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WIDOWER'S HOUSES ,. 
 
 COM3. 
 
 AN UNPLEASANT PLAY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 BRENTANO'S 
 1913 
 
 V/ 
 
 By 
 
 BERNARD SHAW JJ 
 
 *. 
 
s V 3 
 
 Copyright, 1898, by George Bernard Shaw 
 
 Copyright, 1898, by Herbert & Stone & Co. 
 
 Copyright, 1905, by Brentano's 
 
 
 
 ©CI.A361157 
 
WIDOWERS' HOUSES 
 
WIDOWERS' HOUSES 
 
 ACT I 
 
 In the garden restaurant of a hotel at Remagen on the 
 Rhine, on a fine afternoon in August. Tables and chairs 
 under the trees. The gate leading from the garden to the 
 riverside is on the left. The hotel is on the right. It has 
 a wooden annexe with an entrance marked Table d'Hote. A 
 waiter is in attendance. 
 
 A couple of English tourists come out of the hotel. The 
 younger. Dr. Harry Trench, is about 24, stoutly built, thick 
 in the neck, with close-cropped and black hair, with undig- 
 nified medical student manners^ frank, hasty, rather boyish. 
 The other, Mr. William de Burgh Cokane, is older — prob- 
 ably over 40, possibly 50 — an ill-nourished, scanty-haired 
 gentleman, with affected manners, fidgety, touchy, and con- 
 stitutionally ridiculous in un compassion ate eyes. 
 
 cokane (on the threshold of the hotel, calling peremptorily 
 to the waiter). Two beers for us out here. {The waiter 
 goes for the beer. Cokane comes down into the garden. ) We 
 have got the room with the best view in the hotel, Harry, 
 thanks to my tact. We'll leave in the morning and do 
 Mainz and Frankfurt. There is a very graceful female 
 statue in the private house of a nobleman in Frankfurt — 
 also a zoo. Next day, Nuremberg! finest collection of 
 instruments of torture in the world. 
 
4 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 trench. All right. You look out the trains, will you ? 
 {He takes out a Continental Br ads haw, and tosses it on one 
 of the tables. ) 
 
 cokane {baulking himself in the act of sitting down). 
 Pah! the seat is all dusty. These foreigners are deplorably 
 unclean in their habits. 
 
 trench {buoyantly). Never mind: it don't matter, old 
 chappie. Buck up, Billy, buck up. Enjoy yourself. {He 
 throws Cokane into the chair y and sits down opposite him, 
 taking out his pipe, and singing noisily) 
 
 Pass about the Rhine wine; let it flow 
 Like a free and flowing river 
 
 cokane {scandalized). In the name of common decency, 
 Harry, will you remember that you are a gentleman and 
 not a coster on Hampstead Heath on Bank Holiday? Would 
 you dream of behaving like this in London? 
 
 trench. Oh, rot ! I 've come abroad to enjoy myself: 
 so would you if you'd just passed an examination after four 
 years in the medical school and walking the hospital. (Si&gs.) 
 
 cokane {rising). Trench: either you travel as a gentle- 
 man, or you travel alone. This is what makes Englishmen 
 unpopular on the Continent. It may not matter before the 
 natives; but the people who came on board the steamer at 
 Coblentz are English. I have been uneasy all the afternoon 
 about what they must think of us. Look at our appearance. 
 
 trench. What is the matter with our appearance? 
 
 cokane. Neglige, my dear fellow, neglige. On the 
 steamboat a little neglige was quite en regie; but here, in 
 this hotel, some of them are sure to dress for dinner; and 
 you have nothing but that Norfolk jacket. How are they 
 to know that you are well connected if you do not show it 
 by your manners? 
 
 trench. Pooh! the steamboat people were the scum 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 5 
 
 of the earth — Americans and all sorts. They may go hang 
 themselves, Billy. I shall not bother about them. (He 
 strikes a match , and proceeds to light his pipe.} 
 
 cokane. Do drop calling me Billy in public, Trench. 
 My name is Cokane. I am sure they were persons of con- 
 sequence: you were struck with the distinguished appear- 
 ance of the father yourself. 
 
 trench {sobered at once). What! those people. (He 
 blows out the match and puts up his pipe.) 
 
 cokane (following up his advantage triumphantly). 
 Here, Harry, here— -at this hotel. I recognized the father's 
 umbrella in the stand in the hall. 
 
 trench (with a touch of genuine shame). I suppose I 
 ought to have brought a change. But a lot of luggage is 
 such a nuisance; and — (rising abruptly) — -at all events we 
 can go and have a wash. (He turns to go into the hotel, 
 but stops in consternation, seeing some people coming up to the 
 riverside gate. ) Oh, I say. Here they are. 
 
 (A lady and gentleman, followed by a porter with some light 
 parcels, not luggage, but shop purchases, come into the garden. 
 They are apparently father and daughter. The gentleman 
 is 50, tall, well preserved and of upright carriage, with an 
 incisive, domineering utterance and imposing style, which, with 
 his strong aquiline nose and resolute clean-shaven mouth, give 
 him an air of importance. He wears a light grey frock-coat 
 with silk linings, a white hat, and a field-glass slung in a new 
 leather case. A self made man, formidable to servants, not 
 easily accessible to any one. His daughter is a well-dressed, 
 well-fed, good-looking, strong-minded young woman, presentably 
 ladylike, but still her father* s daughter. Nevertheless fresh 
 and attractive, and none the worse for being vital and ener- 
 getic rather than delicate and refined.) 
 
 cokane (quickly taking the arm of Trench, who is staring 
 as if transfixed). Recollect yourself, Harry; presence of 
 
6 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 mind, presence of mind! (He strolls with him towards the 
 hotel. The waiter comes out with the beer J) Kellner: ceci- 
 la est notre table. Est-ce-que vous comprenez Francais ? 
 
 waiter. Yes, zare. All right, zare. 
 
 the gentleman (to his porter). Place those things on 
 that table. ( The porter does not understand. ) 
 
 waiter (interposing). Zese zhentellmen are using zis 
 table, zare. Would you mind 
 
 the gentleman (severely). You should have told me so 
 before. ( To Cokane, with fierce condescension. ) I regret 
 the mistake sir. 
 
 cokane. Don't mention it, my dear sir; don't mention it. 
 Retain the place, I beg. 
 
 th£ gentleman (coldly turning his back on him). Thank 
 you. (To the porter.) Place them on that table. (The 
 porter makes no movement until the gentleman points to the 
 parcels and peremptorily raps the table.) 
 
 porter. Ja wohl, gnadige Herr. (He puts down the 
 parcels.) 
 
 the gentleman (taking out a ban dful of money). Waiter. 
 
 waiter (awestruck.) Yes, zare. 
 
 the gentleman. Tea. For two. Out here. 
 
 waiter. Yes, zare. (He goes into the hotel. ) 
 
 ( The gentleman selects a small coin from his handful of 
 money , and hands it to the porter ', who receives it with a sub- 
 missive touch to his cap, and goes out, not daring to speak. His 
 daughter sits down and opens a parcel of photographs. The 
 gentleman takes out a Baedeker; places a chair for himself; 
 and then, instead of sitting down, looks truculently at Cokane, 
 as if waiting for him to take himself off. Cokane, not at all 
 abashed, resumes his place at the other table with an air of 
 modest good breeding, and calls to Trench, who is prowling 
 irresolutely in the background. ) 
 
 cokane. Trench, my dear fellow, your beer is waiting 
 for you. (He drinks.) 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 7 
 
 trench (glad of the excuse to come back to his chair). 
 Thank you, Cokane. (He also drinks.') 
 
 cokane. By the way, Harry, I have often meant to ask 
 you — is Lady Roxdale your mother's sister or your father's? 
 ( This shot tells immediately. The gentleman is perceptibly 
 interested. ) 
 
 trench. My mother's, of course. What put that into 
 your head ? 
 
 cokane. Nothing — I was just thinking — hm ! She will 
 expect you to marry, Harry: a doctor ought to marry. 
 
 trench. What has she got to do with it ? 
 
 cokane. A great deal, dear boy. She looks forward to 
 floating your wife in society in London. 
 
 trench. What rot ! 
 
 cokane. Ah, you are young, dear boy : you are young. 
 You don't know the importance of these things — apparently 
 idle ceremonial trifles, really the springs and wheels of a 
 great aristocratic system. ( The waiter comes back with the 
 tea things y which he brings to the gentleman* s table. Cokane 
 rises and addresses the gentleman.) My dear sir, excuse my 
 addressing you ; but I cannot help feeling that you prefer 
 this table and that we are in your way. 
 
 the gentleman (graciously). Thank you. Blanche, this 
 gentleman very kindly offers us his table, if you would pre- 
 fer it. 
 
 blanche. Oh, thanks : it makes no difference. 
 
 the gentleman (to Cokane). We are fellow travellers, I 
 believe, sir. 
 
 cokane. Fellow travellers and fellow countrymen. Ah, 
 we rarely feel the charm of our own tongue until it reaches 
 our ears under a foreign sky. You have no doubt noticed 
 that ? 
 
 the gentleman (a little puzzled). Hm ! From a roman- 
 tic point of view, possibly, very possibly. As a matter of 
 fact, the sound of English makes me feel at home ; and I 
 
8 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 dislike feeling at home when I am abroad. It is not pre- 
 cisely what one goes to the expense for. {He looks at 
 Trench.) I think this gentleman travelled with us also. 
 
 cokane {rising to act as master of the ceremonies. The 
 gentleman and Trench rise also). My valued friend, Dr. 
 Trench. Trench, my dear fellow, allow me to introduce 
 you to — er — ? ( He looks enquiringly at the gentleman, wait- 
 ing for the name. ) 
 
 the gentleman. Permit me to shake your hand, Dr. 
 Trench. My name is Sartorius; and I have the honour of 
 being known to Lady Roxdale, who is, I believe, a near 
 relative of yours. Blanche. {She looks up.) My friend 
 Dr. Trench. {They bow.) 
 
 trench. Perhaps I should introduce my friend Cokane 
 to you, Mr. Sartorius — Mr. William de Burgh Cokane. 
 ( Cokane makes an elaborate bow. Sartorius accepts it with 
 dignity. The waiter meanwhile re-enters with teapot, hot 
 water, etc.) 
 
 sartorius {to the waiter). Two more cups. 
 
 waiter. Yes, zare. {He goes back into the hotel.) 
 
 blanche. Do you take sugar, Mr. Cokane ? 
 
 cokane. Thank you. {To Sartorius.) This is really 
 too kind. Harry: bring your chair around. 
 
 sartorius. You are very welcome. {Trench brings his 
 chair to the tea table; and they all sit round it. The waiter 
 returns with two more cups. ) 
 
 waiter. Table d'hote at 'alf past zix, zhentellmenn. 
 Anyzing else now, zare ? 
 
 sartorius. No. You can go. {The waiter goes.) 
 
 cokane {very agreeably). Do you contemplate a long stay 
 here, Miss Sartorius. 
 
 blanche. We were thinking of going on to Rolandseck. 
 Is it as nice as this place ? 
 
 cokane. Harry: the Baedeker. Thank you. {He con- 
 sults the index, and looks out Rolandseck.) 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 9 
 
 blanche. Sugar, Dr. Trench? 
 
 trench. Thanks. (She hands him the cup, and looks 
 meaningly at him for an instant. He looks down hastily, and 
 glances apprehensively at Sar tortus, who is preoccupied with a 
 piece of bread and butter.) 
 
 cokane. Rolandseck appears to be an extremely inter- 
 esting place. (He reads.) " It is one of the most beauti- 
 ful and frequented spots on the river, and is surrounded 
 with numerous villas and pleasant gardens, chiefly belong- 
 ing to wealthy merchants from the Lower Rhine, and 
 extending along the wooded slopes at the back of the 
 village." 
 
 blanche. That sounds civilized and comfortable. I 
 vote we go there. 
 
 sartorius. Quite like our place at Surbiton, my dear. 
 
 BLANCHE. Quite. 
 
 cokane. You have a place down the river? Ah, I envy 
 you. 
 
 sartorius. No: I have merely taken a furnished villa 
 at Surbiton for the summer. I live in Bedford Square. I 
 am a vestryman and must reside in the parish. 
 
 blanche. Another cup, Mr. Cokane ? 
 
 cokane. Thank you, no. (To Sartorius.') I presume 
 you have been round this little place. Not much to see 
 here, except the Appollinaris Church. 
 
 sartorius (scandalized). The what ! 
 
 cokane. The Appollinaris Church. 
 
 sartorius. A strange name to give a church. Very 
 continental, I must say. 
 
 cokane. Ah, yes, yes, yes. That is where our neigh- 
 bours fall short sometimes, Mr. Sartorius: taste — taste is 
 what they occasionally fail in. But in this instance they are 
 not to blame. The water is called after the church, not 
 the church after the water. 
 
 sartorius (as if this were an extenuating circumstance, but 
 
io Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 not a complete excuse). I am glad to hear it. Is the church 
 a celebrated one ? 
 
 cokane. Baedeker stars it. 
 
 sartorius {respectfully). Oh, in that case I should like 
 to see it. 
 
 cokane {reading). Cf erected in 1839 by Zwirner, 
 
 the late eminent architect of the cathedral of Cologne, at 
 the expense of Count Furstenburg-Stammheim." 
 
 sartorius {much impressed). We must certainly see that, 
 Mr. Cokane. I had no idea that the architect of Cologne 
 cathedral lived so recently. 
 
 blanche. Don't let us bother about any more churches, 
 papa* They're all the same; and I'm tired to death of 
 them. 
 
 sartorius. Well, my dear, if you think it sensible to 
 take a long and expensive journey to see what there is to be 
 seen, and then go away without seeing it 
 
 blanche. Not this afternoon, papa, please. 
 
 sartorius. My dear: I should like you to see every- 
 thing. It is part of your education 
 
 blanche {rising , with a petulant sigh). Oh, my educa- 
 tion. Very well, very well : I suppose I must go through 
 with it. Are you coming, Dr. Trench ? (With a grimace.) 
 I'm sure the Johannis Church will be a treat for you. 
 
 cokane {laughing softly and archly). Ah, excellent, ex- 
 cellent: very good, indeed. {Seriously. ) But do you 
 know, Miss Sartorius, there actually are Johannis churches 
 here — several of them — as well as Appollinaris ones? 
 
 sartorius {sententiously taking out his field-glass and 
 leading the way to the gate). There is many a true word 
 spoken in jest, Mr. Cokane. 
 
 cokane {accompanying him). How true ! How true ! 
 {They go out together 9 ruminating profoundly. Blanche makes 
 no movement to follow them. She watches them till they are 
 safely out of sight 9 and then posts herself before Trench, look* 
 
Act I Widowers* Houses u 
 
 ing at him with an enigmatic smile, which he returns with a 
 half sheepish, half conceited grin . ) 
 
 blanche. Well ! So you have done it at last. 
 
 trench. Yes. At least Cokane's done it. I told you 
 he'd manage it. He's rather an ass in some ways ; but he 
 has tremendous tact. 
 
 blanche {contemptuously). Tact ! That's not tact: that's 
 inquisitiveness. Inquisitive people always have a lot of 
 practice in getting into conversation with strangers. Why 
 didn't you speak to my father yourself on the boat? You 
 were ready enough to speak to me without any introduction. 
 
 trench. I didn't particularly want to talk to him. 
 
 blanche. It didn't occur to you, I suppose, that you put 
 me in a false position by that. 
 
 trench. Oh, I don't see that, exactly. Besides your 
 father isn't an easy man to tackle. Of course, now that I 
 know him, I see that he's pleasant enough ; but then you've 
 got to know him first, haven't you ? 
 
 blanche (impatiently). Everybody is afraid of papa — 
 I'm sure I don't know why. (She sits down again , pouting 
 a little. ) 
 
 trench (tenderly). However, it's all right now, isn't 
 it? (He sits near her.) 
 
 blanche (sharply). I don't know. How should I ? You 
 had no right to speak to me that day on board the steamer. 
 You thought I was alone, because (with false pathos) I had 
 no mother with me. 
 
 trench (protesting). Oh, I say ! Come! It was you 
 who spoke to me. Of course I was only too glad of the 
 chance ; but on my word I shouldn't have moved an eyelid 
 if you hadn't given me a lead. 
 
 blanche. I only asked you the name of a castle. There 
 was nothing unladylike in that. 
 
 trench. Of course not. Why shouldn't you ? (With 
 renewed tenderness.) But it's all right now, isn't it ? 
 
