
 
 JIM walks firmly towards her and shuts the 
 door. 
 JIM. [putting his hand on her shoulder.] It's 
 no good. Yer know it ain't. I carn't let yer 
 go like that. 
 
 LIZ. [agitatedly.] Yers, Jim ; I must go nah ; 
 
68 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iv 
 
 let me go. Wot's the good ? You'll never trust 
 me, yer know yer won't. 
 
 JIM. [with a profound sigh.] Gawd 'elp me, 
 that's true. But w'ether I trust yer or w'ether I 
 don't, I want yer. [He speaks with deep emotion.] 
 Some'ah or other I feel sorry fer that Bill 'Iggins 
 nah. I didn't before. Of course 'e's a brute, 
 but p'raps 'e was afraid o' losing yer. It do 
 seem a dirty trick ter play on a pal, arter all. I 
 wouldn't never 'a' thought o' such a thing if I 
 'adn't thought 'im a damned dirty rotter. 
 
 LIZ stands motionless, her face expressing 
 suffering and indecision. After a short 
 pause JIM starts to speak in a different tone 
 of voice. 
 Supposin' Bill 'Iggins and me stood 'ere and yer 
 could choose between us, which would yer choose? 
 
 LIZ. I'd be afraid ter go back ter Bill 
 nah. . . . 
 
 JIM. [catching her up.] Jest wot I thought ; 
 it's 'im yer like ; it ain't me. [He looks about 
 the room hopelessly.] No, Liz, me ole pal, it 
 ain't no use tryin to 'ide it ; if yer could go 
 back to 'im withaht any trouble, back to 'im 
 you'd go. 
 
 LIZ. [doubtfully.] No, Jim ; I don't think so. 
 
 JIM. Yus yer would : I know. Ah well. 
 
sc. IV] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 69 
 
 can't be 'elped. Wot are yer gain' ter do ? I 
 think you'd better go back ter Bill 'Iggins. We 
 can make it awright nah — ^tell 'im it was all owin' 
 to a misunderstandin' like. 
 
 LIZ. [pleading.] No, Jim, don't ... I 
 couldn't go back to 'im nah ; I couldn't : 'e'd 
 kill me. 
 
 JIM. [helplessly,] Wot are yer gain' ter do 
 then? 
 
 LIZ. Don't you bother. I'll clear aht. 
 Dessay I can do somethink. . . . Goo'bye, 
 Jim. 
 
 JIM. [overcome by his feelings.] No, Liz ; 
 it carn't be " goo'bye." I carn't live withaht 
 yer nah ; it's all very well you a-thinkin' you 
 can make it the same as it was before I knoo yer : 
 I know diff' rent. Gals wasn't in my line till 
 you come along, but nah I want you . . . you 
 . . . [He breaks off.] 
 
 LIZ. [whispering, yielding to his tenderness.] 
 Jim. . . . 
 
 JIM. Liz. . . . 
 
 They stand quietly together for a moment. 
 jim's eyes wander about the room distractedly 
 as if he were searching for some solution to 
 the problem. Presently something fixes his 
 attention ; he turns to iat, and henceforward 
 
70 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iv 
 
 there is a new note in his voice, manifest- 
 ing a fixed determination. 
 Come an' sit dahn. 
 
 LIZ. [unsuspiciously.] Woffor ? 
 JIM. [softly.] 'Cos I want yer to. 
 
 JIM places a chair for her near the table and 
 they both sit down. He looks at her fixedly, 
 and she, looking up, catches the strange 
 gleam in his eyes. 
 LIZ. [nervously.] Wot's the matter, Jim ? 
 JIM. [laughing quietly.] Matter, w'y nothink, 
 Liz. 
 
 Pause. A strained expression appears in 
 Liz's eyes ; she is frightened but fascinated 
 by his demeanour. 
 Funny thing, Liz. I never 'ad a gal before in 
 all me life. 
 LIZ. [uncomfortably.] Reely ? 
 JIM. Funny, ain't it ? 
 LIZ. Yers, Jim. 
 
 JIM. [thoughtfully.] Some blokes seem ter be 
 awful gome on gals. I never was, not till you 
 come 'ere. Funny, ain't it ? 
 
 LIZ. Yers, Jim. . . . But I must be gettin' 
 orf. [She attempts to rise, but his arm restrains 
 her.] 
 
 JIM. [tenderly.] No, Liz, dear, wot yer want 
 
sc. IV] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 71 
 
 ter go for ? Me an' you 'a' got ter live tergether 
 in fucher . . . me an' you ... all alone. . . . 
 It'll be nice, Liz, dear. . . . 
 
 LIZ. But you didn't want me ter come with 
 you, Jim. . . . 
 
 JIM. [straightening himself with an effort, 
 and brushing his hair from his forehead.] No, I 
 don't . . . 
 
 LIZ. [frightened.] Well, then. . . . 
 
 JIM. [breathing uneasily.] You don't under- 
 stand. 
 
 LIZ. [scared.] No, I don't, 'Ere, I'd better 
 be orf. [She again attempts to rise, but he still 
 detains her.] 
 
 JIM. [endeavouring to make his words very 
 explicit.] It's like this 'ere : it ain't you wot's 
 a-comin' ter me ; it's me wot's a-comin' ter you. 
 . . . See ? [His hand seeks his forehead again 
 and the bewilderment in his eyes grows more pro- 
 nounced.] 
 