\z Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 blanche (softly — looking subtly at hint). Is it ? 
 
 trench (suddenly becoming shy). I — I suppose so. By 
 the way, what about the Appollinaris Church ? Your father 
 expects us to follow him, doesn't he ? (He rises.) 
 
 blanche (with suppressed resentment). Don't let me 
 detain you if you wish to see it. 
 
 trench. Won't you come ? 
 
 blanche. No. (She turns her face away moodily.) 
 
 trench (alarmed). I say: you're not offended, are you? 
 (She looks round at him for a moment with a reproachful film 
 on her eyes.) Blanche. (She bristles instantly; overdoes it; 
 and frightens him. ) I beg your pardon for calling you by 
 
 your name ; but I — er (She corrects her mistake by 
 
 softening her expression eloquently. He responds with a gush. ) 
 You do n't mind, do you ? I felt sure you wouldn't some- 
 how. Well, look here. I have no idea how you will re- 
 ceive this : it must seem horribly abrupt ; but the circum- 
 stances do not admit of — the fact is, my utter want of tact 
 — (he flounders more and more, unable to see that she can 
 hardly contain her eagerness.) Now, if it were Cokane 
 
 blanche (impatiently). Cokane ! 
 
 trench (terrified). No, not Cokane. Though I assure 
 you I was only going to say about him that 
 
 blanche. That he will be back presently with papa. 
 
 trench (stupidly). Yes, they can't be very long now. I 
 hope I am not detaining you. 
 
 blanche. I thought you were detaining me because you 
 had something to say. 
 
 trench (totally unnerved). Not at all. At least noth- 
 ing very particular. That is, I am afraid you would not 
 think it very particular. Another time, perhaps 
 
 blanche. What other time ? How do you know that 
 we shall ever meet again ? (Desperately.) Tell me now. 
 I w a nt you to tell me now. 
 
 trench. Well, I was thinking that if we could make up 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 13 
 
 our minds to — or not to — at least — er (He breaks 
 
 down.') 
 
 blanche (giving him up as hopeless). I do not think there 
 is much danger of y o u r making up your mind, Dr. Trench. 
 
 trench {stammering). I only thought (He stops 
 
 and looks at her piteously. She hesitates a moment , and then 
 puts her hands into his with calculated impulsiveness. He 
 catches her in his arms with a cry of relief.) Dear Blanche ! 
 I thought I should never have said it. I believe I should 
 have stood stuttering here all day if you hadn't helped me 
 out with it. 
 
 blanche (trying to get away from him). I d i d n ' t help 
 you out with it. 
 
 trench (holding her). I don't mean that you did it on 
 purpose, of course. Only instinctively. 
 
 blanche (still a little anxious). But you haven't said 
 anything. 
 
 trench. What more can I say — than this ? (He kisses 
 her again.) 
 
 blanche {overcome by the kiss, but holding on to her point). 
 But Harry 
 
 trench {delighted at the name). Yes. 
 
 blanche. When shall we be married ? 
 
 trench. At the first church we meet — the Appollinaris 
 Church, if you like. 
 
 blanche. No, but seriously. This is serious, Harry : 
 you musn't joke about it. 
 
 trench {looking suddenly round to the riverside gate and 
 quickly releasing her). So ! Here they are back again. 
 {She mutters something not unlike a suppressed oath. The 
 waiter appears on the steps of the hotel, with a bell on which he 
 gives a long ring. Cokane and Sartorius are seen returning 
 by the river gate.) 
 
 waiter. Table d'hote in dwendy minutes, ladies and 
 zhentellmenn. (He goes into the hotel.) 
 
i4 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 sartorius {gravely). I intended you to accompany us, 
 Blanche. 
 
 blanche. Yes, papa. We were just about to start. 
 
 sartorius. We are rather dusty : we must make our- 
 selves presentable at the table d'hote. I think you had 
 better come in with me, my child. Come. {He offers 
 Blanche his arm. The gravity of his manner overawes them 
 all. Blanche silently takes his arm and goes into the hotel 
 with him. Cokane, hardly less momentous than Sartorius 
 himself contemplates Trench with the severity of a judge. ) 
 
 cokane {with reprobation). No, my dear boy. No, 
 no. Never. I blush for you — was never so ashamed in 
 my life. You have been taking advantage of that unpro- 
 tected girl. 
 
 trench {hotly). Cokane ! 
 
 cokane {inexorable). Her father seems to be a perfect 
 gentleman. I obtained the privilege of his acquaintance ; 
 I introduced you : I allowed him to believe that he might 
 leave his daughter in your charge with absolute confidence. 
 And what did I see on our return ? — what did her father 
 see ? Oh, Trench, Trench ! No, my dear fellow, no, no. 
 Bad taste, Harry, bad form ! 
 
 trench. Stuff ! There was nothing to see. 
 
 cokane. Nothing to see ! She, a perfect lady, a per- 
 son of the highest breeding, actually in your arms ; and you 
 say there was nothing to see ! — with a waiter there actually 
 ringing a heavy bell to call attention to his presence. 
 {Lecturing him with redoubled severity.) Have you no 
 principles, Trench ? Have you no religious convictions ? 
 Have you no acquaintance with the usages of society ? 
 You actually kissed 
 
 trench. You didn't see me kiss her. 
 
 cokane. We not only saw but heard it : the report 
 positively reverberated down the Rhine. Don't condescend 
 to subterfuge, Trench. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 15 
 
 trench. Nonsense, my dear Billy. You 
 
 cokane. There you go again. Don't use that low 
 abbreviation. How am I to preserve the respect of fellow 
 travellers of position and wealth, if I am to be Billied at 
 every turn ? My name is William — William de Burgh 
 Cokane. 
 
 trench. Oh, bother ! There, don't be offended, old 
 chap. What's the use of putting your back up at every 
 trifle ? It comes natural to me to call you Bill : it suits 
 you, somehow* 
 
 cokane {mortified). You have no delicacy of feeling, 
 Trench — no taste. I never mention it to any one ; but 
 nothing, I am afraid, will ever make a true gentleman of 
 you. {Sartorius appears on the threshold of the hotel.) 
 Here is my friend, Sartorius, coming, no doubt, to ask you 
 for an explanation of your conduct. I rer^y should not 
 have been surprised to see him bring a horsewhip with him. 
 I shall not intrude on the painful scene. {Going.) 
 
 trench. Don't go, confound it. I don't want to meet 
 him alone just now. 
 
 cokane {shaking his head). Delicacy, Harry, delicacy. 
 Good taste ! Savoir faire ! {He walks away and disappears 
 in the garden to the right. Trench tries to escape in the 
 opposite direction by strolling off towards the garden entrance.) 
 
 sartorius {mesmeric ally). Dr. Trench. 
 
 trench {stopping and turning). Oh, is that you, Mr. 
 Sartorius ? How did you find the church ? 
 
 {Sartorius, without a word, points to a seat. Trench, 
 half hypnotized by his own nervousness and the impressiveness 
 of Sartorius, sits down helplessly.) 
 
 Sartorius {also seating himself). You have been 
 speaking to my daughter, Dr. Trench ? 
 
 trench {with an attempt at ease of manner). Yes: we 
 had a conversation — quite a chat, in fact — whilst you were 
 at the church with Cokane. How did you get on with 
 
1 6 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 Cokane, Mr. Sartorius ? I always think he has such won- 
 derful tact. 
 
 Sartorius (ignoring the digression). I have just had a 
 word with my daughter, Dr. Trench ; and I find her under 
 the impression that something has passed between you which 
 it is my duty as a father — the father of a motherless girl — 
 to inquire into at once. My daughter, perhaps foolishly, 
 has taken you quite seriously ; and 
 
 TRENCH. But 
 
 sartorius. One moment, if you will be so good. I 
 have been a young man myself — younger, perhaps, than 
 you would suppose from my present appearance. I mean, 
 of course, in character. If you were not serious 
 
 trench (ingeniously*). But I was perfectly serious. I 
 want to marry your daughter, Mr. Sartorius. I hope you 
 don't object. 
 
 Sartorius (condescending to Trench's humility from the 
 mere instinct to seize an advantage, and yet deferring to 
 Lady Roxdale's relative). So far, no. I may say that 
 your proposal seems to be an honourable and straightforward 
 one, and that is very gratifying to me personally. 
 
 trench (agreeably surprised). Then I suppose we may 
 consider the affair as settled. It's really very good of you. 
 
 sartorius. Gently, Dr. Trench, gently. Such a trans- 
 action as this cannot be settled off-hand. 
 
 trench. Not off-hand, no. There are settlements and 
 things, of course. But it may be regarded as settled between 
 ourselves, mayn't it ? 
 
 sartorius. Hm ! Have you nothing further to mention ? 
 
 trench. Only that — that — no: I don't know that I have, 
 except that I love 
 
 sartorius (interrupting). Anything about your family, 
 for example ? You do not anticipate any objection on their 
 part, do you ? 
 
 trench. Oh, they have nothing to do with it. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 17 
 
 sartorius (warmly). Excuse me, sir: they have a great 
 deal to do with it. {Trench is abashed.} I am resolved 
 that my daughter shall approach no circle in which she will 
 not be received with the full consideration to which her 
 education and her breeding {here his self-control slips a 
 little ; and he repeats, as if Trench had contradicted him) — I 
 say, her breeding — entitle her. 
 
 trench {bewildered). Of course not. But what makes 
 you think my family won't like Blanche ? Of course my 
 father was a younger son ; and I've had to take a profession 
 and all that; so my people won't expect us to entertain 
 them: they'll know we can't afford it. But they'll enter- 
 tain us: they always ask me. 
 
 sartorius. That won't do for me, sir. Families often 
 think it due to themselves to turn their backs on newcomers 
 whom they may not think quite good enough for them. 
 
 trench. But I assure you my people aren't a bit snobbish. 
 Blanche is a lady: that'll be good enough for them. 
 
 sartorius {moved). I am glad you think so. {Offers his 
 hand. Trench, astonished, takes it.) I think so myself. 
 {Sartorius presses Trench's hand gratefully and releases it.) 
 And now, Dr. Trench, since you have acted handsomely, 
 you shall have no cause to complain of me. There shall 
 be no difficulty about money: you shall entertain as much 
 as you please: I will guarantee all that. But I must have a 
 guarantee on my side that she will be received on equal 
 terms by your family. 
 
 trench. Guarantee! 
 
 sartorius. Yes, a reasonable guarantee. I shall expect 
 you to write to your relatives explaining your intention, 
 and adding what you think proper as to my daughter's 
 fitness for the best society. When you can show me a 
 few letters from the principal members of your family, 
 congratulating you in a fairly cordial way, I shall be satis- 
 fied. Can I say more ? 
 
18 Widowers 5 Houses Act I 
 
 trench {much puzzled, but grateful). No indeed. You 
 are really very good. Many thanks. Since you wish it, 
 Fll write to my people. But I assure you you'll find 
 them as jolly as possible over it. I'll make them write by 
 return. 
 
 sartorius. Thank you. In the meantime, I must ask 
 you not to regard the matter as settled. 
 
 trench. Oh! Not to regard the — I see. You mean 
 between Blanche and 
 
 sartorius. I mean between you and Miss Sartorius. 
 When I interrupted your conversation here some time ago, 
 you and she were evidently regarding it as settledo In 
 case difficulties arise, and the match — you see I call it a 
 match — be broken off, I should not wish Blanche to think 
 that she had allowed a gentleman to — to — ( Trench nods 
 sympathetically) — Quite so. May I depend on you to keep 
 a fair distance, and so spare me the necessity of having to 
 restrain an intercourse which promises to be very pleasant 
 to us all ? 
 
 trench. Certainly ; since you prefer it. ( They shake 
 hands on it.) 
 
 sartorius {rising). You will write to-day, I think you 
 said ? 
 
 trench {eagerly). I'll write now, before I leave here — 
 straight off. 
 
 sartorius. I will leave you to yourself then. {He hesi- 
 tates, the conversation having made him self-conscious and 
 embarrassed; then recovers himself with an effort and adds 
 with dignity , as he turns to go) I am pleased to have come to 
 an understanding with you. {He goes into the hotel; and 
 Cokane, who has been hanging about inquisitively , emerges 
 from the shrubbery.) 
 
 trench, {excitedly). Billy, old chap, you're just in time 
 to do me a favour. I want you to draft a letter for me to 
 copy out. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 19 
 
 cokane. I came with you on this tour as a friend, 
 Trench : not as a secretary, 
 
 trench. Well, you'll write as a friend. It's to my 
 Aunt Maria, about Blanche and me. To tell her, you 
 know. 
 
 cokane. Tell her about Blanche and you! Tell her 
 about your conduct! Betray you, my friend; and forget 
 that I am writing to a lady ? Never ! 
 
 trench. Bosh, Billy : don't pretend you don't under- 
 stand. We're engaged — engaged, my boy: what do 
 you think of that ? I must write by to-night's post. You 
 are the man to tell me what to say. Come, old chap 
 {coaxing him to sit down at one of the tables'), here's a pen- 
 cil. Have you a bit of — oh, here : this' 11 do : write it on 
 the back of the map. {He tears the map out of his Baedeker 
 and spreads it face downwards on the table. Cokane takes 
 the pencil and prepares to write.') That's right. Thanks 
 awfully, old chap! Now fire away. {Anxiously.) Be 
 careful how you word it, though, Cokane. 
 
 cokane {putting down the pencil). If you doubt my 
 ability to express myself becomingly to Lady Roxdale 
 
 trench {propitiating him). All right, old fellow, all 
 right : there' s not a man alive who could do it half so well 
 as you. I only wanted to explain. You see, Sartorius 
 has got it into his head, somehow, that my people will snub 
 Blanche ; and he won't consent unless they send letters and 
 invitations and congratulations and the deuce knows what 
 not. So just put it in such a way that Aunt Maria will 
 write by return saying she is delighted, and asking us — 
 Blanche and me, you know — to stay with her, and so forth. 
 You know what I mean. Just tell her all about it in a 
 chatty way ; and — — 
 
 cokane {crushinglj). If you will tell me all about it in a 
 chatty way, I daresay I can communicate it to Lady Rox- 
 dale with proper delicacy. What is Sartorius ? 
 