 LIZ. [more and more frightened.] No, I don't 
 see. 
 
 JIM. [confidingly.] O' course, it's all pervided 
 you ever git there, or I ever come after yer. 
 We might go ter diff'rent places. [He laughs 
 knowingly.] 
 
 LIZ. [now thoroughly alarmed.] Jim, I'm 
 
72 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iv 
 
 goin' ; I don't know wot you're talkin' abaht. 
 Wot's the matter with yer. [Suspiciously.] 
 You ain't bin drinkin' too, 'ave yer ? 
 
 JIM, [quietly.] No, I ain't bin drinking, not 
 me. 
 
 His arm softly leaves her shoulder and 
 alights gently on the table behind him ; he 
 grasps a knife in his hand. 
 Liz. . . . 
 
 LIZ. Yers, Jim ? 
 
 JIM. Ain't it a funny thing you ain't never 
 give me a kiss. 
 
 LIZ. Law, no ; I ain't known yer long. . . . 
 On'y ternight. . . . 
 JIM. [slyly.] 'Oo yer kiddin' ? 
 LIZ. [indignamily.] 'Cawse I never knoo yer 
 before ternight. 
 
 JIM. [thoughtfully.] But I seem to 'ave 
 known yer fer years an' years — ever since I can 
 remember. 'Struth ! Well, ain't yer gain' ter 
 give me a kiss, Liz ? 
 LIZ. [nervously.] Awright. 
 
 She bends towards him. He clasps her to 
 him tenderly. They kiss and remain motion- 
 less for a moment. Then with a sudden 
 strong movement of the arm jim plunges 
 the knife into her back. 
 
sc. IV] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 73 
 
 LIZ. [thrilling with the suddenness of the 
 attack.] Jim, wot' yer done ? 
 
 She falls heavily full length on to the floor, 
 a low sigh escaping her lips. 
 
 The knife falls noisily from jim's hand. As 
 LIZ falls he kneels down by her side and raises 
 her head to his knee, keeping a protective 
 arm about her. 
 JIM. Awright, ole gal. It's awright. 
 
 The shuffling of footsteps is heard in the 
 bedroom and presently mks hareis hurries 
 in, dressed scantily. She is half-asleep. 
 MRS HARRIS, [with a look of disgust.] Fine 
 goin's on, I must say. 
 
 JIM. [looking up at her prosaically.] Hullo, 
 mother ! 
 
 MRS HARRIS. Is that 'cr ? 
 JIM. [affectionately, glancing dozvn at liz.] 
 Yus, mother ; it's Liz. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [approaching them.] Yer don't 
 mean ter say she's asleep 'ere ? 
 
 JIM. [matter-of-fact.] Yus, mother ; 'sleep. 
 She fell asleep a minute o' two ago. 
 
 MRS HARRIS, {hurrying forward angrily.] I'll 
 sleep 'er, the 'ussy ! 
 
 JIM. [putting his fingers to his lips.] Ssh ! 
 Don't wake 'er. She's very tired — so'm I. 
 
74 BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN [sc. iv 
 
 [He laughs knowingly.] Tirin' work, yer know, 
 mother — ^up all night as well as all day. 
 
 MKS HARRIS, [scenting something untoward.] 
 Let me 'ave a look at 'er. [She approaches Liz, 
 half fearfully, leans down amd touches her and 
 draws back with a moan of horror.] Jim, 'oo's 
 bin an' done this ? 
 
 JIM. It's awright ; she's on'y asleep, 
 
 MRS HARRIS. [Death lending her some of its 
 dignity.] She's dead. 
 
 JIM. Eh ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [monotowmsly .] Dead, me boy, 
 dead ! 
 
 JIM. [bewildered, his hand pressing his fore- 
 head.] 'Oo done it ? 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [shaking him by the shoulder.] 
 Didn't you do it ? 
 
 JIM. Me ? 
 
 He looks at his mother fixedly for a moment ; 
 then straight in front of him. Then he gently 
 replaces the form of liz on the floor. 
 Yers, I killed Liz. . . . I don't know w'y I done 
 it . . . but som'ah the thought that she was 
 un'appy, that 'e was the cause of it all, and I 'ad 
 it in me power ter make 'er 'appy, was too much 
 fer me, an' I give way. . . . 
 
 MRS HARRIS, [distraught.] It means swingin'. 
 
sc. IV] BETWEEN SUNSET AND DAWN 75 
 
 JIM. [in a quiet, heavy voice.] 'Angin's a 
 clean death. ... It ain't sech an awful thing 
 terdie. Death ain't nothing . . . nothing. [He 
 looks down at Liz and concludes i/n a low voice J] 
 Yers, Death's best. 
 
 MRS HARMS regards him silently. 
 
 :finis 
 
PRINTED BV 
 
 TURHBULL AMD SPEARS, 
 
 EDINBURGH 
 
A DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE OF 
 
 MODERN PLAYS 
 
 
 
 
 
 ON THE READING OF PLAYS 
 
 
 "It U a tribute to the literary quality of our 
 modern plays Lhat so many of them gain rather than 
 lose in the printed page." — Globe. 
 
 "A drama issued in book -form, and furnished 
 with that brisk commentary on the text which Mr. 
 Bernard Shaw set the fashion of supplying, takes on 
 something of the character of a novel, and has the 
 advantage of being very much shorter." — Atheneeum, 
 
 " As soon as the imagination has been trained to 
 ' see ' the characters, to ' hear ' their talk, to create 
 their surroundings quickly from a hint or two about 
 scenery, to realise the workings of their minds with 
 the aid of stage directions — then reading plays gives 
 more pleasure than reading novels. There is no 
 padding. No arid wastes of descriptive twaddle delay 
 the action. No tiresome moralising by the author 
 insults the intelligent reader, who is quite well able 
 to draw conclusions for himself. Anyone who is 
 accustomed to reading good plays finds the average 
 novel slow and heavy with a burden of unnecessary 
 words." — Daily Mail. 
 
 
 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 SIDGWICK © JACKSON, LTD. 
 
 3 ADAM STREET, LONDON, W.C. 
 
GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 " Mr. Barker . . . takes no joy in the game of sticking pins 
 into convention. He outrages convention when he wishes 
 to ; but he only wishes to because it gets in the way of the 
 greater things that are his real subject. The desire to shock 
 has no place in Mr. Barker's published work ; the desire to 
 teach has a great place. And Mr. Barker stands at the head 
 of a movement that, in English drama, is undoubtedly new." — 
 Times Literary Supplement, Oct. 7, 1909. 
 
 " His plays are among the few that are worth seeing and 
 among the still fewer that are worth reading, and reading 
 seriously and more than once." — Morning Post, Sept. 27, 
 1909. 
 
 " A remarkable talent lies here ; perhaps a very great one. 
 Mr. Barker's literary faculty is in itself unusual. He is a 
 serious and highly competent workman, he writes no dull or 
 weak lines ; he can be both allusive and direct, and now and 
 then he approaches Ibsen's power of imparting to prose 
 the incomparable emotional effect of poetry." — Nation, 
 Sept. 18, 1909. 
 
 " Whatever Mr. Granville Barker does on a stage, or behind 
 it, is a matter for both respect and delight. One has to respect, 
 too, what he writes ; for he will take none of the cheap and 
 nasty ways to a kind of success ; he tries for fine things, his 
 ideas are liberal, his circumstantial observation of a scene is 
 very close, and his nicety of characterisation . . . borders on 
 the marvellous, like the discrimination of expert wool-sorters 
 and tea-tasters." — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 " Le thdiitre est avant tout pour lui un moyen de combat." 
 — Revue Germanique, 191 2. 
 
GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 
 
 This play deals with the moral problems that present them- 
 selves to Edward Voysey, when he learns that the solicitor's 
 business which he inherits from his father is based on a 
 system of misappropriation of trust funds. He seeks justifica- 
 tion for his attempt to put matters straight, and his actions are 
 criticised from various points of view by the other members 
 of his family. Finally he is reconciled to the distasteful task 
 by the encouragement of his cousin Alice Maitland. 
 
 "An amazingly vivid, grimly humorous picture of a 
 prosperous mid- Victorian English family; it is merciless 
 and intensely comic. . . . Moreover, it has a delicate, sub- 
 dued strain of love -interest, with a pleasantly pathetic 
 flavour." — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 " The play represents one of the very best specimens of 
 the modern English dramatic school. It is thoughtful, it is 
 serious, it is interesting, it is dramatic ; it touches real 
 problems, and gives us real personages." — W. L. Courtney in 
 the Daily Telegraph. 
 
 Eighth Impression. Cloth, zs. net ; Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
 Also in " Three Plays," with " The Marrying of Anne Leete " 
 and " Waste." Cloth, ^s. net. 
 
 *^* All Plays in this list, unless otherwise described, 
 are published in Crown octavo, yj x 5 inches. 
 
GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 a WASTE 
 
 "enforces with a certain sombre power" (says the Church Family 
 News), "and without pandering to pruriency, the teaching 
 so often ignored, so bitterly resented, so surely true, that the 
 wages of sin is death." The story, put briefly, shows how 
 the career of Henry Trebell, a rising young politician, is 
 ruined by his momentary intrigue with an attractive but 
 empty-headed married woman. She refuses to face the 
 scandal that is in prospect, and dies as the result of her 
 attempt to destroy Trebell's child. Trebell, with his 
 political career cut short, finds nothing left to live for, and 
 commits suicide. 
 
 " To have read Waste twice through carefully is to recog- 
 nise it as a fine intellectual achievement — subtle, profound, 
 interesting, just. ... It is packed with subjects, and with 
 original thought about those subjects." — Times. 
 
 " This play is a superb tragedy, relentless, pitiful, 
 veracious." — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 " A reading of it confirms our opinion that in it we have 
 one of the notable plays of modern times." — Athenaum. 
 
 " It is full of ideas, it is rich in knowledge of life. Its one 
 sex phase, to which doubtless objection was taken, makes for 
 purity and anti-sensualism as much as the most verbally correct 
 of modern comic operas or musical comedies may make for 
 the opposite." — C. K. S. in the Sphere. 
 
 Eighth Impression. Cloth, zs. net; Paper, is. 6a. net. 
 