20 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 trench {taken aback). I don't know: I didn't ask. It's a 
 sort of question you can't very well put to a man — at least a 
 man like him. Do you think you could word the letter so 
 as to pass all that over ? I really don't like to ask him. 
 
 cokane. I can pass it over if you wish. Nothing easier. 
 But if you think Lady Roxdale will pass it over, I differ 
 from you. I may be wrong: no doubt I am. I generally 
 am wrong, I believe; but that is my opinion. 
 
 trench {much perplexed). Oh, confound it! What the 
 deuce am I to do ? Can't you say he's a gentleman: that 
 won't commit us to anything. If you dwell on his being 
 well off, and Blanche an only child, Aunt Maria will be 
 satisfied. 
 
 cokane. Henry Trench: when will you begin to get a 
 little sense ? This is a serious business. Act responsibly, 
 Harry : act responsibly. 
 
 trench. Bosh ! Don't be moral ! 
 
 cokane. I am not moral, Trench. At least I am not a 
 moralist: that is the expression I should have used — moral, 
 but not a moralist. If you are going to get money with 
 your wife, doesn't it concern your family to know how that 
 money was made ? Doesn't it concern you — you, Harry ? 
 (Trench looks at him helplessly, twisting his fingers nervously. 
 Cokane throws down the pencil and leans back with ostentatious 
 indifference). Of course it is no business of mine: I only 
 throw out the suggestion. Sartorius may be a retired burglar 
 for all I know. (Sartorius and Blanche , ready for dinner, 
 come from the hotel.) 
 
 trench. Sh ! Here they come. Get the letter finished 
 before dinner, like a good old chappie: I shall be awfully 
 obliged to you. 
 
 cokane (impatiently). Leave me, leave me : you disturb 
 me. (He waves him off and begins to write). 
 
 trench (humbly and gratefully). Yes, old chap. Thanks 
 awfully. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 21 
 
 (By this time Blanche has left her father and is strolling off 
 toward the riverside. Sartorius comes down the garden, 
 Baedeker in hand, and sits near Cokane, reading. Trench 
 addresses him). You won't mind my taking Blanche in to 
 dinner, I hope, sir ? 
 
 sartorius. By all means, Dr. Trench, Pray do so. 
 (He graciously waves him off to join Blanche. Trench hurries 
 after her through the gate. The light reddens as the Rhenish 
 sunset begins. Coiane , making wry faces in the agonies of 
 composition , // disconcerted to find Sartorius* eye upon him.) 
 
 sartorius. I do not disturb you, I hope, Mr. Cokane. 
 
 cokane. By no means. Our friend Trench has entrusted 
 me with a difficult and delicate task. He has requested me, 
 as a friend of the family, to write to them on a subject that 
 concerns you. 
 
 sartorius. Indeed, Mr. Cokane Well, the communi- 
 cation could not be in better hands. 
 
 cokane (with an air of modesty)* Ah, that is going too 
 far, my dear sir, too far. Still, you see what Trench is. 
 A capital fellow in his way, Mr. Sartorius, an excellent 
 young fellow. But family communications like these re- 
 quire good manners. They require tact; and tact is Trench's 
 weak point. He has an excellent heart, but no tact — none 
 whatever. Everything depends on the way the matter is 
 put to Lady Roxdale. But as to that, you may rely on me. 
 I understand the sex. 
 
 sartorius. Well, however she may receive it — and I care 
 as little as any man, Mr. Cokane, how people may choose 
 to receive me — I trust I may at least have the pleasure of 
 seeing you sometimes at my house when we return to Eng- 
 land. 
 
 cokane (overwhelmed). My dear sir! You express 
 yourself in the true spirit of an English gentleman. 
 
 sartorius. Not at all. You will always be most wel- 
 come. But I fear I have disturbed you in the composition 
 
H Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 of your letter. Pray resume it. I shall leave you to your- 
 self. (He pretends to rise, but checks himself to add ) Unless 
 indeed I can assist you in any way ? — by clearing up any 
 point on which you are not informed, for instance ; or even, 
 if I may so far presume on my years, giving you the bene- 
 fit of my experience as to the best way of wording the 
 matter. ( Cohane looks a little surprised at this. Sar tortus 
 looks hard at bim> and continues deliberately and meaningly} 
 I shall always be happy to help any friend of Dr. Trench's, 
 in any way, to the best of my ability and of my means. 
 
 cokane. My dear sir, you are really very good. Trench 
 and I were putting our heads together over the letter just 
 now ; and there certainly were one or two points on which 
 we were a little in the dark. (Scrupulously.} But I would 
 not permit Harry to question you. No. I pointed out to 
 him that, as a matter of taste, it would be more delicate to 
 wait until you volunteered the necessary information. 
 
 sartorius. Hm ! May I ask what you have said, so far ? 
 
 cokane. " My dear Aunt Maria.' V That is, Trench's 
 dear Aunt Maria, my friend Lady Roxdale. You under- 
 stand that I am only drafting a letter for Trench to copy. 
 
 sartorius. Quite so. Will you proceed ; or would it 
 help you if I were to suggest a word or two ? 
 
 cokane (effusively}. Your suggestions will be most valu- 
 able, my dear sir, most welcome. 
 
 sartorius. I think I should begin in some such way as 
 this. " In traveling with my friend Mr. Cokane up the 
 Rhine " 
 
 cokane (murmuring as he writes}. Invaluable, invalu- 
 able. The very thing. " — my friend Mr. Cokane up the 
 Rhine " 
 
 sartorius. "I have made the acquaintance of" — or 
 you may say "picked up" or "come across," if you think 
 that would suit your friend's style better. We must not 
 be too formal. 
 
Act I Widowers' Houses 23 
 
 cokane. " Picked up"! oh no: too degage, Mr. Sar- 
 torius, too degage. I should say, " had the privilege of 
 becoming acquainted with." 
 
 sartorius (quickly). By no means : Lady Roxdale must 
 judge of that for herself. Let it stand as I said. " I have 
 made the acquaintance of a young lady, the daughter of 
 " (He hesitates.) 
 
 cokane (writing). " acquaintance of a young lady, the 
 daughter of ' — yes ? 
 
 sartorius. "of" — you had better say "a gentleman." 
 
 cokane (surprised). Of course. 
 
 sartorius (with sudden passion) . It is not of course, sir. 
 ( Cokane, startled, looks at him with dawning suspicion. Sar- 
 torius recovers himself somewhat shamefacedly.) Hm ! •* — of 
 a gentleman of considerable wealth and position " 
 
 cokane (echoing him with a new note of coldness in his 
 voice as he writes the last words). c< — and position." 
 
 sartorius. " which, however, he has made entirely for 
 himself." Cokane, now fully enlightened, stares at him instead 
 of writing. ) Have you written that ? 
 
 cokane (expanding into an attitude of patronage and en-> 
 couragement). Ah, indeed. Quite so, quite so. (He writes.) 
 " — entirely for himself." Just so. Proceed, Mr. Sar- 
 torius, proceed. Very clearly expressed. 
 
 sartorius. " The young lady will inherit the bulk of 
 her father's fortune, and will be liberally treated on her 
 marriage. Her education has been of the most expensive 
 and complete kind obtainable ; and her surroundings have 
 been characterized by the strictest refinement. She is in 
 every essential particular " 
 
 cokane (interrupting). Excuse the remark; but don't 
 you think this is rather too much in the style of a prospec- 
 tus of the young lady ? I throw out the suggestion as a 
 matter of taste. 
 
24 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 sartorius (troubled). Perhaps you are right. I am of 
 course not dictating the exact words 
 
 cokane. Of course not : of course not. 
 
 sartorius. But I desire that there may be no wrong 
 impression as to my daughter's — er — breeding. As to 
 myself- 
 
 cokane. Oh, it will be sufficient to mention your pro- 
 fession, or pursuits, or (He pauses ; and they look pretty 
 
 hard at one another.) 
 
 sartorius {very deliberately). My income, sir, is derived 
 from the rental of a very extensive real estate in London. 
 Lady Roxdale is one of the head landlords ; and Dr. 
 Trench holds a mortgage from which, if I mistake not, his 
 entire income is derived. The truth is, Mr. Cokane, I 
 am quite well acquainted with Dr. Trench's position and 
 affairs ; and I have long desired to know him personally. 
 
 cokane {again obsequious, but still inquisitive). What a 
 remarkable coincidence! In what quarter is the estate 
 situated, did you say ? 
 
 sartorius. In London, sir. Its management occu- 
 pies as much of my time as is not devoted to the ordinary 
 pursuits of a gentleman. (He rises and takes out his card 
 case.) The rest I leave to your discretion. {He puts a card 
 upon the table.) That is my address at Surbiton. If it 
 should unfortunately happen, Mr. Cokane, that this should 
 end in a disappointment for Blanche, probably she would 
 rather not see you afterwards. But if all turns out as we 
 hope, Dr. Trench's best friends will then be our best 
 friends. 
 
 cokane {rising and confronting Sartorius confidently, pen- 
 cil and paper in hand). Rely on me, Mr. Sartorius. The 
 letter is already finished here {points to his brain). In five 
 minutes it will be finished there (points to the paper; nods 
 to emphasize the assertion; and begins to pace up and down 
 
Act I Widowers* Houses 25 
 
 the garden, writing, and tapping his forehead from time to 
 time as he goes, with every appearance of severe intellectual 
 exertion. ) 
 
 sartorius {calling through the gate after a glance at his 
 watch.) Blanche. 
 
 blanche {replying in the distance). Yes. 
 
 sartorius. Time, my dear. {He goes in to the table 
 d'hote.) 
 
 blanche {nearer). Coming. {She comes back through 
 the gate, followed by Trench.) 
 
 trench {in a half whisper, as Blanche goes towards the 
 table d'hote). Blanche : stop — one moment. {She stops.) 
 We must be careful when your father is by. I had to 
 promise him not to regard anything as settled until I hear 
 from my people at home. 
 
 blanche {chilled). Oh, I see. Your family may object 
 to me ; and then it will be all over between us. They are 
 almost sure to. 
 
 trench {anxiously). Don't say that, Blanche; it sounds 
 as if you didn't care. I hope you regard it as settled. 
 You haven't made any promise, you know. 
 
 blanche {earnestly). Yes, I have : I promised papa too. 
 But I have broken my promise for your sake. I suppose I 
 am not so conscientious as you. And if the matter is not 
 to be regarded as settled, family or no family, promise or 
 no promise, let us break it off here and now. 
 ( trench {intoxicated with affection). Blanche : on my 
 most sacred honour, family or no family, promise or no 
 
 promise {The waiter reappears at the table d'hote 
 
 entrance, ringing his bell loudly.) Damn that noise! 
 
 cokane {as he comes to them, flourishing the letter). Fin- 
 ished, dear boy, finished. Done to a turn, punctually to 
 the second. C'est fini, mon cher garcon, c'est fini. {Sar- 
 torius returns.) 
 
z6 Widowers' Houses Act I 
 
 sartorius. Will you take Blanche in, Dr. Trench? 
 (Trench takes Blanche in to the table d'hote.) Is the letter 
 finished, Mr. Cokane ? 
 
 co kane (with an author's pride, handing his draft to Sar- 
 torius). There! (Sartorius takes it, and reads it, nodding 
 gravely over it with complete approval. ) 
 
 sartorius (returning the draft). Thank you, Mr. Cokane. 
 You have the pen of a ready writer. 
 
 cokane (as they go in together). Not at all, not at all. A 
 little tact, Mr. Sartorius, a little knowledge of the world, 
 
 a little experience of women (The act drop descends and 
 
 cuts off the rest of the speech.) 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
ACT II 
 
 In the library of a handsomely appointed villa at Surbiton 
 on a sunny forenoon in September. Sartor ius is busy at a 
 writing table , littered with business letters, on the left. He 
 sits facing the window, which is in the right wall. The fire- 
 place, decorated for summer, is behind him. Between the table 
 and the window Blanche, in her prettiest frock, sits reading 
 c * The Queen." The door, painted, like all the woodwork, in 
 the blackest shade of red, with brass fittings, and moulded 
 posts and pediment, is in the middle of the back wall. All the 
 walls are lined with smartly tooled books, fitting into their 
 places like bricks. A library ladder stands in the corner. 
 
 sartorius. Blanche. 
 
 blanche. Yes, papa. 
 
 sartorius. I have some news here, 
 
 blanche. What is it ? 
 
 sartorius. I mean news for you — from Trench, 
 
 blanche (with affected indifference). Indeed ? 
 
 sartorius. " Indeed ? " ! Is that all you have to say to 
 me ? Oh, very well. (He resumes his work. Silence.') 
 
 blanche. What do his people say, papa? 
 
 sartorius. His people, I don't know. (Still busy. An- 
 other pause.) 
 
 blanche. What does he say ? 
 
 sartorius. He! He says nothing. (He folds a letter 
 leisurely and looks for the envelope.) He prefers to commu- 
 
28 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 nicate the result of his — where did I put that ? — oh, here. 
 Yes, he prefers to communicate the result in person. 
 
 blanche {springing up). Oh, papa! When is he coming? 
 
 sartorius. If he walks from the station, he may arrive in 
 the course of the next half-hour. If he drives, he may be 
 here any moment. 
 
 blanche {making hastily for the door). Oh! 
 
 sartorius. Blanche. 
 
 blanche. Yes, papa. 
 
 sartorius. You will of course not meet him until he has 
 spoken to me. 
 
 blanche (hypocritically). Of course not, papa. I shouldn't 
 have thought of such a thing. 
 
 sartorius. That is all. {She is going, when he puts out 
 his hand, and says with fatherly emotion.) My dear child. 
 {She responds by going over to kiss him. A tap at the door.) 
 Come in. {Lickcheese enters, carrying a black hand-bag. 
 He is a shabby, needy man, with dirty face and linen, scrubby 
 beard and whiskers, going bald. A nervous, wiry, pertina- 
 cious sort of human terrier judged by his mouth and eyes, but 
 miserably apprehensive and servile before Sartorius. He bids 
 Blanche " Good morning, miss"; and she passes out with a 
 slight and contemptuous recognition of him.) 
 
 lickcheese. Good morning, sir. 
 
 sartorius (harsh and peremptory). Good morning. 
 
 lickcheese {taking a little sack of money from his bag). 
 Not much this morning, sir. I have just had the honour of 
 making Dr. Trench's acquaintance, sir. 
 
 sartorius {looking up from his writing, displeased). In- 
 deed ? 
 
 lickcheese. Yes, sir. Dr. Trench asked his way of me, 
 and was kind enough to drive me from the station. 
 
 sartorius. Where is he, then ? 
 
 lickcheese. I left him in the hall, with his friend, sir. I 
 should think he is speaking to Miss Sartorius. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 29 
 
 sartorius. Hm ! What do you mean by his friend ? 
 lickcheese. There is a Mr. Cokane with him, sir. 
 sartorius. I see you have been talking to him, eh ? 
 lickcheese. As we drove along: yes, sir. 
 sartorius {sharply). Why did you not come by the nine 
 o'clock train ? 
 
 LICKCHEESE. I thought — 
 
 sartorius. It cannot be helped now; so never mind what 
 you thought. But do not put off my business again to the 
 last moment. Has there been any further trouble about the 
 St. Giles* property ? 
 
 lickcheese. The Sanitary Inspector has been complain- 
 ing again about number 13 Robbins's Row. He says he'll 
 bring it before the vestry. 
 
 sartorius. Did you tell him that I am on the vestry ? 
 
 lickcheese. Yes, sir. 
 
 sartorius. What did he say to that ? 
 
 lickcheese. Said he supposed so, or you wouldn't dare 
 to break the law so scand'lous. I only tell you what he 
 said. 
 
 sartorius. Hm ! Do you know his name ! 
 
 lickcheese. Yes, sir. Speakman. 
 
 sartorius. Write it down in the diary for the day of the 
 next vestry meeting. I will teach Mr. Speakman his duty 
 — his duty to members of the vestry. 
 
 lickcheese (doubtfully). The vestry can't dismiss him, 
 sir. He's under the Local Government Board. 
 
 sartorius. I did not ask you that. Let me see the 
 books. (Lickcheese produces the rent book, and hands it to 
 Sartorius; then makes the desired entry in the diary on the 
 table, watching Sartorius with misgiving as the rent book is 
 examined. Sartorius frowns and rises.) -£1: 4s. for repairs 
 to No. 13. What does this mean ? 
 
 lickcheese. Well, sir, it was the staircase on the third 
 floor. It was downright dangerous: there weren't but three 
 
30 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 whole steps in it, and no handrail. I thought it best to 
 have a few boards put in. 
 
 sartorius. Boards ! Firewood, sir, firewood ! They 
 will burn every stick of it. You have spent twenty-four 
 shillings of my money on firewood for them. 
 
 lickcheese. There ought to be stone stairs, sir: it would 
 be a saving in the long run. The clergyman says 
 
 sartorius. What! who says? 
 
 lickcheese. The clergyman, sir, only the clergyman. 
 Not that I make much account of him; but if you knew 
 how he has worried me over that staircase 
 
 sartorius. I am an Englishman; and I will suffer no 
 clergyman to interfere in my business. (He turns suddenly 
 on Lickcheese.) Now look here, Mr. Lickcheese ! This is 
 the third time this year that you have brought me a bill of 
 over a pound for repairs, I have warned you repeatedly 
 against dealing with these tenement houses as if they were 
 mansions in a West-end square. I have had occasion to 
 warn you too against discussing my affairs with strangers. 
 You have chosen to disregard my wishes. You are dis- 
 charged. 
 
 lickcheese {dismayed). Oh, sir, don't say that. 
 
 sartorius (fiercely). You are discharged. 
 