 Also in " Three Plays" with " The Marrying of Ann Leete " 
 and " The Voysey Inheritance." Cloth, 5/. net. 
 
GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE v 
 
 "The unifying principle of the play," Mr. Max Beerbohm 
 said in the Saturday Review, " is that the theme throughout 
 is the present and future of woman — woman regarded from 
 various standpoints, moral, aesthetic, economic, and so on." 
 Constantine Madras, once a man-milliner of Bond Street, has 
 turned Mahommedan. His brother-in-law, Henry Huxtable, 
 has six unmarried daughters at home in Denmark Hill, and a 
 large drapery establishment where the living-in system has 
 produced suspicion of a scandal. Another view is presented 
 by Eustace Perrin State, a sentimental American business-man 
 who has come to negotiate for the purchase of the Madras 
 House. Philip and Jessica Madras, with their friend Major 
 Thomas, also contribute to the debate. 
 
 " You can read The Madras House at your leisure, dip into 
 it here and there, turn a tit-bit over lovingly on the palate 
 . . . and the result is, in our experience, a round of pleasure. 
 . . . That priceless companion the sentimental American 
 capitalist, Mr. State . . . ' has never read the Koran — an 
 oversight [he makes a mental note].' . . . The Madras House is 
 so good in print that everybody should make a mental note to 
 read it, like Mr. State with the Koran." — Times. 
 
 " The play has a cornucopious flow of ideas ; it has wit, 
 pungency, surprisingness, relevance to modern life, and perfect 
 freedom from stupidities of every kind ; and it gives you the 
 feeling of contact with an uncommon, eager, luminous 
 mind." — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 "Tous ceux qui s'interessent aux mceurs veritables de 
 I'Angleterre devront lire la piece de Mr. Granville Barker." — 
 Mercure de Trance. 
 
 Third Impression. Cloth, zs. net; Paper, \s. 6d. net. 
 
GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 y THE 
 
 MARRYING OF ANN LEETE 
 
 is set in the eighteenth century. The play shows how Ann, 
 on the verge of contracting a marriage of convenience with 
 Lord John Carp, revolts from the decadence of her family and 
 deliberately marries a healthy young gardener. "We've all 
 been in too great a hurry to be civilised," she says to her 
 husband ; " I mean to go back ... I was afraid to live . i . . 
 and now I am content." 
 
 "Delicate, sensuous, half-modish, half-poetic." — Nation. 
 
 " As a piece of literature it is splendid ; its language is full 
 of point and wit, and the scenes and costumes help to conjure 
 up the idea of a picture by Watteau." — Court Journal. 
 
 Fourth Impression. Cloth, zs. net ; Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 Note.] 
 
 y- THREE PLAYS 
 
 By Granville Barker 
 
 includes 
 
 THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE 
 
 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 
 
 AND WASTE 
 
 Cloth, 5/. net. {Postage, ^d.) 
 
 Also a Special Edition, limited to ^o copies, signed by the Author 
 
 extra bound in three volumes, in a case, 2 ij-. net per set. 
 
 {Postage, 6d.) 
 
H O U S M AN— B A R K E R 
 
 PRUNELLA 
 
 or Love in a Dutch Garden 
 
 By Laurence Housman and Granville Barker 
 
 tells how Pierrot saw Prunella through the hedge of her 
 aunts' formal garden, and crept through to her, bringing 
 romance (as she thought) ; how he wooed her and carried her 
 off through the window of her room down a ladder of dreams ; 
 how he deserted her thereafter, and left her desolate ; 
 and finally how she found him again when everything seemed 
 to have turned against her. 
 
 "A very charming love-tale, which works slowly to a 
 climax of great and touching beauty." — Dai/y News. 
 
 " This exquisite little fantasy is not the least of the addi- 
 tions to our dramatic literature which we owe to the Court 
 Theatre enterprise. It reads as charmingly as it acted, and 
 that is saying much. It is full of quaint invention, humour, 
 irony, and pathos." — Tribune. 
 
 Pott \to, with frontispiece iy Laurence Housman and music of 
 " Pierrot's Serenade" {which can be obtained separately, is. 6d. net), 
 decorated cloth, t,s. net. 
 
 Seventh Impression. Theatre Edition, Paper, is. net. 
 
BARKER— SCHNITZLER 
 
 ANATOL 
 
 A Sequence of Dialogrues 
 
 By Arthur Schnitzler, paraphrased fof the English 
 Stage by Granville Barker. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 (I) Ask no Questions and you'll hear no Stories — (II) A 
 Christmas Present — (III) An Episode — (IV) Keepsakes — 
 (V) A Farewell Supper— (VI) Dying Pangs— (VII) The 
 Wedding Morning. 
 
 Anatol is an amorous but incons,tant bachelor of Vienna ; 
 his friend Max is another, but more philosophical and 
 phlegmatic. Anatol appears in all the Dialogues, Max in 
 five of them ; but there is a different lady in each of the 
 seven, and with them as foils Anatol shows himself by turns 
 sentimental, jealous, disillusioned, self-critical, absurdly vain, 
 and incurably volatile. "He makes a fine art of his love- 
 affairs, and carefully diagnoses the sensations they produce." 
 