 lickcheese. Well, Mr. Sartorius, it is hard, so it is. 
 No man alive could have screwed more out of them poor 
 destitute devils for you than I have, or spent less in doing 
 it. I have dirtied my hands at it until they're not fit for 
 clean work hardly ; and now you turn me 
 
 sartorius (interrupting bim menacingly). What do you 
 mean by dirtying your hands ? If I find that you have 
 stepped an inch outside the letter of the law, Mr. Lick- 
 cheese, I will prosecute you myself. The way to keep 
 your hands clean is to gain the confidence of your employers. 
 You will do well to bear that in mind in your next situation. 
 
 the parlour maid (opening the door). Mr. Trench and 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 31 
 
 Mr. Cokane. {Cokane and Trench come in , Trench festively 
 dressed and in the highest spirits, Cokane highly self-satisfied. ) 
 
 sartorius. How do you do, Dr. Trench ? Good morn- 
 ing Mr. Cokane. I am pleased to see you here. Mr. 
 Lickcheese, you will place your accounts and money on 
 the table : I will examine them and settle with you pres- 
 ently. {Lickcheese retires to the table, and begins to ar- 
 range his accounts, greatly depressed. ) 
 
 trench {glancing at Lickcheese). I hope we're not in 
 the way. 
 
 sartorius. By no means. Sit down, pray. I fear you 
 have been kept waiting. 
 
 trench {taking Blanche* s chair). Not at all. We've 
 only just come in. {He takes out a packet of letters and be- 
 gins untying them.) 
 
 cokane {going to a chair nearer the window, but stopping 
 to look admiringly round before sitting down). You must be 
 happy here with all these books, Mr. Sartorius. A literary 
 atmosphere. 
 
 sartorius {resuming his seat). I have not looked into 
 them. They are pleasant for Blanche occasionally when 
 she wishes to read. I chose the house because it is on 
 gravel. The death rate is very low. 
 
 trench {triumphantly). I have any amount of letters 
 for you. All my people are delighted that I am going to 
 settle. Aunt Maria wants Blanche to be married from her 
 house. {He hands Sartorius a letter.) 
 
 sartorius. Aunt Maria ! 
 
 cokane. Lady Roxdale, my dear sir ; he means Lady 
 Roxdale. Do express yourself with a little more tact, my 
 dear fellow. 
 
 trench. Lady Roxdale, of course. Uncle Harry 
 
 cokane. Sir Harry Trench. His godfather, my dear sir, 
 his godfather. 
 
 trench. Just so. The pleasantest fellow for his age you 
 
32 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 ever met. He offers us his house at St. Andrews for a 
 couple of months, if we care to pass our honeymoon there. 
 (Handing Sartorius another letter.) It's the sort of house 
 nobody can live in, you know ; but it's a nice thing for him 
 to offer. Don't you think so? 
 
 sartorius (preoccupied with the letters). No doubt. 
 These seem very gratifying, Dr. Trench. 
 
 trench. Yes; aren't they? Aunt Maria has really behaved 
 like a brick. If you read the postscript you'll see she 
 spotted Cokane's hand in my letter. (Chuckling.) He 
 wrote it for me. 
 
 sartorius (glancing at Cokane). Indeed? Mr. Cokane 
 evidently did it with great tact. 
 
 cokane (returning the glance) . Don' t mention it. 
 
 trench (buoyantly). Well, what do you say now, Mr. 
 Sartorius? May we regard the matter as settled at last! 
 
 sartorius. Quite settled. (He rises and offers his hand. 
 Trench, glowing with gratitude, rises and shakes it vehe- 
 mently, unable to find words for his feelings.) 
 
 cokane (coming between them). Allow me to congratu- 
 late you both. (Shakes hands with the two at the same time.) 
 
 sartorius. And now, gentlemen, I have a word to say 
 to my daughter. Dr. Trench, you will not, I hope, 
 grudge me the pleasure of breaking this news to her : I 
 have had to disappoint her more than once since I last saw 
 you. Will you excuse me for ten minutes ? 
 
 cokane (in a flush of friendly protest). My dear sir, can 
 you ask? 
 
 trench. Certainly. 
 
 sartorius. Thank you. (He goes out.) 
 
 trench (///// chuckling). He won't have any news to 
 break, poor old boy: she's seen all the letters already. 
 
 cokane. I must say your behaviour has been far from 
 straightforward, Harry. You have been carrying on a 
 clandestine correspondence. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 33 
 
 lickcheese (stealthily). Gentlemen 
 
 I (turning — they had forgotten his presence). Hallo! 
 
 lickcheese (coming between them very humbly, but in 
 mortal anxiety and haste'). Look here, gentlemen. ( To 
 Trench.) You, sir, I address myself to more particular. 
 Will you say a word in my favour to the guv' nor? He's 
 just given me the sack ; and I have four children looking 
 to me for their bread. A word from you, sir, on this happy 
 day, might get him to take me on again. 
 
 trench (embarrassed). Well, you see, Mr. Lickcheese, 
 I don't see how I can interfere. I'm very sorry, of course. 
 
 cokane. Certainly you cannot interfere. It would be 
 in the most execrable taste. 
 
 lickcheese. Oh, gentlemen, you are young ; and you 
 don't know what loss of employment means to the like of 
 me. What harm would it do you to help a poor man ? 
 Just listen to the circumstances, sir. I only 
 
 trench (moved but snatching at an excuse for taking a 
 high tone in avoiding the unpleasantness of helping him). No: 
 I had rather not. Excuse my saying plainly that I think 
 Mr. Sartorius is not a man to act hastily or harshly. I have 
 always found him very fair and generous ; and I believe he 
 is a better judge of the circumstances than I am. 
 
 cokane {inquisitive). I think you ought to hear the cir- 
 cumstances, Harry. It can do no harm. Hear the cir- 
 cumstances by all means. 
 
 lickcheese. Never mind, sir: it ain't any use. When 
 I hear that man called generous and fair! — well, never 
 mind. 
 
 trench {severely). If you wish me to do anything for 
 you, Mr. Lickcheese, let me tell you that you are not going 
 the right way about it in speaking ill of Mr. Sartorius. 
 
 lickcheese. Have I said one word against him, sir? I 
 leave it to your friend : have I said a word ? 
 
34 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 cokane. True, true. Quite true. Harry : be just. 
 
 lickcheese. Mark my words, gentlemen: he'll find 
 what a man he's lost the very first week's rents the new 
 man'U bring him. You'll find the difference yourself, Dr. 
 Trench, if you or your children come into the property. 
 I have got money when no other collector alive would 
 have wrung it out. And this is the thanks I get for it! 
 Why, see here, gentlemen! Look at that bag of money 
 on the table. Hardly a penny of that but there was a 
 hungry child crying for the bread it would have bought. 
 But I got it for him — screwed and worried and bullied it 
 out of them. I — look here, gentlemen : I'm pretty well 
 seasoned to the work; but there's money there that I 
 couldn't have taken if it hadn't been for the thought of my 
 own children depending on me for giving him satisfaction. 
 And because I charged him four-and-twenty shillin' to 
 mend a staircase that three women have been hurt on, and 
 that would have got him prosecuted for manslaughter if it 
 had been let go much longer, he gives me the sack. 
 Wouldn't listen to a word, though I would have offered to 
 make up the money out of my own pocket — aye, and am 
 willing to do it still if you will only put in a word for me, 
 sir. 
 
 trench (aghast). You took money that ought to have fed 
 starving children ! Serve you right ! If I had been the 
 father of one qf those children, I'd have given you some- 
 thing worse than the sack. I wouldn't say a word to save 
 your soul, if you have such a thing. Mr. Sartorius was 
 quite right. 
 
 lickcheese (staring at bim, surprised into contemptuous 
 amusement in the midst of his anxiety). Just listen to this ! 
 Well, you a r e an innocent young gentleman. Do you sup- 
 pose he sacked me because I was too hard ? Not a bit of 
 it : it was because I wasn't hard enough. I never heard 
 him say he was satisfied yet — no, nor he wouldn't, not if 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 35 
 
 I skinned 'em alive. I don't say he's the worst landlord 
 in London : he couldn't be worse than some ; but he's no 
 better than the worst I ever had to do with. And, though 
 I say it, I'm better than the best collector he ever done busi- 
 ness with. I have screwed more and spent less on his 
 properties than any one would believe that knows what 
 such properties are. I know my merits, Dr. Trench, and 
 will speak for myself if no one else will. 
 
 trench. What sort of properties ? Houses ? 
 
 lickcheese. Tenement houses, let from week to week by 
 the room or half-room — aye, or quarter-room. It pays 
 when you know how to work it, sir. Nothing like it. It's 
 been calculated on the cubic foot of space, sir, that you can 
 get higher rents letting by the room than you can for a man- 
 sion in Park Lane. 
 
 trench. I hope Mr. Sartorius hasn't much of that sort 
 of property, however it may pay. 
 
 lickcheese. He has nothing else, sir ; and he shows his 
 sense in it too. Every few hundred pounds he could scrape 
 together he bought old houses with — houses that you 
 wouldn't hardly look at without holding your nose. He 
 has 'em in St. Giles's : he has 'em in Marylebone : he has 
 'em in Bethnal Green. Just look how he lives himself, and 
 you'll see the good of it to him. He likes a low death- 
 rate and a gravel soil for himself, he does. You come down 
 with me to Robbins's Row ; and I'll show you a soil and 
 a death-rate, so I will ! And, mind you, it's me that makes 
 it pay him so well. Catch him going down to collect his 
 own rents ! Not likely ! 
 
 trench. Do you mean to say that all his property — a 1 1 
 his means — come from this sort of thing ? 
 
 lickcheese. Every penny of it, sir. {^Trench », over- 
 whelmed, has to sit down. ) 
 
 cokane {looking compassionately at him). Ah, my dear 
 fellow, the love of money is the root of all evil. 
 
36 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 lickcheese. Yes, sir ; and we'd all like to have the tree 
 growing in our garden. 
 
 cokane {revolted). Mr. Lickcheese, I did not address 
 myself to you. I do not wish to be severe with you ; but 
 there is something peculiarly repugnant to my feelings in the 
 calling of a rent collector. 
 
 lickcheese. It's no worse than many another. I have 
 my children looking to me. 
 
 cokane. True : I admit it. So has our friend Sartorius. 
 His affection for his daughter is a redeeming point — a re- 
 deeming point, certainly. 
 
 lickcheese. She's a lucky daughter, sir. Many another 
 daughter has been turned out upon the streets to gratify his 
 affection for her. That's what business is, sir, you see. 
 Come sir, I think your friend will say a word for me now 
 he knows I'm not in fault. 
 
 trench (rising angrily}. I will not. It's a damnable 
 business from beginning to end ; and you deserve no better 
 luck for helping in it. I've seen it all among the out- 
 patients at the hospital ; and it used to make my blood boil 
 to think that such things couldn't be prevented. 
 
 lickcheese {his suppressed spleen breaking out}. Oh indeed, 
 sir. But I suppose you will take your share when you 
 marry Miss Blanche, all the same. (Furiously.) Which 
 of us is the worse, I should like to know — me that wrings 
 the money out to keep a home over my children, or you 
 that spend it and try to shove the blame on to me? 
 
 cokane. A most improper observation to address to a gen- 
 tleman, Mr. Lickcheese. A most revolutionary sentiment. 
 
 lickcheese. Perhaps so. But then, Robbins's Row ain't 
 a school for manners. You collect a week or two there — 
 you're welcome to my place if I can't keep it for myself — 
 and you'll hear a little plain speaking, so you will. 
 
 cokane (with dignity). Do you know to whom you are 
 speaking, my good man? 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 37 
 
 lickcheese {recklessly). I know well enough who Fm 
 speaking to. What do I care for you, or a thousand such? 
 I'm poor; that's enough to make a rascal of me. No con- 
 sideration for me — nothing to be got by saying a word for 
 me! {Suddenly cringing to Trench.) Just a word, sir. It 
 would cost you nothing. (Sartorius appears at the door un- 
 observed.) Have some feeling for the poor. 
 
 trench. Fm afraid you have shown very little, by your 
 own confession. 
 
 lickcheese {breaking out again) . More than your precious 
 
 father-in-law, anyhow. I (Sartorius* s voice, striking 
 
 in with deadly calmness , paralyzes him.) 
 
 sartorius. You will come here to-morrow not later 
 than ten, Mr. Lickcheese, to conclude our business. I 
 shall trouble you no further to-day. (Lickcheese, cowed, 
 goes out amid dead silence. Sartorius continues, after an 
 awkward pause.) He is one of my agents, or rather was ; 
 for I have unfortunately had to dismiss him for repeatedly 
 disregarding my instructions. {Trench says nothing. Sar- 
 torius throws off his embarrassment, and assumes a jocose, 
 rallying air, unbecoming to him under any circumstances, and 
 just now almost unbearably jarring.) Blanche will be down 
 presently, Harry ( Trench recoils) — I suppose I must call 
 you Harry now. What do you say to a stroll through the 
 garden, Mr. Cokane? We are celebrated here for our 
 flowers. 
 
 cokane. Charmed, my dear sir, charmed. Life here 
 is an idyll — a perfect idyll. We were just dwelling on it. 
 
 sartorius (slyly). Harry can follow with Blanche. She 
 will be down directly. 
 
 trench {hastily). No. I can't face her just now. 
 
 sartorius (rallying him). Indeed! Ha, ha! (The laugh, 
 the first they have heard from him, sets TrencFs teeth on 
 edge. Cokane is taken aback, but instantly recovers him- 
 self.) 
 
58 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 cokane. Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! 
 
 trench. But you don't understand. 
 
 sartorius. Oh, I think we do, I think we do. Eh, 
 Mr. Cokane? Ha! ha! 
 
 cokane. I should think we do. Ha! ha! ha! 
 
 ( They go out together, laughing at him. He collapses into 
 a chair y shuddering in every nerve. Blanche appears at the 
 door. Her face lights up when she sees that he is alone. She 
 trips noiselessly to the back of his chair and clasps her hands 
 over his eyes. With a convulsive start and exclamation he 
 springs up and breaks away from her.) 
 
 blanche (astonished}. Harry! 
 
 trench (with distracted politeness). I beg your pardon, I 
 was thinking — won't you sit down. 
 
 blanche {looking suspiciously at him). Is anything the 
 matter? (She sits down slowly near the writing table. He 
 takes Cokane* s chair.) 
 
 trench. No. Oh no. 
 
 blanche. Papa has not been disagreeable, I hope. 
 
 trench No : I have hardly spoken to him since I was 
 with you. (He rises; takes up his chair; and plants it be- 
 side hers. This pleases her better. She looks at him with 
 her most winning smile. A sort of sob breaks from him; and 
 be catches her hands and kisses them passionately. Then, 
 looking into her eyes with intense earnestness , he says) Blanche: 
 are you fond of money ? 
 
 blanche (gaily). Very. Are you going to give me any ? 
 
 trench {wincing). Don't make a joke of it : I'm serious. 
 Do you know that we shall be very poor ? 
 
 blanche. Is that what made you look as if you had neu- 
 ralgia ? 
 
 trench (pleadingly). My dear : it's no laughing matter. 
 Do you know that I have a bare seven hundred a year to 
 live on ? 
 
 blanche. How dreadful ! 
 
Act II Widowers* Houses 39 
 
 trench. Blanche : it's very serious indeed : I assure 
 you it is. 
 
 blanche. It would keep me rather short in my house- 
 keeping, dearest boy, if I had nothing of my own. But 
 papa has promised me that I shall be richer than ever when 
 we are married. 
 
 trench. We must do the best we can with seven hun- 
 dred. I think we ought to be self-supporting. 
 
 blanche. That's just what I mean to be, Harry. If I 
 were to eat up half your jQjoo, I should be making you 
 twice as poor; but I am going to make you twice as rich 
 instead. (He shakes bis bead.) Has papa made any diffi- 
 culty ? 
 
 trench {rising with a sigh and taking his chair back to 
 its former place). No, none at all. (He sits down dejectedly. 
 When Blanche speaks again her face and voice betray the be- 
 ginning of a struggle with her temper.) 
 
 blanche. Harry, are you too proud to take money from 
 my father ! 
 
 trench. Yes, Blanche : I am too proud. 
 
 blanche (after a pause). That is not nice tome, Harry. 
 
 trench. You must bear with me Blanche. I — I can't 
 explain. After all, it's very natural. 
 
 blanche. Has it occurred to you that I may be proud, 
 too? 
 
 trench. Oh, that's nonsense. No one will accuse you 
 of marrying for money. 
 
 blanche. No one would think the worse of me if I did, 
 or of you either. (She rises and begins to walk restlessly 
 about.) We really cannot live on seven hundred a year, 
 Harry ; and I don't think it quite fair of you to ask me 
 merely because you are afraid of people talking. 
 
 trench. It is not that alone, Blanche. 
 
 blanche. What else is it, then ? 
 
 trench. Nothing. I— — 
 
40 Widowers* Houses Act II 
 
 blanche {getting behind him, and speaking with forced 
 playfulness as she bends over him, her hands on his shoulders). 
 Of course it's nothing. Now don't be absurd, Harry : be 
 good ; and listen to me : I know how to settle it. You are 
 too proud to owe anything to me ; and I am too proud to 
 owe anything to you. You have seven hundred a year. 
 Well, I will take just seven hundred a year from papa at 
 first ; and then we shall be quits. Now, now, Harry, you 
 know you have not a word to say against that. 
 
 trench. It's impossible. 
 
 blanche. Impossible ! 
 
 trench. Yes, impossible* I have resolved not to take 
 any money from your father. 
 
 blanche. But he will give the money to me : not to you. 
 
 trench. It's the same thing. (With an effort to be sen- 
 timental.) I love you too well to see any distinction. {He 
 puts up his hand halfheartedly: she takes it over his shoulder 
 with equal indecision. They are both trying hard to concili- 
 ate one another.) 
 
 blanche. That's a very nice way of putting it, Harry; 
 but I am sure there is something I ought to know. Has 
 papa been disagreeable ? 
 
 trench. No : he has been very kind — to me, at least. 
 It's not that. It's nothing you can guess, Blanche. It 
 would only pain you — perhaps offend you. I don't mean, 
 of course, that we shall live always on seven hundred a year. 
 I intend to go at my profession in earnest, and work my 
 fingers to the bone. 
 
 blanche {playing with bis fingers, still over his shoulder). 
 But I shouldn't like you with your fingers worked to the 
 bone, Harry. I must be told what the matter is. {He 
 takes his hand quickly away; she flushes angrily; and her voice 
 is no longer even an imitation of the voice of a lady as she ex- 
 claims. ) I hate secrets ; and I don't like to be treated as if 
 I were a child. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 41 
 
 trench (annoyed by her tone). There's nothing to tell, I 
 don't choose to trespass on your father's generosity : that's 
 all. 
 
 blanche. You had no objection half an hour ago, when 
 you met me in the hall, and showed me all the letters. 
 Your family doesn't object. Do you object ? 
 
 trench {earnestly). I do not indeed. It's only a question 
 of money. 
 
 blanche (imploringly, the voice softening and refining for 
 the last time). Harry : there's no use in our fencing in this 
 way. Papa will never consent to my being absolutely de- 
 pendent on you ; and I don't like the idea of it myself. If 
 you even mention such a thing to him you will break off the 
 match : you will indeed. 
 
 trench (obstinately). I can't help that. 
 
 blanche (white with rage). You can't help ! Oh, 
 
 I'm beginning to understand. I will save you the trouble. 
 You can tell papa that / have broken off the match ; and 
 then there will be no further difficulty. 
 
 trench (taken aback). What do you mean, Blanche ? 
 Are you offended ? 
 
 blanche. Offended ! How dare you ask me ? 
 
 trench. Dare ! 
 
 blanche. How much more manly it would have been to 
 confess that you were trifling with me that time on the 
 Rhine ! Why did you come here to-day ? Why did you 
 write to your people ? 
 
 trench. Well, Blanche, if you are going to lose your 
 temper 
 
 blanche. That's no answer. You depended on your 
 family to get you out of your engagement ; and they did not 
 object : they were only too glad to be rid of you. You 
 were not mean enough to stay away, and not manly enough 
 to tell the truth. You thought you could provoke me to 
 break the engagement : that is so like a man — to try and put 
 
42 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 the woman in the wrong. Well, you have your way: I 
 release you. I wish you had opened my eyes by downright 
 brutality — by striking me — by anything rather than shuffling 
 as you have done. 
 
 trench (hotly). Shuffle ! If I had thought you capable 
 of turning on me like this, I should never have spoken to 
 you. I have a good mind never to speak to you again. 
 
 blanche. You shall not — not ever. I will take care of 
 that. ( Going to the door. ) 
 
 trench (alarmed.) What are you going to do ? 
 
 blanche. To get your letters — your false letters, and your 
 presents — your hateful presents, to return them to you. I 
 am very glad it is all broken off; and if — {as she puts her 
 hand to the door it is opened from without by Sartorius, who 
 enters and shuts it behind him.) 
 
 sartorius {interrupting her severely). Hush, pray, 
 Blanche : you are forgetting yourself: you can be heard all 
 over the house. What is the matter ? 
 
 blanche (too angry to care whether she is overheard or 
 not). You had better ask him. He has some excuse about 
 money. 
 
 sartorius. Excuse ! Excuse for what ? 
 
 blanche. For throwing me over. 
 
 trench (vehemently). I declare I never 
 
 blanche {interrupting him still more vehemently). You 
 
 did. You did. You are doing nothing else ( Trench 
 
 begins repeating his contradiction and she her assertion; so 
 that they both speak angrily together.) 
 
 sartorius (in desperation at the noise). Silence. {Still 
 more formidably.) Silence. (They obey. He proceeds 
 firmly.) Blanche, you must control your temper: I will 
 not have these repeated scenes within hearing of the ser- 
 vants. Dr. Trench will answer for himself to me. You 
 had better leave us. •{He opens the door, and calls) Mr. 
 Cokane, will you kindly join us here. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 43 
 
 cokane (in the conservatory). Coming, my dear sir, 
 coming. (He appears at the door.} 
 
 blanche. I am sure I have no wish to stay. I hope I 
 shall find you alone when I come back. (An inarticulate 
 exclamation bursts from Trench. She goes out, passing Cokane 
 resentfully. He looks after her in surprise; then looks ques- 
 tioningly at the two men. Sartorius shuts the door with an 
 angry stroke, and turns to Trench. ) 
 
 sartorius (aggressively). Sir 
 
 trench (interrupting him more aggressively). Well, 
 sir ! 
 
 cokane (getting between them'). Gently, dear boy, 
 gently. Suavity, Harry, suavity. 
 
 sartorius (mastering himself). If you have anything to 
 say to me, Dr. Trench, I will listen to you patiently. 
 You will then allow me to say what I have to say on my 
 part. 
 
 trench (ashamea). I beg your pardon. Of course, yes. 
 Fire away. 
 
 sartorius. May I take it that you have refused to fulfil 
 your engagement with my daughter? 
 
 trench. Certainly not: your daughter has refused to 
 fulfil her engagement with me. But the match is broken 
 off, if that is what you mean. 
 
 sartorius. Dr. Trench : I will be plain with you. I 
 know that Blanche has a strong temper. It is part of her 
 strong character and her physical courage, which is greater 
 than that of most men, I can assure you. You must be 
 prepared for that. If this quarrel is only Blanche's temper 
 you may take my word for it that it will be over before 
 to-morrow. But I understood from what she said just 
 now that you have made some difficulty on the score of 
 money. 
 
 trench (with renewed excitement). It was Miss Sarto- 
 rius who made that difficulty. I shouldn't have minded 
 
44 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 that so much, if it hadn't been for the things she said. 
 She showed that she doesn't care that (snapping his fin- 
 gers) for me. 
 
 coKANE (soothingly). Dear boy 
 
 trench. Hold your tongue, Billy: it's enough to make 
 a man wish he'd never seen a woman. Look here, Mr. 
 Sartorius : I put the matter to her as delicately and consid- 
 erately as possible, never mentioning a word of my reasons, 
 but just asking her to be content to live on my own little 
 income ; and yet she turned on me as if I had behaved like 
 a savage. 
 
 sartorius. Live on your income! Impossible: my 
 daughter is accustomed to a proper establishment. Did I 
 not expressly undertake to provide for that? Did she not 
 tell you I promised her to do so? 
 
 trench. Yes, I know all about that, Mr. Sartorius ; 
 and I'm greatly obliged to you; but I'd rather not take 
 anything from you except Blanche herself. 
 
 sartorius. And why did you not say so before? 
 
 trench. No matter why. Let us drop the subject. 
 
 sartorius. No matter! But it does matter, sir. I 
 insist on an answer. Why did you not say so before? 
 
 trench. I didn't know before. 
 
 sartorius (provoked). Then you ought to have known 
 your own mind before entering into such a very serious 
 engagement. (He flings angrily away across the room and 
 back.) 
 
 trench (much injured). I ought to have known. 
 Cokane : is this reasonable ? (Cokane* s features are con- 
 torted by an air of judicial consideration; but he says nothing; 
 and Trenchy again addressing Sartorius^ but with a marked 
 diminution of respect ', continues) How the deuce could I 
 have known? You didn't tell me. 
 
 sartorius. You are trifling with me, sir. You say that 
 you did not know your own mind before. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 45 
 
 trench. I say nothing of the sort. I say that I did not 
 know where your money came from before. 
 
 sartorius. That is not true, sir. I 
 
 cokane. Gently, my dear sir. Gently, Harry, dear 
 boy. Suaviter in modo: fort 
 
 trench. Let him begin, then. What does he mean by 
 attacking me in this fashion ? 
 
 sartorius. Mr. Cokane: you will bear me out. I was 
 explicit on the point. I said I was a self-made man ; and 
 I am not ashamed of it. 
 
 trench. You are nothing of the sort. I found out this 
 morning from your man — Lickcheese, or whatever his con- 
 founded name is — that your fortune has been made out of a 
 parcel of unfortunate creatures that have hardly enough to 
 keep body and soul together — made by screwing, and bully- 
 ing, and driving, and all sorts of pettifogging tyranny. 
 
 sartorius (outraged). Sir! (They confront one another 
 threateningly.) 
 
 cokane {softly). Rent must be paid, dear boy. It is 
 Inevitable, Harry, inevitable. (Trench turns away petu- 
 lantly. Sartorius looks after him reflectively for a moment; 
 then resumes bis former deliberate and dignified manner, and 
 addresses Trench with studied consideration, but with a per- 
 ceptible condescension to his youth and folly.) 
 
 sartorius. I am afraid, Dr. Trench, that you are a very 
 young hand at business ; and I am sorry I forgot that for a 
 moment or so. May I ask you to suspend your judgment 
 until we have a little quiet discussion of this sentimental 
 notion of yours ? — if you will excuse me for calling it so. 
 (He takes a chair, and motions Trench to another on his right.) 
 
 cokane. Very nicely put, my dear sir. Come, Harry, 
 sit down and listen ; and consider the matter calmly and 
 judicially. Don't be headstrong. 
 
 trench. I have no objection to sit down and listen ; but 
 I don't see how that can make black white ; and I am tired 
 
46 Widowers* Houses Act II 
 
 of being turned on as if I were in the wrong. (He sits 
 down. Cokane sits at his elbow, on his right. They com- 
 pose themselves for a conference.} 
 
 sartorius. I assume, to begin with, Dr. Trench, that 
 you are not a Socialist, or anything of that sort. 
 
 trench. Certainly not. I am a Conservative — at least, 
 if I ever took the trouble to vote, I should vote for the Con- 
 servative and against the other fellow. 
 
 cokane. True blue, Harry, true blue ! 
 
 sartorius. I am glad to find that so far we are in perfect 
 sympathy. I am, of course, a Conservative ; not a narrow 
 or prejudiced one, I hope, nor at all opposed to true pro- 
 gress, but still a sound Conservative. As to Lickcheese, I 
 need say no more about him than that I have dismissed him 
 from my service this morning for a breach of trust ; and you 
 will hardly accept his testimony as friendly or disinterested. 
 As to my business, it is simply to provide homes suited to 
 the small means of very poor people, who require roofs to 
 shelter them just like other people. Do you suppose I can 
 keep up these roofs for nothing ! 
 
 trench. Yes : that is all very fine ; but the point is, 
 what sort of homes do you give them for their money ? 
 People must live somewhere, or else go to jail. Advantage 
 is taken of that to make them pay for houses that are not fit 
 for dogs. Why don't you build proper dwellings, and give 
 fair value for the money you take ? 
 
 sartorius (pitying his innocence}. My young friend, these 
 poor people do not know how to live in proper dwellings : 
 they would wreck them in a week. You doubt me : try 
 it for yourself. You are welcome to replace all the missing 
 banisters, handrails, cistern lids and dusthole tops at your 
 own expense ; and you will find them missing again in less 
 than three days — burnt, sir, every stick of them. I do not 
 blame the poor creatures : they need fires, and often have 
 no other way of getting them. But I really cannot spend 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 47 
 
 pound after pound in repairs for them to pull down, when 
 I can barely get them to pay me four and sixpence a week 
 for a room, which is the recognized fair London rent. No, 
 gentlemen : when people are very poor, you cannot help 
 them, no matter how much you may sympathize with them. 
 It does them more harm than good in the long run. I pre- 
 fer to save my money in order to provide additional houses 
 for the homeless, and to lay by a little for Blanche. (He 
 looks at them. They are silent: Trench unconvinced, but 
 talked down ; Cokane humanely perplexed. Sartorius bends 
 his brows; comes forward in his chair as if gathering himself 
 together for a spring ; and addresses himself with impressive 
 significance, to Trench.) And now, Dr. Trench, may I ask 
 what your income is derived from ! 
 
 trench (defiantly) o From interest — not from Houses. 
 M y hands are clean as far as that goes. Interest on a mort- 
 gage. 
 
 sartorius (forcibly). Yes: a mortgage on m y property. 
 When I, to use your own words, screw, and bully, and 
 drive these people to pay what they have freely undertaken to 
 pay me, I cannot touch one penny of the money they give me 
 until I have first paid you your jQjoo out of it. What 
 Lickcheese did for me, I do for you. He and I are alike 
 intermediaries : you are the principal. It is because of the 
 risks I run through the poverty of my tenants that you exact 
 interest from me at the monstrous and exorbitant rate of 
 seven per cent, forcing me to exact the uttermost farthing in 
 my turn from the tenants. And yet, Dr. Trench, you 
 have not hesitated to speak contemptuously of me because 
 I have applied my industry and forethought to the manage- 
 ment of o u r property, and am maintaining it by the same 
 honourable means. 
 
 cokane (greatly relieved). Admirable, my dear sir, ex- 
 cellent ! I felt instinctively that Trench was talking un- 
 practical nonsense. Let us drop the subject, my dear boy : 
 
48 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 you only make an ass of yourself when you meddle in busi- 
 ness matters. I told you it was inevitable. 
 
 trench {dazed). Do you mean to say that I am just as 
 bad as you are ? 
 
 cokane. Shame, Harry, shame ! Grossly bad taste ! 
 Be a gentleman. Apologize. 
 
 sartorius. Allow me, Mr. Cokane. (To Trench.} If, 
 when you say you are just as bad as I am, you mean that 
 you are just as powerless to alter the state of society, then 
 you are unfortunately quite right. ( Trench does not at once 
 reply. He stares at Sartorius, and then hangs his head and 
 gazes stupidly at the floor, morally beggared, with his clasped 
 knuckles between his knees, a living picture of disillusion. 
 Cokane comes sympathetically to him and puts an encouraging 
 hand on his shoulder. ) 
 
 cokane {gently). Come, Harry, come ! Pull yourself 
 together. You owe a word to Mr. Sartorius. 
 
 trench {still stupefied, slowly unlaces his fingers; puts his 
 hands on his knees, and lifts himself upright ; pulls his waist- 
 coat straight with a tug ; and turns to Sartorius with an at- 
 tempt to take his disenchantment philosophically). Well, peo- 
 ple who live in glass houses have no right to throw stones. 
 But, on my honour, I never knew that my house was a 
 glass one until you pointed it out. I beg your pardon. (He 
 offers his hand . ) 
 
 sartorius. Say no more, Harry : your feelings do you 
 credit : I assure you I feel exactly as you do, myself. 
 Every man who has a heart must wish that a better state of 
 things was practicable. But unhappily it is not. 
 
 trench (a little consoled). I suppose not. 
 
 cokane. Not a doubt of it, my dear sir ; not a doubt of 
 it. The increase of the population is at the bottom of it all. 
 
 sartorius {to Trench). I trust I have convinced you that 
 you need no more object to Blanche sharing my fortune, 
 than I need object to her sharing yours. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 49 
 
 trench {with dull wistfulness) . It seems so. We're all 
 in the same swim, it appears. I hope you will excuse my 
 making such a fuss. 
 
 sartorius. Not another word. In fact, I thank you for 
 refraining from explaining the nature of your scruples to 
 Blanche : I admire that in you, Harry. Perhaps it will be 
 as well to leave her in ignorance. 
 
 trench (anxiously*). But I must explain now. You saw 
 how angry she was. 
 
 sartorius. You had better leave that to me. (He looks 
 at his watch, and rings the bell?) Lunch is nearly due : 
 while you are getting ready for it I can see Blanche ; and I 
 hope the result will be quite satisfactory to us all. ( The 
 parlour maid answers the bell; he addresses her with his 
 habitual per emptor iness.) Tell Miss Blanche I want her. 
 
 the parlour maid {her face falling expressively). Yes, 
 sir. (She turns reluctantly to go. ) 
 
 sartorius (on second thoughts). Stop. (She stops.) My 
 love to Miss Blanche : and I am alone here and would like 
 to see her for a moment if she is not busy. 
 
 the parlour maid (relieved). Yes sir. (She goes out.) 
 
 sartorius. I wall show you your room, Harry. I hope 
 you will soon be perfectly at home in it. You also, Mr. 
 Cokane, must learn your way about here. Let us go before 
 Blanche comes. (He leads the way to the door.) 
 
 cokane (cheerily, following him). Our little discussion 
 has given me quite an appetite. 
 
 trench (moodily). It has taken mine away. (They go 
 out, Sartorius holding the door for them. He is following 
 when the parlour maid reappears. She is a snivelling, sympa- 
 thetic creature, and is on the verge of tears.) 
 
 sartorius. Well, is Miss Blanche coming ? 
 
 the parlour maid. Yes sir. I think so sir. 
 
 sartorius. Wait here until she comes ; and tell her that 
 I will be back in a moment. 
 