 "Anatol is a bad lot, but J:he dialogues in which he 
 figures are little masterpieces of polished, glittering lucidity 
 and point. . . . Mr. Granville Barker has certainly made 
 excellent English of them." — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 Third Impression. Cloth, zs. net; Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
JOHN MASEFIELD 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF POMPEY 
 THE GREAT 
 
 Argument. — In the years 50 and 49 b.c, Cneius Pompeius 
 Magnus, the head of the patrician party, contested with 
 C. Julius Cssar, the popular leader, for supreme power in the 
 State. Their jealousy led to the trouble of the Civil War, 
 in which, after many battles, Cneius Pompeius Magnus was 
 miserably killed. 
 
 Act I. The determination of Pompeius to fight with his 
 
 rival, then marching upon Rome. 
 Act II. The triumph of Pompey's generalship at 
 
 Dyrrachium. His overthrow by the generals of his 
 
 staff. His defeat at Pharsalia. 
 Act III. The death of that great ruler on the seashore 
 
 of Pelusium in Egypt. 
 
 " In this Roman tragedy, while we admire its closely knit 
 structure, dramatic effectiveness, and atmosphere of reality 
 . . . the warmth and colour of the diction are the most 
 notable things. . . . He knows the art of phrasing ; he has 
 the instinct for and by them." — Athenaum. 
 
 " Fine, nervous, dramatic English. Words which eat into the 
 soul, which have a meaning, which are revelatory of character. 
 A fine virility about the whole play and its conception. An 
 altogether admirable piece of writing which fully justifies Mr. 
 Masefield's real literary distinction." — Observer. 
 
 " He has written a great tragedy. . . The dialogue is 
 written in strong, simple, and nervous prose, flashing with 
 poetic insight, significance, and suggestion. The characters 
 are intensely alive, the situations are handled by a master 
 hand, and the whole play is pregnant with that high and 
 solemn pathos which is the gift of the born writer of 
 tragedies." — Morning Post. 
 
 Third Impression. Cloth, y. 6d. net; Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
GITHA SOWERBY 
 
 RUTHERFORD & SON 
 
 The real hero or villain of this play is literally "Rutherford 
 & Son," i.e. the firm established by the lifelong labour of John 
 Rutherford. To this idol in his old age he sacrifices every- 
 thing ; he robs his son of a trade-secret to maintain the Works, 
 and to maintain the firm's dignity he drives from his house his 
 daughter and his trusted head-man, w^ho are secret lovers. 
 Opposed and hated by his children, he is at last driven to 
 bargain with his daughter-in-law for control of the grandson 
 who is to carry on the business ; and " Rutherford's " emerges 
 triumphant. 
 
 " Miss Sowerby's Rutherford and Son is the best first play' 
 since Chains of Miss Elizabeth Baker. . . . Her play is exactly 
 like Chains in the complete subordination of everything to a 
 persistent main theme. Both plays are the work of an 
 aesthetic puiitan." — Saturday Review. 
 
 "Literary enough to make excellent reading.'' — Daily 
 Express. 
 
 " It is a finely constructed play and a remarkable first 
 work.' ' — Catholic Herald. 
 
 "I have read few good acting plays which are so con- 
 secutive and satisfactory to read." — T. P.'s Weekly. 
 
 Second Impression. Cloth, zs. 6d. net; Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
 10 
 
ELIZABETH BAKER 
 
 CHAINS ^ 
 
 This play, originally produced by the Play Actors' Society, 
 and subsequently one of the successes of the Frohman 
 Repertory Theatre, deals with the life of London clerks and 
 their families. Miss Baker's hero, Charlie Wilson, struggles 
 to emancipate himself from his narrow life ; and is on the 
 point of emigrating to the Colonies when he finds that he is 
 going to become a father. Such are the "chains" that tie 
 him to his life at home. 
 
 " It is not often that the theatre in England sets one 
 thinking ; still less often does it open up an imperial horizon. 
 But the play called Chains, at the Repertory Theatre, does 
 both."— Z)«/y Mail. 
 
 "It is just the sort of play that one likes to buy and read, 
 for it is real and alive, and a play full of ideas." — Daily 
 Mail. 
 
 Third Impression. Cloth, is. dd. net ; Paper, \s. net. 
 
 THE ^ 
 
 PRICE OF THOMAS SCOTT 
 
 This play, written with all the intimate knowledge of her 
 characters that is to be expected of the author of Chains, 
 shows the struggles of a draper, with a failing business and a 
 growing son, against the temptation to sell his shop to a 
 purchaser who intends to convert it into a dancing-hall. 
 Thomas Scott is a devout chapel-goer and a Puritan, and 
 realises that he cannot serve both God and Mammon. 
 
 Cloth, zs. net ; Paper, \s. 6d. net. 
 
 II 
 
LAURENCE HOUSMAN 
 
 ^ PAINS AND PENALTIES: 
 
 The Defence of Queen Caroline 
 
 This play has been described by the Lord Chamberlain — 
 in the course of refusing to license its performance — as 
 dealing with " a sad historical episode of comparatively recent 
 date in the life of an Unhappy lady." Mr. Housman, in in- 
 troducing his defence of Queen Caroline, Consort of George 
 IV., points out that the " unhappy lady " has been dead for 
 ninety years, during which period her memory has rested 
 under a cloud which the main drift of his play is calculated to 
 remove. 
 
 " This play has been censored. It is a play by a poet and 
 artist. And it goes very deeply and hauntingly into the 
 heart. The note that it sounds is the note of Justice, and he 
 would indeed be either a fearful or a fawning reader who 
 could find aught to object to in it." — Observer. 
 
 Cloth, 3 J. 6d. net ; Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
 THE CHINESE LANTERN 
 
 A fantastic play in a quaint Chinese setting, telling how 
 Tikipu, the drudge of an art-school, tried to learn how to 
 paint, and was taken away into a magic picture of Wiowani 
 for three years. Meanwhile the little slave-girl Mee-Mee 
 faithfully awaits his return, which occurs just as she has given 
 up hope and is about to poison herself to avoid a forced 
 marriage with Yunglangtsi, a gross body with a grocer's soul. 
 Mee-Mee and Tikipu run away together. 
 
 Pott Hfto, Cloth, is. 6d. net. 
 
 12 
 
GILBERT CANNAN 
 
 FOUR PLAYS 
 
 James and John: Miles Dixon: Mary's Wedding: 
 and A Short Way with Authors 
 
 James and John (Jescribes with true pathos the home-coming 
 of a convict father who has served his sentence for embezzle- 
 ment and the way in which he is received by his family. 
 
 Miks Dixon and Mary's Wedding are two dialect dramas of 
 Westmoreland folk, the former of a tramp-poet wooing a 
 married woman by night, the latter of a girl who failed to 
 redeem her lover from his drunkard's habits. 
 
 A Short Way with Authors is a brilliant satirical farce directed 
 against the methods and mannerisms of the popular actor- 
 manager. 
 
 " Miles Dixon is the only play we know in which a writer 
 has shown himself strong enough to train upon Synge and yet 
 be all the more fully himself after it. . . . It is one of the 
 most deeply moving of all modern plays." — Manchester 
 Guardian. 
 
 " No one who reads discriminatingly the collection of short 
 plays . . . can fail to recognise in three of the four not only 
 poetic conception but also the language and treatment of 
 poetry. The exception is just a little joke dashed off in high 
 spirits." — Sunday Times. 
 
 " These plays contain the best work he has yet given to the 
 public." — Scotsman. 
 
 Cloth, zs. 6d. net. 
 
 »3 
 
EDWARD GARNETT 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE D'ARC 
 
 follows with some exactitude the actual course, in historical 
 outline, of the trial of Jeanne d'Arc for heresy in January- 
 May 143 1. 
 
 " It is a powerful presentment of a situation charged with 
 dramatic interest ; the reproduction of an atmosphere of 
 political and ecclesiastical chicane, of hypocrisy, trickery, and 
 brutality, involving the solitary figure of the Maid. It 
 presents the concentrated essence of the public life of the 
 fifteenth century — an age of a decadent and sophistical 
 Church, and an equally decadent militarism, finding their 
 contrast in the earlier religious ideal personified in Jeanne."— j 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " The play can be read with continual interest and frequent 
 admiration in the study." — English Review. 
 
 " Mr. Garnett has succeeded in reproducing the historical 
 atmosphere in no slight measure. Certainly, also, he has not 
 failed to reveal much of the extraordinary psychological 
 interest of the trial." — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 Cloth, 1$. 6(1. nets Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
 U 
 
ALLAN MONKHOUSE 
 
 MARY BROOME 
 
 " Mr. Monkhouse's play is fantastic, though it has the great 
 merit of directness in the handling of its situation. Its story 
 is that of the seduction of a servant -girl by a semi -artist, 
 and then enforced marriage upon the insistence of a rigidly 
 conventional parent. . . . Mary Broome was one of the most 
 interesting of the plays presented by Miss Horniman's com- 
 pany. ... It has a quality rare enough in the theatre, a 
 quality of sweetness in irony that is hardly to be found in 
 English outside the pages of Mr. Henry James." — Gilbert 
 Camian in Rhythm. 
 
 " Unquestionably the strongest, the most courageous, and 
 the most penetrating play that we have had from an English- 
 man this decade. . . . It is a drama of which the British stage 
 may well be proud." — Manchester Courier. 
 
 Second Impression, Cloth, is. net; Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
 THE EDUCATION OF MR. ^ 
 SURRAGE 
 
 In this comedy the son and two daughters of Mr. Surrage, a 
 retired business-man, seek to bring their father's ideas up to 
 date by inviting to their house for a week-end a budding 
 dramatist, an artist with more reputation than money, and a 
 bohemian lady. By acquaintance with them the " education " 
 of Mr. Surrage is accomplished at the expense of his 
 children's ideals, and not without much amu-ement to the 
 
 reader. 
 
 "The more the comedy is studied, the more its artistic 
 beauties grow upon one." — Nation. 
 
 Cloth, zs. net: Paper, \s. 6d. net. 
 
 •5 
 
LADY BELL 
 
 THE WAY THE MONEY GOES 
 
 " The story of the simple-minded excellent woman caught 
 for a time by the wiles of the street ' booki^ ' and the 
 sneaking pedlar, is humorous and also pathetic. Lady Bell 
 makes her people live ; obviously they are founded upon 
 observation of life, and the fine insight into character that 
 is the foundation of imagination in drama. True artistic 
 instinct prevents her from turning the play into a pamphlet." 
 — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 " Decidement cet ouvrage restera comme I'un des plus 
 saisissants tableaux de la vie ouvri^re dans I'Angleterre 
 contemporaine." — Revue Germanique. 
 