50 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 the parlour maid. Yes, sir. (She comes into the room. 
 S art onus looks suspiciously at her as she passes him. He half 
 closes the door and follows her.) 
 
 sartorius (lowering bis voice). What is the matter with 
 you ? 
 
 the parlour maid {whimpering). Nothing, sir. 
 
 sartorius (at the same pitchy more menacingly). Take care 
 how you behave yourself when there are visitors present. 
 Do you hear ? 
 
 the parlour maid. Yes, sir. (Sartorius goes out.) 
 
 sartorius (outside). Excuse me: I had a word to say to 
 the servant. (Trench is heard replying, " Not at all," Co- 
 kane " Don 9 1 mention it, my dear sir." The murmur of 
 their voices passes out of hearing. The parlour maid sniffs ; 
 dries her eyes ; goes to one of the bookcases ; and takes some 
 brown paper and a ball of string from a drawer. She puts 
 them on the table and wrestles with another sob. Blanche 
 comes in, with a jewel box in her hands. Her expression is 
 that of a strong and determined woman in an intense passion. 
 The maid looks at her with a mixture of abject wounded af- 
 fection and bodily terror.) 
 
 blanche (looking around). Where's my father ? 
 
 the parlour maid (tremulously propitiatory). He left 
 word he'd be back directly, miss. I'm sure he won't be 
 long. Here's the paper and string all ready, miss. (She 
 spreads the paper on the table.) Can I do the parcel for you, 
 miss ? 
 
 blanche. No. Mind your own business. (She empties 
 the box on the sheet of brown paper. It contains a packet of 
 letters, a ring, and a set of gold bangles. At sight of them 
 she has a paroxysm of passion, which she relieves by dashing 
 the box to the floor. The maid submissively picks it up and 
 puts it on the table, again sniffing and drying her eyes.) 
 What are you crying for ? 
 
 the parlour maid (plaintively). You speak so brutal to 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 51 
 
 me, Miss Blanche; and I do love you so. I'm sure no 
 one else would stay and put up with what I have to put up 
 with. 
 
 blanche. Then go. I don't want you. Do you hear. 
 Go. 
 
 the parlour maid {piteously, falling on her knees). Oh no, 
 Miss Blanche. Don't send me away from you: don't 
 
 blanche {with fierce disgust). Agh! I hate the sight of 
 you. {The maid, wounded to the heart, cries bitterly.) 
 Hold your tongue. Are those two gentlemen gone? 
 
 the parlour maid {weeping). Oh, how could you say 
 such a thing to me, Miss Blanche — me that 
 
 blanche {seizing her by the hair and throat). Stop that 
 noise, I tell you, unless you want me to kill you. 
 
 the parlour maid {protesting and imploring, but in a 
 carefully subdued voice). Let me go, Miss Blanche: you 
 know you'll be sorry: you always are. Remember how 
 dreadfully my head was cut last time. 
 
 blanche {raging). Answer me, will you? Have they 
 gone? 
 
 the parlour maid. Lickcheese has gone, looking 
 
 dreadf {she breaks off with a stifled cry as Blanche' s 
 
 fingers tighten furiously on her.) 
 
 blanche. Did I ask you about Lickcheese? You beast : 
 you know who I mean: you're doing it on purpose. 
 
 the parlour maid {in a gasp) . They're staying to lunch. 
 
 blanche {looking intently into her face). He ? 
 
 the parlour maid (whispering with a sympathetic nod). 
 Yes, miss. {Blanche slowly releases her and stands upright 
 with clenched fists and set face. The parlour maid, recogniz- 
 ing the passing of the crisis of passion and fearing no further 
 violence, sits discomfitedly on her heels, and tries to arrange 
 her hair and cap, whimpering a little with exhaustion and 
 soreness.) Now you've set my hands all trembling; and I 
 shall jingle the things on the tray at lunch so that everybody 
 
52 Widowers' Houses Act II 
 
 will notice me. It's too bad of you, Miss Bl (Sar- 
 
 torius coughs outside. ) 
 
 blanche {quickly). Sh! Get up. (The parlour maid 
 hastily gets up, and goes out as demurely as she can, passing 
 Sartorius on her way to the door. He glances sternly at her 
 and comes to Blanche. The parlour maid shuts the door 
 softly behind her.) 
 
 sartorius (mournfully). My dear: can you not make a 
 little better fight with your temper? 
 
 blanche {panting with the subsidence of her fit). No I 
 can't. I won't. I do my best. Nobody who really cares 
 for me gives me up because of my temper. I never show 
 my temper to any of the servants but that girl ; and she is 
 the only one that will stay with us, 
 
 sartorius. But, my dear, remember that we have to 
 meet our visitors at luncheon presently. I have run down 
 before them to say that I have arranged that little difficulty 
 with Trench. It was only a piece of mischief made by 
 Lickcheese. Trench is a young fool; but it is all right now. 
 
 blanche. I don't want to marry a fool. 
 
 sartorius. Then you will have to take a husband over 
 thirty, Blanche. You must not expect too much, my 
 child. You will be richer than your husband, and, I 
 think, cleverer too. I am better pleased that it should 
 be so. 
 
 blanche {seizing his arm). Papa. 
 
 sartorius. Yes, my dear. 
 
 blanche. May I do as I like about this marriage; or must 
 I do as you like? 
 
 sartorius (uneasily). Blanche 
 
 blanche. No, papa; you must answer me. 
 
 sartorius {abandoning his self control, and giving way 
 recklessly to his affection for her). You shall do as you like 
 now and always, my beloved child. I only wish to do as 
 my own darling pleases. 
 
Act II Widowers' Houses 53 
 
 blanche. Then I will not marry him. He has played 
 fast and loose with me. He thinks us beneath him, he is 
 ashamed of us; he dared to object to being benefited by 
 you — as if it were not natural for him to owe you every- 
 thing; and yet the money tempted him after all. (Sud- 
 denly throwing her arms hysterically about his neck.) Papa, 
 I don't want to marry: I only want to stay with you and 
 be happy as we have always been. I hate the thought of 
 being married: I don't care for him: I don't want to leave 
 you. {Trench and Cokane return; but she can hear nothing 
 but her own voice and does not notice them.) Only send him 
 away: promise me that you will send him away and keep 
 me here with you as we have always — (seeing Trench.) 
 Oh! (She hides her face on her father's breast?) 
 
 trench (nervously). I hope we are not intruding. 
 
 sartorius (formidably). Dr. Trench : my daughter has 
 changed her mind. 
 
 trench (disconcerted). Am I to understand- 
 
 cokane (striking in in his most vinegary manner). I think, 
 Harry, under the circumstances, we have no alternative but 
 to seek luncheon elsewhere. 
 
 trench. But, Mr. Sartorius, have you explained ? 
 
 sartorius (straight in Trench 9 s face). I have explained, 
 sir. Good morning. (Trench y outraged, advances a step. 
 Blanche sinks away from her father into a chair. Sartorius 
 stands his ground rigidly.) 
 
 trench (turning away indignantly). Come on, Cokane. 
 
 cokane. Certainly, Harry, certainly, (Trench goes out , 
 very angry. The parlour maid, with a tray jingling in her 
 hands , passes outside.) You have disappointed me, sir, very 
 acutely. Good morning. (He follows Trench?) 
 
 END OF ACT II* 
 
ACT III 
 
 The drawing-room in Sartorius 9 s house in Bedford Square. 
 Winter evening : fire burning, curtains drawn and lamps 
 lighted. Sartorius and Blanche are sitting glumly near the 
 fire. The Parlour Maid, who has just brought in coffee, is 
 placing it on a small table between them. There is a large 
 table in the middle of the room. The pianoforte, a grand, is 
 on the left, with a photographic portrait of Blanche on a 
 miniature easel on the top. Two doors, one on the right 
 further forward than the fireplace, leading to the study ; the 
 other at the back, on the left, leading to the lobby. Blanche 
 has her work basket at hand, and is knitting. Sartorius, 
 closer to the fire % has a newspaper. The Parlour Maid goes 
 out. 
 
 sartorius, Blanche, my love. 
 
 BLANCHE. Yes. 
 
 sartorius. I had a long talk to the doctor to-day about our 
 going abroad. 
 
 blanche {impatiently). I am quite well ; and I will not go 
 abroad. I loathe the very thought of the Continent. Why 
 will you bother me so about my health ? 
 
 sartorius. It was not about your health, Blanche, but 
 about my own. 
 
 blanche (rising). Yours ! (She goes anxiously to him.) 
 Oh, papa, there is nothing the matter with you, I hope ? 
 
 sartorius. There will be — there must be, Blanche, long 
 before you begin to consider yourself an old woman* 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 55 
 
 blanche. But there is nothing the matter now ? 
 
 sartorius. Well, my dear, the doctor says I need change, 
 travel, excitement 
 
 blanche. Excitement! You need excitement! (She 
 laughs joy less ly 9 and sits down on the rug at his feet.} How 
 is it, papa, that you, who are so clever with everybody else, 
 are not a bit clever with me? Do you think I can't see 
 through your little plan to take me abroad ? Since I will 
 not be the invalid and allow you to be the nurse, you are 
 to be the invalid and I am to be the nurse. 
 
 sartorius. Well, Blanche, if you will have it that you 
 are well and have nothing preying on your spirits, I must 
 insist on being ill and have something preying on mine. 
 And indeed, my girl, there is no use in our going on as we 
 have for the last four months. You have not been happy ; 
 and I have been far from comfortable. (Blanche* s face 
 clouds: she turns away from him and sits dumb and brooding. 
 He waits in vain for some reply ; then adds in a lower tone) 
 Need you be so inflexible, Blanche ? 
 
 blanche ( pained and rigid ) . I thought you admired in- 
 flexibility : you have always prided yourself on it. 
 
 sartorius. Nonsense, my dear, nonsense. I have had 
 to give in often enough. And I could show you plenty of 
 soft fellows who have done as well as I, and enjoyed them- 
 selves more, perhaps. If it is only for the sake of inflexi- 
 bility that you are standing out 
 
 blanche. I am not standing out. I don't know what 
 you mean. (She tries to rise and go away.) 
 
 sartorius (catching her arm and arresting her on her knees). 
 Come, my child : you must not trifle with me as if I were 
 a stranger. You are fretting because 
 
 blanche (violently twisting herself free and speaking as she 
 rises). If you say it, papa, I will kill myself. It is not true. 
 If he were here on his knees to-night, I would walk out of 
 the house sooner than endure it. (She goes out excitedly. 
 
56 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 Sartorius, greatly troubled, turns again to the fire with a heavy 
 sigh.) 
 
 sartorius (gazing gloomily into the glow) . Now if I fight 
 it out with her, no more comfort for months ! I might as 
 well live with my clerk or my servant. And if I give in 
 now, I shall have to give in always. Well, I can't help it. 
 I have stuck to having my own way all my life ; but there 
 must be an end to that drudgery some day. She is young : 
 let her have her turn at it. ( The parlour maid comes in. ) 
 
 the parlour maid. Please sir, Mr. Lickcheese wants to 
 see you very particular. On important business — your 
 business, he told me to say. 
 
 sartorius. Mr, Lickcheese ! Do you mean Lickcheese 
 who used to come here on my business ? 
 
 the parlour maid. Yes, sir. But indeed, sir, you'd 
 scarcely know him. 
 
 sartorius (frowning). Hm ! Starving, I suppose. Come 
 to beg ? 
 
 the parlour maid {intensely repudiating the idea) s 
 O-o-o-o-h NO, sir. Quite the gentleman, sir ! Sealskin 
 overcoat, sir ! Come in a hansom, all shaved and clean ! 
 I'm sure he's come into a fortune, sir. 
 
 sartorius. Hm ! Show him up. 
 
 (Lickcheese, who has been waiting at the door, instantly 
 comes in. The change in his appearance is dazzling. He is 
 in evening dress, with an overcoat lined throughout with furs 
 presenting all the hues of the tiger. His shirt is fastened at 
 the breast with a single diamond stud. His silk hat is of the 
 glossiest black ; a handsome gold watch chain hangs like agar- 
 land on his filled out waistcoat; he has shaved his whiskers 
 and grown a moustache, the ends of which are waxed and 
 pointed. As Sartorius stares speechless at him, he stands, 
 smiling, to be admired, intensely enjoying the effect he is pro- 
 ducing. The parlour maid, hardly less pleased with her 
 own share in this coup- de-theatre, goes out beaming, full of 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 57 
 
 the news for the kitchen. Lickcheese clinches the situation 
 by a triumphant nod at Sartorius.) 
 
 sartorius (bracing himself- — hostile). Well ? 
 
 lickcheese, Quite well, Sartorius, thankee. 
 
 sartorius. I was not asking after your health, sir, as 
 you know, I think, as well as I do. What is your business ? 
 
 lickcheese. Business that I can take elsewhere if I meet 
 with less civility than I please to put up with, Sartorius. 
 You and me is man and man now. It was money that used 
 to be my master, and not you, don't think it. Now that 
 I'm independent in respect of money 
 
 sartorius (crossing determinedly to the door, and holding it 
 open). You can take your independence out of my house, 
 then. I won't have it here. 
 
 lickcheese (indulgently). Come, Sartorius, don't be 
 stiffnecked. I come here as a friend to put money in your 
 pocket. No use in your lettin' on to me that you're above 
 money. Eh ? 
 
 sartorius (hesitates, and at last shuts the door, saying 
 guardedly). How much money ? 
 
 lickcheese (victorious, going to Blanche's chair and begin- 
 ning to take off his overcoat). Ah ! there you speak like your- 
 self, Sartorius. Now suppose you ask me to sit clown and 
 make myself comfortable. 
 
 sartorius (coming from the door}. I have a mind to put 
 you downstairs by the back of your neck, you infernal 
 blackguard. 
 
 lickcheese (not a bit ruffled, takes off his overcoat and 
 hangs it on the back of Blanche's chair, pulling a cigar case 
 out of one of his pockets as he does so). You and me is too 
 much of a pair for me to take anything you say in bad part, 
 Sartorius. 'Ave a cigar. 
 
 sartorius. No smoking here : this is my daughter's 
 room. However, sit down, sit down. {They sit.) 
 
 lickcheese. F bin gittin' orn a little since I saw you last. 
 