 Cloth, IS. 6d. net ; Paper, is. net. 
 
 JAMES BYRNE 
 
 / 
 
 LORDS & MASTERS 
 
 This is a study of the relations between a brutal husband and 
 his wife and the wife's admirer, in which the wife undergoes 
 a revulsion of feeling on discovering a liaison between her 
 lover and his landlady's daughter. 
 
 "The technique of the play is exceptionally good. Every 
 sentence helps forward the action. There is no irrelevance." 
 — Dail'^ News. 
 
 " This thoughtful and interesting little play." — Glasgow 
 Herald. 
 
 Cloth, \s. 6d. net s Paper, \s. net. 
 
 i6 
 
STANLEY HOUGHTON 
 
 HINDLE WAKES 
 
 has caused a great deal of discussion wherever it has been 
 performed. The son of a wealthy Lancashire mill-owner has 
 accidentally met, and spent a seaside week-end with, a mill- 
 girl, the daughter of a working man, who is, nevertheless, an 
 old friend of his father's. The young man is already engaged 
 to be married. When his fault is discovered, his parents and 
 those of the girl determine that he must make " an honest 
 woman " of her ; but when everything is apparently arranged, 
 the mill-girl strenuously resists, and refuses to marry him. 
 The play ends with a powerful scene between the young man 
 and his fiancee. 
 
 " His characters are all living persons, no mere puppets, 
 and because of that he is a real dramatist." — Bookman. 
 
 " A notable addition to modern drama. He raises no new 
 problem, but his treatment of an old one breathes the spirit 
 of the age in its refusal to be bound by conventional ideas." — 
 Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 " It is as good to read as to see ; and better still to think 
 over." — Theatreland. 
 
 Sixth Impression. Cloth, 2s. net; Paper, \s. 6d. net. 
 
 17 
 
STANLEY HOUGHTON 
 
 THE YOUNGER GENERATION 
 
 The theme of this comedy is the emancipation of the 
 three children of Mr. and Mrs. Kennion from the stern 
 control of their parents. The two sons stay out late, and 
 one gets intoxicated ; and the daughter engages herself to a 
 friend of her brothers of whom her parents disapprove. 
 Freedom is obtained for them by the sane intervention of an 
 uncle ; and in the culminating scene Mr. Kennion is forced 
 into a lie when challenged by his son with " Have you never 
 been drunk yourself? " 
 
 The play was first produced at the Manchester Repertory 
 Theatre, and has had a successful West End run at the 
 Haymarket Theatre. 
 
 CIotA, zs. net; Paper, u. dd. net. 
 
 ^ FIVE ONE- ACT PLAYS 
 
 The Dear Departed is a comedy dealing with an old man 
 who is supposed to have died, but rises from his trance to 
 interrupt the quarrels of his relatives over his property. 
 
 Fancy Free is the story of a frustrated elopement, husband 
 and wife meeting at an hotel by accident. 
 
 The Master of the House is a small but powerful sketch of a 
 gaol-bird returning home to sponge upon his father, whom he 
 finds dead. 
 
 Phipps is a farce, the butler Phipps proving himself a better 
 man than his master the baronet, and reconciling him to his 
 wife. 
 
 The Fifth Commandment shows how a selfish mother pretends 
 to be an invalid and prevents her daughter from marrying, 
 only to find that she herself loses a suitor. 
 
 Cloth, zs. net ; Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
 i8 
 
B. MACDONALD HASTINGS 
 
 X 
 
 THE NEW SIN 
 
 The plot of this play, which caused a great sensation on its 
 production at the Royalty Theatre in London, February 
 191 2, turns upon the will of a rich and eccentric manufacturer 
 with twelve children, which causes Hilary Cutts, the eldest 
 of them, to feel that he is committing a " new sin " by 
 continuing to live ; because only after his death can his 
 impoverished brothers and sisters come into the fortune that 
 is awaiting each of them. One of the worthless brothers 
 commits a murder in Hilary's room, and the latter sees his 
 opportunity and allows himself to be convicted of the 
 crime and sentenced to death ; but the penalty is commuted 
 to penal servitude. Tableau. 
 
 " Bravo, Mr. Macdonald Hastings ! A writer who can give 
 us, as his first dramatic essay, a play so profoundly interesting, 
 so ingenious, and withal so curiously bizarre, ought to go 
 far." — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 " A vivid and brilliant piece of dramatic composition." — 
 Morning Leader. 
 
 " One of the most notable plays of recent yia.xs."—~Aberdeen 
 Free Press. 
 
 Cloth, zs. net; P.aper, is. net. 
 
 IQ 
 
B. MACDONALD HASTINGS 
 
 LOVE— AND WHAT THEN? 
 
 shows the revolt of the youthful and light-hearted wife of an 
 austere provincial clergyman, whom she shocks by her insistence 
 on appearing at an entertainment of his parishioners in a very 
 short-skirted costume. Further, she flirts rather dangerously 
 with a young naval lieutenant, but is saved from irreparable 
 error by the intervention of a kindly and unconventional 
 Bishop. 
 