5 8 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 sartorius. So I see. 
 
 lickcheese. I owe it partly to you, you know. Does 
 that surprise you ? 
 
 sartorius. It doesn't concern me. 
 
 lickcheese. So you think, Sartorius, because it never did 
 concern you how / got on, so long as I got you on by 
 bringing in the rents. But I picked up something for myself 
 down at Robbins's Row. 
 
 sartorius. I always thought so. Have you come to make 
 restitution ? 
 
 lickcheese. You wouldn't take it if I offered it to you, 
 Sartorius. It wasn't money : it was knowledge — knowl- 
 edge of the great public question of the Housing of the 
 Working Classes. You know there's a Royal Commission 
 on it, don't you ? 
 
 sartorius. Oh, I see. You've been giving evidence. 
 
 lickcheese. Giving evidence ! Not me. What good 
 would that do me ! Only my expenses; and that not on 
 the professional scale, neither. No : I gev no evidence. 
 But I'll tell you what I did. I kep' it back, just to oblige 
 one or two people whose feelings would have been hurt by 
 seeing their names in a bluebook as keeping a fever den. 
 Their Agent got so friendly with me over it that he put his 
 name on a bill of mine to the tune of — well, no matter : it 
 gave me a start ; and a start was all I ever wanted to get on 
 my feet. I've got a copy of the first report of the Com- 
 mission in the pocket of my overcoat. (He rises and gets at 
 his overcoat, from a pocket of which he takes a bluebook.} I 
 turned down the page to show you : 1 thought you'd like 
 to see it. (He doubles the book back at the place indicated, 
 and hands it to Sartorius. ) 
 
 sartorius. So blackmail is the game, eh ? (He puts the 
 book on the table without looking at it, and strikes it emphatic- 
 ally with his fist.} I don't care that for my name being 
 in bluebooks. My friends don't read them ; and I'm neither 
 
/ / 
 
 Act III Widowers' Houses 59 
 
 a Cabinet Minister nor a candidate for Parliament. There's 
 nothing to be got out of me on that lay. 
 
 lickcheese (shocked). Blackmail ! Oh, Mr. Sartorius, 
 do you think I would let out a word about your premises ? 
 Round on an old pal! no: that ain't Lickcheese* s way. 
 Besides, they know all about you already. Them stairs that 
 you and me quarrelled about, they was a whole afternoon 
 examining the clergyman that made such a fuss — you 
 remember? — about the women that was hurt on it. He 
 made the worst he could of it, in an ungentlemanly, un- 
 christian spirit. I wouldn't have that clergyman's disposi- 
 tion for worlds. Oh no : that's not what was in my 
 thoughts. 
 
 sartorius. Come, come, man: what was in your 
 thoughts? Out with it. 
 
 lickcheese {with provoking deliberation, smiling and look- 
 ing mysteriously at him). You ain't spent a few hundreds in 
 repairs since we parted, have you? {Movement of impa- 
 tience from Sartorius: Lickcheese goes on soothingly.) Now 
 don't fly out at me. I know a landlord that owned as 
 beastly a slum as you could find in London, down there by 
 the Tower. By my advice that man put half the houses 
 into first-class repair, and let the other half to a new Com* 
 pany — the North Thames Iced Mutton Depot Company, 
 of which I held a few shares — promoters' shares. And 
 what was the end of it, do you think? 
 
 sartorius. Smash! I suppose. 
 
 lickcheese. Smash! not a bit of it. Compensation, 
 Mr. Sartorius, compensation. Do you understand that? 
 
 sartorius. Compensation for what? 
 
 lickcheese. Why, the land was wanted for an extension 
 of the Mint; and the Company had to be bought out, and 
 the buildings compensated for. Somebody has to know 
 these things beforehand, you know, no matter how dark 
 they're kept. 
 
60 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 sartorius (interested, but cautious). Well? 
 
 lickcheese. Is that all you have to say to me, Mr. Sar- 
 torius? "Well" ! as if I was next door's dog! Suppose 
 I'd got wind of a new street that would knock down Rob- 
 bins' s Row and turn Burke's Walk into a frontage worth 
 thirty pounds a foot! — would you say no more to me than 
 {mimicking) "Well"? (Sartorius hesitates, looking at him 
 in great doubt: Lickcheese rises and exhibits himself.) 
 Come, look at my get-up, Mr. Sartorius. Look at this 
 watchchain! Look at the corporation I've got on me! Do 
 you think all that came from keeping my mouth shut? No, 
 it came from keeping my ears and eyes open. (Blanche 
 comes in 9 followed by the parlour maid, who has a silver tray 
 on which she collects the coffee cups. Sartorius, impatient at 
 the interruption, rises and motions Lickcheese to the door of 
 the study. ) 
 
 sartorius. Sh. We must talk this over in the study. 
 There is a good fire there, and you can smoke. Blanche: 
 an old friend of ours. 
 
 lickcheese. And a kind one to me. I hope I see you 
 well, Miss Blanche. 
 
 blanche. Why it's Mr. Lickcheese! I hardly knew 
 you. 
 
 lickcheese. I find you a little changed yourself, miss. 
 
 blanche (hastily). Oh, I am the same as ever. How 
 are Mrs. Lickcheese and the chil 
 
 sartorius (impatiently). We have business to transact, 
 Blanche. You can talk to Mr. Lickcheese afterwards. 
 Come on. (Sartorius and Lickcheese go into the study. 
 Blanche, surprised at her father's abruptness, looks after 
 them for a moment. Then, seeing Lickcheese* s overcoat on 
 her chair, she takes it up, amused, and looks at the fur. 
 
 the parlour maid. Oh, we are fine, ain't we, Miss 
 Blanche? I think Mr. Lickcheese must have come into a 
 legacy. (Confidentially.) I wonder what he can want 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 61 
 
 with the master, Miss Blanche ! He brought him this big 
 book. {She shows the bluebook to Blanche.} 
 
 blanche {her curiosity roused — taking the book). Let me 
 see. {She looks at it.) There's something about papa in 
 it. {She sits down and begins to read. ) 
 
 the parlour maid {folding the tea- table and putting it 
 out of the way). He looks ever so much younger, Miss 
 Blanche, don't he. I couldn't help laughing when I saw 
 him with his whiskers shaved off: it do look so silly when 
 you're not accustomed to it. {No answer from Blanche.) 
 You haven't finished your coffee, miss: I suppose I may 
 take it away. {No answer.) Oh, you are interested in 
 Mr. Lickcheese' s book, miss. {Blanche springs up. The 
 parlour maid looks at her face, and instantly hurries out of 
 the room on tiptoe with her tray.) 
 
 blanche. So that was why he would not touch the 
 money. ( She tries to tear the book across; but that is impos- 
 sible; and she throws it violently into the fireplace. It falls 
 into the fender. ) Oh, if only a girl could have no father, 
 no family, just as I have no mother ! Clergyman ! — beast ! 
 "The worst slum landlord in London." "Slum land- 
 lord." Oh! {She covers her face with her hands and sinks 
 shuddering into the chair on which the overcoat lies. The 
 study door opens.) 
 
 lickcheese (in the study). You just wait five minutes. 
 I'll fetch him. {Blanche snatches a piece of work from her 
 basket and sits erect and quiet, stitching at it. Lickcheese 
 comes back, speaking to Sartorius, who follows him.) He 
 lodges round the corner in Gower Street; and my private 
 'ansom's at the door. By your leave, Miss Blanche {full- 
 ing gently at his overcoat.) 
 
 blanche {rising). I beg your pardon. I hope I haven't 
 crushed it. 
 
 lickcheese {with the coat on). You're welcome to crush 
 it again now, Miss Blanche. Don't say good evening to 
 
6z Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 me, miss: Pm coming back, presently — me and a friend or 
 two. Ta, ta, Sartorius : I shan't be long. (He goes out. 
 Sar tortus looks about for the bluebook.) 
 
 blanche. I thought we were done with Lickcheese. 
 
 sartorius. Not quite yet, I think. He left a book here 
 for me to look over — a large book in a blue paper cover. 
 Has the girl put it away? (He sees it in the fender; looks 
 at Blanche; and adds. ) Have you seen it ! 
 
 blanche. No. Yes. (Angrily.') No, I have not seen 
 it. What have I to do with it ! (Sartorius picks the book 
 up and dusts it; then sits down quietly to read. After a 
 glance up and down the columns 9 he nods assentingly, as if he 
 found there exactly what he expected. ) 
 
 sartorius. It's a curious thing, Blanche, that the Parlia- 
 mentary gentlemen who write such books as these, should 
 be so ignorant of practical business. One would suppose, 
 to read this, that we are the most grasping, grinding, heart- 
 less pair in the world, you and I. 
 
 blanche. Is it not true — about the state of the houses, I 
 mean ? 
 
 sartorius (calmly). Oh, quite true. 
 
 blanche. Then is it not our fault ? 
 
 sartorius. My dear, if we made the houses any better, 
 the rents would have to be raised so much that the poor 
 people would be unable to pay, and would be thrown 
 homeless on the streets. 
 
 blanche. Well, turn them out and get in a respectable 
 class of people. Why should we have the disgrace of 
 harbouring such wretches ? 
 
 sartorius (opening his eyes). That sounds a little hard on 
 them, doesn't it, my child ? 
 
 blanche. Oh, I hate the poor. At least, I hate those 
 dirty, drunken, disreputable people who live like pigs. If 
 they must be provided for, let other people look after 
 them. How can you expect any one to think well of 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 63 
 
 us when such things arc written about us in that infamous 
 book ? 
 
 sartorius (coldly and a little wistfully). I see I have 
 made a real lady of you, Blanche. 
 
 blanche {defiantly). Well, are you sorry for that ? 
 
 sartorius. No, my dear, of course not. But do you 
 know, Blanche, that my mother was a very poor woman, 
 and that her poverty was not her fault ? 
 
 blanche. I suppose not; but the people we want to mix 
 with now don't know that. And it was not my fault; so 
 I don't see why / should be made to suffer for it. 
 
 sartorius {enraged). Who makes you suffer for it, miss? 
 What would you be now but for what your grandmother 
 did for me when she stood at her wash-tub for thirteen 
 hours a day and thought herself rich when she made fifteen 
 shillings a week ? 
 
 blanche {angrily). I suppose I should have been down 
 on her|level instead of being raised above it, as I am now. 
 Would you like us to go and live in that place in the book 
 for the sake of grandmamma ? I hate the idea of such 
 things. I don't want to know about them. I love you 
 because you brought me up to something better. {Half 
 aside 9 as she turns away from him.) I should hate you if 
 you had not. 
 
 sartorius {giving in). Well, my child, I suppose it is 
 natural for you to feel that way, after your bringing up. It 
 is the ladylike view of the matter. So don't let us quarrel, 
 my girl. You shall not be made to suffer any more. I 
 have made up my mind to improve the property, and get in 
 quite a new class of tenants. There ! does that satisfy you ? 
 I am only waiting for the consent of the ground landlord, 
 Lady Roxdale. 
 
 blanche. Lady Roxdale ! 
 
 sartorius. Yes. But I shall expect the mortgagee to take 
 his share of the risk. 
 
64 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 blanche. The mortgagee ! Do you mean (She 
 
 cannot finish the sentence : Sar tortus does it for her.) 
 
 sartorius. Harry Trench. Yes. And remember, 
 Blanche : if he consents to join me in the scheme, I shall 
 have to be friends with him. 
 
 blanche. And to ask him to the house ? 
 
 sartorius. Only on business. You need not meet him 
 unless you like. 
 
 blanche (overwhelmed}. When is he coming ? 
 
 sartorius. There is no time to be lost. Lickcheese has 
 gone to ask him to come round. 
 
 blanche (in dismay). Then he will be here in a few 
 minutes ! What shall I do ? 
 
 sartorius. I advise you to receive him as if nothing had 
 happened, [and then go out and leave us to our business. 
 You are not afraid to meet him ? 
 
 blanche. Afraid ! No, most certainly not. But 
 
 (Lickcheese* s voice is heard without). Here they are. Don't 
 say I'm here, papa. (She rushes away into the study. Lick- 
 cheese comes in with Trench and Cokane. Cokane shakes 
 hands effusively with Sartorius. Trench, who is coarsened and 
 sullen, and has evidently not been making the best of his dis- 
 appointment, bows shortly and resentfully. Lickcheese covers 
 the embarrassment of the position by talking cheerfully until 
 they are all seated round the large table, Trench on the right, 
 Cokane on the left; the other two between them, with Lick- 
 cheese next to Cokane. 
 
 lickcheese. Here we are, all friends round St. Paul's. 
 You remember Mr. Cokane : he does a little business for 
 me now as a friend, and gives me a help with my corre- 
 spondence — sekketary we call it. I've no litery style, and 
 that's the truth; so Mr. Cokane kindly puts it into my 
 letters and draft prospectuses and advertisements and the 
 like. Don't you, Cokane ? Of course you do : why 
 shouldn't you ? He's been helping me to-night to persuade 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 65 
 
 his old friend, Dr. Trench, about the matter we were speak- 
 ing of. 
 
 cokane (austerely). No, Mr. Lickcheese, not trying to 
 persuade him. No : this is a matter of principle with me. 
 I say it is your duty, Henry — your duty — to put those 
 abominable buildings into proper and habitable repair. As 
 a man of science you owe it to the community to perfect 
 the sanitary arrangements. In questions of duty there is no 
 room for persuasion, even from the oldest friend. 
 
 sartorius (to Trench}. I certainly feel, as Mr. Cokane 
 puts it, that it is our duty : one which I have perhaps too 
 long neglected out of regard for the poorest class of tenants. 
 
 lickcheese. Not a doubt of it, gents, a dooty. I can be 
 as sharp as any man when it's a question of business ; but 
 dooty' s another thing. 
 
 trench. Well, I don't see that it is any more my duty 
 now than it was four months ago. I look at it simply as a 
 question of so much money. 
 
 cokane. Shame, Harry, shame ! Shame ! 
 
 trench. Oh, shut up, you fool. ( Cokane springs up. 
 Lickcheese catches his coat and holds him.) 
 
 lickcheese. Steady, steady, Mr. Sekketary. Dr. Trench 
 is only joking. 
 
 cokane. I insist on the withdrawal of that expression. I 
 have been called a fool. 
 
 trench (morosely). So you are a fool. 
 
 cokane. Then you are a damned fool. Now, sir ! 
 
 trench. All right. Now we've settled that. (Cokane, 
 with a snort, sits down.) What I mean is this. Don't let's 
 have any nonsense about this job. As I understand it, 
 Robbins's Row is to be pulled down to make way for the 
 new street into the Strand ; and the straight tip now is to 
 go for compensation. 
 
 lickcheese. (chuckling). That's so, Dr. Trench. That's 
 it. 
 