 " One of the smartest modern comedies we have read for 
 many a day. The dialogue from iirst to last shines with 
 sparkling wit, and the plot shows outstanding originality of 
 construction." — Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 Cloth, 2s. net ; Paper, \s. net. 
 
 THE TIDE 
 
 " an emancipated melodrama," as the author calls it, tells of 
 the romantic career of Felicity Scarth, who at eighteen was 
 robbed of her illegitimate child, at twenty-one became rich 
 and attempted to stifle her craving for the child by a life of 
 dissipation, and at thirty-four attempted suicide to end every- 
 thing. By the help of a doctor she rediscovers her child, now 
 a grown girl of eighteen, and after further trials all ends happily 
 for both mother and daughter. 
 
 " It is miles in front of the common ' London success.' " — 
 Manchester Guardian. 
 
 Cloth, zs. net; Paper, is. net. 
 
C. B. FERNALD 
 
 THE MARRIED WOMAN 
 
 This play, by the author of The Cat and the Cherub, shows 
 how a girl, alarmed by her ignorance of what marriage 
 means, seeks to find out before committing herself to matri- 
 mony, but is carried away by natural feeling. H6r marriage 
 turns out to be a failure, and she accepts an unconventional 
 solution of her difficulties ofi^ered by a former lover. 
 
 " It is a very clever, truly amusing comedy ... a comedy 
 of idea, with a witty dialogue and some very clever character- 
 drawing. . . . This bold, able, amusing play . . . interesting 
 and effective." — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 "The author of the Married Woman proves himself just as 
 competent as the author of Getting Married, and the difference 
 between the two is that the former is wholly coherent." — 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 Cloth, y. 6d. net. 
 
 LEONARD INKSTER 
 
 THE EMANCIPATION 
 
 "A study under the microscope of a quite ordinary and 
 perfectly comic family in a provincial town. The son of 
 the house . . . signalises his individuality by falling in 
 love with the maid- servant, an intentionally unimpressive 
 demonstration of individuality, and is surprised in some 
 honest, if blundering, love-making. That is all the play, 
 and Mr. Inkster has filled it to the brim with amazing little 
 bits of observation. . . . We liked this play enormously. 
 There is beauty, submission and fantasy in it." — Manchester 
 
 Guardian. ' 
 
 Cloth, zs. net; Paper, is. 6d. netl 
 
 21 
 
F. G. LAYTON 
 
 THE POLITICIANS 
 
 This "comedy in four acts" deals with the Parliamentary- 
 candidature of the Hon. Peter Baldwin, son of a Tory peer, 
 in a constituency largely consisting of slums. Beginning the 
 fight without convictions, he undergoes a revulsion of feeling, 
 and in losing the seat finds both himself and his happiness. 
 
 " There is brightness and humour in this comedy, with its 
 abundant topical political satire." — T.P.'s Weekly. 
 
 Cloth, zs- net ; Paper, is. Sd. net. 
 
 FLORIDA SCOTT-MAXWELL 
 
 THE FLASH-POINT 
 
 Described by the author as " a play of a provincial town," 
 this is a comedy, or perhaps a tragi-comedy, of the struggle 
 of Jean Barker against her mother, grandmother, and aunt. 
 After attempting to hold a public meeting unknown to 
 them, she is accidentally locked in all night in the hall with 
 Vernon, her fiance ; and this produces the denouement of 
 the play. The dialogue is most spirited and brilliant, and 
 the characters most amusingly drawn. 
 
 Cloth, 2s. net i -Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
HERMON OULD 
 
 BETWEEN SUNSET AND 
 DAWN 
 
 A play in four scenes of an East-end " doss-house," dealing 
 with a runaway wife and her lover, and ending with a 
 powerful climax. 
 
 Produced at the Adelphi Theatre in 191 2, this play, by a 
 new writer, made a great impression and caused much 
 discussion. 
 
 Cloth, IS. 6d. net ; Paper, is. net. 
 
 REGINALD ARKELL 
 
 COLOMBINE 
 
 " A fantasy in one act," issued with a few poems, and illus- 
 trated by Frederick Carter, Colombine is a pretty, sentimental 
 pastoral drama. 
 
 . " It embraces more humane cleverness, more wit mingled 
 with wisdom, than we have met in verse for a very long 
 time." — Evening Standard. 
 
 Paper wrapper, \s. net. 
 
 23 
 
J. O. FRANCIS 
 
 CHANGE 
 
 This four-act play of a Glamorgan village gained the prize 
 offered by Lord Howard de Walden, and was recently pro- 
 duced in London by the Stage Society. 
 
 Paper, is. 6d. net. 
 
 SIXPENNY ONE-ACT PLAYS 
 
 Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., have 
 pleasure in announcing a series of one-act 
 plays, issued at the price of 6d. net in 
 wrappers. Amongst the first are — 
 
 MISS TASSEY, by Elizabeth Baker. 
 
 THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE, by 
 George Calderon. 
 
 OVER THE HILLS, by John Palmer. 
 
 Enquiries regarding the representation of any 
 of the plays in this list may be made of the 
 Publishers, who will be pleased to give the neces- 
 sary information as to fees and other conditions. 
 
 H 
 
■^A Vo , \^