66 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 trench (continuing). Well, it appears that the dirtier a 
 place is, the more rent you get ; and the decenter it is, the 
 more compensation you get. So we're to give up dirt and 
 go in for decency. 
 
 sartorius. I should not put it exactly in that way ; 
 but 
 
 cokane. Quite right, Mr. Sartorius, quite right. The 
 case could not have been stated with worse taste or with 
 less tact. 
 
 lickcheese. Sh-sh-sh-sh ! 
 
 sartorius. I do not quite go with you there, Mr. Co- 
 kane. Dr. Trench puts the case frankly as a man of busi- 
 ness. I take the wider view of a public man. We live 
 in a progressive age ; and humanitarian ideas are advancing 
 and must be taken into account. But my practical conclu- 
 sion is the same as his. I should hardly feel justified in mak- 
 a large claim for compensation under existing circumstances. 
 
 lickcheese. Of course not : and you wouldn't get it if 
 you did. You see, it's like this, Dr. Trench. There's no 
 doubt that the Vestries has legal powers to play old Harry 
 with slum properties, and spoil the housenacking game if 
 they please. That didn't matter in the good old times, be- 
 cause the Vestries used to be ourselves. Nobody ever knew 
 a word about the election ; and we used to get ten of us 
 into a room and elect one another, and do what we liked. 
 Well, that cock won't fight any longer; and, to put it 
 short, the game is up for men in the position of you and 
 Mr. Sartorius. My advice to you is, take the present 
 chance of getting out of it. Spend a little money on the 
 block at the Cribbs Market end — enough to make it look 
 like a model dwelling ; and let the other block to me on 
 fair terms for a depot of the North Thames Iced Mutton 
 Company. They'll be knocked down inside of two year 
 to make room for the new north and south main thorough- 
 fare ; and you'll be compensated to the tune of double the 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 67 
 
 present valuation, with the cost of the improvements thrown 
 in. Leave things as they are ; and you stand a good chance 
 of being fined, or condemned, or pulled down before long. 
 Now's your time. 
 
 cokane. Hear, hear ! Hear, hear ! Hear, hear ! Ad- 
 mirably put from the business point of view ! I recognize 
 the uselessness of putting the moral point of view to you, 
 Trench ; but even you must feel the cogency of Mr. Lick- 
 cheese' s business statement. 
 
 trench. But why can't you act without me ? What 
 have I got to do with it ? I am only a mortgagee. 
 
 sartorius. There is a certain risk in this compensation 
 investment, Dr. Trench. The County Council may alter 
 the line of the new street. If that happens, the money 
 spent in improving the houses will be thrown away — simply 
 thrown away. Worse than thrown away, in fact ; for the 
 new buildings may stand unlet or half let for years. But 
 you will expect your seven per cent as usual. 
 
 trench. A man must live. 
 
 cokane. Je n'en vois pas la necessite. 
 
 trench. Shut up, Billy ; or else speak some language you 
 understand. No, Mr. Sartorius : I should be very glad to 
 stand in with you if I could afford it ; but I can't ; so there's 
 an end of that. 
 
 lickcheese. Well, all I can say is that you're a very 
 foolish young man. 
 
 cokane. What did I tell you, Harry ? 
 
 trench. I don't see that it's any business of yours, Mr. 
 Lickcheese. 
 
 lickcheese. It's a free country: every man has a right to 
 his opinion. (Cokane cries Hear, hear!) Come, where' s 
 your feelings for them poor people, Dr. Trench? Remem- 
 ber how it went to your heart when I first told you about 
 them. What! are you going to turn hard? 
 
 trench. No: it won't do: you can't get over me that way, 
 
68 Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 You proved to me before that there was no use in being 
 sentimental over that slum shop of ours; and it's no good 
 your turning round on the philanthropic tack now that you 
 want me to put my capital into your speculation. Fve had 
 my lesson; and I'm going to stick to my present income. 
 It's little enough for me as it is. 
 
 sartorius. It really matters nothing to me, Dr. Trench, 
 how you decide. I can easily raise the money elsewhere 
 and pay you off. Then, since you are resolved to run no 
 risks, you can invest your ^10,000 in Consols and get 
 ^250 a year for it instead of jQjoo. (Trench, completely 
 outwitted, stares at them in consternation. Cokane breaks 
 the silence.} 
 
 cokane. This is what comes of being avaricious, Harry. 
 Two thirds of your income gone at one blow. And I must 
 say it serves you right. 
 
 trench. That's all very fine; but I don't understand it. 
 If you can do this to me, why didn't you do it long ago? 
 
 sartorius. Because, as I should probably have had to 
 borrow at the same rate, I should have saved nothing; 
 whereas you would have lost over £400 — a very serious 
 matter for you. I had no desire to be unfriendly; and even 
 now I should be glad to let the mortgage stand, were it not 
 that the circumstances mentioned by Mr. Lickcheese force 
 my hand. Besides, Dr. Trench, I hoped for some time 
 that our interests might be joined by closer ties even than 
 those of friendship. 
 
 lickcheese (jumping up, relieved}. There! Now the 
 murder's out. Excuse me, Dr. Trench. Ex-cuse me, 
 Mr. Sartorius: excuse my freedom. Why not Dr. Trench 
 marry Miss Blanche, and settle the whole affair that way? 
 (Sensation. Lickcheese sits down triumphant.} 
 
 cokane. You forget, Mr. Lickcheese, that the young 
 lady, whose taste has to be considered, decisively objected 
 to him 4 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 69 
 
 trench. Oh ! Perhaps you think she was struck with you. 
 
 cokane. I did not say so, Trench. No man of any del- 
 icacy would suggest such a thing. You have an untutored 
 mind, Trench, an untutored mind. 
 
 trench. Well, Cokane: I've told you my opinion of you 
 already. 
 
 cokane {rising wildly). And I have told you m y opinion 
 of y u. I will repeat it if you wish. I am ready to re- 
 peat it. 
 
 lickcheese. Come, Mr. Sekketary: you and me, as 
 married men, is out of the 'unt as far as young ladies is 
 concerned. I know Miss Blanche: she has her father's eye 
 for business. Explain this job to her; and she'll make it up 
 with Dr. Trench. Why not have a bit of romance in 
 business when it costs nothing? We all have our feelings: 
 we ain't mere calculating machines. 
 
 sartorius (revolted). Do you think, Lickcheese, that my 
 daughter is to be made part of a money bargain between you 
 and these gentlemen? 
 
 lickcheese. Oh, come, Sartorius: don't talk as if you was 
 the only father in the world. I have a daughter too; and 
 my feelings in that matter is just as fine as yours. I propose 
 nothing but what is for Miss Blanche's advantage and Dr. 
 Trench's. 
 
 cokane. Lickcheese expresses himself roughly, Mr. Sar- 
 torius; but his is a sterling nature; and what he says is to the 
 point. If Miss Sartorius can really bring herself to care for 
 Harry, I am far from desiring to stand in the way of such 
 an arrangement. 
 
 trench. Why, what have you got to do with it? 
 
 lickcheese. Easy, Dr. Trench, easy. We want your 
 opinion. Are you still on for marrying Miss Blanche if she's 
 agreeable ? 
 
 trench (shortly). I don't know that I tm. (Sartorius 
 rises indignantly.) 
 
;o Widowers' Houses Act III 
 
 lickcheese. Easy one moment, Mr. Sartorius. (To 
 Trench) Come, Dr. Trench : you say you don't know 
 that you are. But do you know that you ain't : that's what 
 we want to know ? 
 
 trench (sulkily). I won't have the relations between 
 Miss Sartorius and myself made part of a bargain. (He 
 rises to leave the table. ) 
 
 lickcheese {rising). That's enough : a gentleman could 
 say no less. (Insinuatingly.) Now, would you mind me 
 and Cokane and the gov' nor steppin' into the study to ar- 
 range about the lease to the North Thames Iced Mutton 
 Company ? 
 
 trench. Oh, /don't mind. I'm going home. There's 
 nothing else to say. 
 
 lickcheese. No, don't go. Only just a minute : me and 
 Cokane will be back in no time to see you home. You'll 
 wait for us, won't you ? there's a good fellow. 
 
 trench. Well, if you wish, yes. 
 
 lickcheese {cheerily). Didn't I know you would ! 
 
 sartorius (at the study door, to Cokane) . After you, sir. 
 ( Cokane bows formally and goes into the study. ) 
 
 lickcheese (at the door, aside to Sartorius). You never 
 'ad such a managin' man as me, Sartorius. (He goes into the 
 study chuckling, followed by Sartorius.) 
 
 (Trench, left alone, looks round carefully and listens a 
 moment. Then he goes on tiptoe to the piano and leans upon 
 it with folded arms, gazing at Blanche* s portrait. Blanche 
 herself appears presently at the study door. When she sees 
 how he is occupied, she closes it softly and steals over to him, 
 watching him intently. He rises from his leaning attitude, 
 and takes the portrait from the easel, holding it out before him 
 at arm's length; then, taking a second look round to reassure 
 himself that nobody is watching him, finds Blanche close upon 
 bim. He drops the portrait and stares at her without the 
 least presence of mind,) 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 71 
 
 blanche (shrewish ly). Well ? So you have come back 
 here. You have had the meanness to come into this 
 house again. {He flushes and retreats a step. She follows 
 him up remorselessly.) What a poor-spirited creature you 
 must be! Why don't you go? {Red and wincing, he starts 
 huffily to get his hat from the table; but when he turns to the 
 door with it she deliberately gets in his way, so that he has to 
 stop.) I don't want you to stay. {For a moment they 
 stand face to face, quite close to one another, /he provocative, 
 taunting, half defying, half inviting him to advance, in a 
 flush of undisguised animal excitement. It suddenly flashes on 
 him that all this ferocity is erotic — that she is making love to 
 him. His eye lights up : a cunning expression comes into the 
 corner of his mouth : with a heavy assumption of indifference 
 he walks straight back to his chair, and plants himself in it 
 with his arms folded. She comes down the room after him.) 
 But I forgot : you have found that there is some money to 
 be made here. Lickcheese told you. You, who were so 
 disinterested, so independent, that you could not accept 
 anything from my father ! {At the end of every sentence she 
 waits to see what execution she has done. ) I suppose you 
 will try to persuade me that you have come down here on a 
 great philanthropic enterprise — to befriend the poor by hav- 
 ing those houses rebuilt, eh ? {Trench maintains his atti- 
 tude and makes no sign. ) Yes, when my father makes you 
 do it. And when Lickcheese has discovered some way of 
 making it profitable. Oh, I know papa; and I know you. 
 And for the sake of that, you come back here — into the 
 house where you were refused — ordered out. (Trench 9 ! 
 face darkens : her eyes gleam as she sees it.) Aha ! you re- 
 member that. You know it is true : you cannot deny it. 
 (She sits down, and softens her tone a little as she affects to 
 pity him.) Ah, let me tell you that you cut a poor figure, a 
 very, very poor figure, Harry. (At the word " Harry," 
 he relaxes the fold of his arms; and a faint grin of anticu 
 
72 Widowers' Houses Act ill 
 
 pate J victory appears on bis face.) And you, too, a gentle- 
 man ! — so highly connected ! — with such distinguished rela- 
 tions ! — so particular as to where your money comes from ! 
 I wonder at you. I really wonder at you. I should have 
 thought that if your family brought you nothing else, it 
 might at least have brought you some sense of personal 
 dignity. Perhaps you think you look dignified at present, 
 eh ? (No reply.) Well, I can assure you that you don't : 
 you look most ridiculous — as foolish as a man could look — 
 you don't know what to say; and you don't know what to do. 
 But after all, I really don't see what anyone could say in 
 defence of such conduct. (He looks straight in front of him, 
 and purses up his lips as if whistling. This annoys her; and 
 she becomes affectedly polite. ) I am afraid I am in your way, 
 Dr. Trench. (She rises.) I shall not intrude on you any 
 longer. You seem so perfectly at home that I need make 
 no apology for leaving you to yourself. (She makes a feint 
 of going to the door; but he does not budge; and she returns 
 and comes behind his chair.) Harry. (He does not turn. 
 She comes a step nearer. ) Harry : I want you to answer 
 me a question. (Earnestly, stooping over him.) Look me 
 in the face. (No reply.) Do you hear? (Putting her 
 hand on his shoulder?) Look — me — in — the — face. (He 
 still stares straight in front of him. She suddenly kneels down 
 beside him with her breast against his right shoulder; taking 
 his face in her hands, and twisting it sharply towards her.) 
 Harry : what were you doing with my photograph just 
 now, when you thought you were alone ? (His face writhes 
 as he tries hard not to smile. She flings her arms round him, 
 and crushes him in an ecstatic embrace as she adds, with furi- 
 ous tenderness) How dare you touch anything belonging 
 to me ? ( The study door opens and voices are heard. ) 
 
 trench. I hear some one coming. (She regains her chair 
 with a bound, and pushes it back as far as possible, Cokane, 
 Lickcheese, and Sartorius come from the study. Sartorius 
 
Act III Widowers' Houses 73 
 
 and Lickcheese come to Trench. Cokane crosses to Blanche in 
 his most killing manner. ) 
 
 cokane. How do you do, Miss Sartorius ? Nice weather 
 <ox the return ofT enfant prodigue, eh ? 
 
 blanche. Capital, Mr. Cokane. So glad to see you. 
 (She gives him her hand, which he kisses with gallantry.) 
 
 lickcheese (on Trench' s left, in a low voice). Any noos 
 for us, Mr. Trench, 
 
 trench (to Sartorius, on his right). I'll stand in, com- 
 pensation or no compensation. [Shakes Sartorius 9 s hand. 
 The parlour maid has just appeared at the door.) 
 
 blanche. Supper is ready, papa. 
 
 cokane. Allow me. 
 
 (Exeunt omnes: Blanche on Cokane* s arm; Lickcheese 
 jocosely taking Sartorius on one arm and Trench on the other.) 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
iov is n 
 
 LBFV14 
 
WIDOWER'S HOUSES 
 
 AN UNPLEASANT PLAY 
 
 By 
 
 BERNARD SHAW 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 BRENTANO'S 
 1913 
 
 Price 40 cents net 
 
WORKS OF 
 
 
 BERNARD SHAW 
 
 Dramatic Opinions and Essays. 2 vols. 
 
 Net, $2.50 
 
 Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant. 2 vols. 
 
 Net, $2.50 
 
 John Bull's Other Island and Major Barbara. 
 
 Net, $1.50 
 
 Man and Superman 
 
 Net, $1.25 
 
 Three Plays for Puritans 
 
 Net, $1.25 
 
 The Doctor's Dilemma, Getting Marrie< 
 The Shewing-Up of Blanco Posnet. 
 
 I and 
 Net, $1.50 
 
 The Quintessence of Ibsenism . 
 
 $1.00 
 
 Cashel ByronY Profession .... 
 
 $1.25 
 
 An Unsocial Socialist 
 
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 The Irrational Knot 
 
 $1.50 
 
 The Author's Apology ..... 
 
 Net, .60 
 
 The Perfect Wagnerite 
 
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 Love Among the Artists 
 
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 The Admirable Bashville : A Play . . 
 
 Net, .50 
 
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 BRENT ANO'S 
 
 
 Fifth Avenue and 27th Street 
 
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THREE PLAYS 
 
 BY BR1EUX 
 
 (Member of the French Academy) 
 
 MATERNITY 
 
 DAMAGED GOODS 
 
 THE THREE DAUGHTERS OF 
 
 MONSIEUR DUPONT 
 
 WITH PREFACE BY BERNARD SHAW 
 Translated into English 
 
 !rs. BERNARD SHAW, ST. JOHN HANKIN 
 and JOHN POLLOCK 
 
 1 2 mo. Cloth, price $1 .50 net 
 
 " In that kind of comedy" writes BERNARD SHAW, 
 
 1 which is so true to life that we have to call it tragi-comedy, 
 
 and which is not only an entertainment but a history and a 
 
 criticism of contemporary morals, BRIEUX is incomparably 
 
 the greatest writer France has produced since Moliere." 
 
 The three plays in this volume are a first instalment into 
 English of the work of a man who has been admitted into the 
 French Academy for his splendid achievements, and who is 
 recognized by the best thinkers in Europe as one of the pro- 
 foundest moral forces expressing itself as literature to-day. 
 
 No earnest man or woman can read these plays without 
 being deeply moved and deeply touched. One of the plays 
 was read by Brieux himself, at the special invitation of the 
 pastor, from the pulpit of a church in Geneva. 
 
 BRENTANO'S 
 
 Fifth Avenue and 27th Street New York 
 
BERNARD SHAW'S 
 PLAYS 
 
 The following Plays by Bernard Shaw are issued 
 in separate volumes, bound in stiff paper wrappers. 
 
 Price 40 cents net pet volume 
 
 WIDOWERS* HOUSES 
 
 THE PHILANDERER 
 
 MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION 
 
 ARMS AND THE MAN 
 
 CANDIDA 
 
 YOU NEVER CAN TELL 
 
 THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE 
 
 THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 
 
 C/ESAR AND CLEOPATRA 
 
 CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S CONVERSION 
 
 MAN AND SUPERMAN 
 
 JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND 
 
 MAJOR BARBARA 
 
 THE MAN OF DESTINY, AND HOW HE 
 
 LIED TO HER HUSBAND 
 THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA 
 GETTING MARRIED 
 THE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNET 
 PRESS CUTTINGS H 4 8 9 fi5 
 
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