\ WOMAN ALONE 
 
PRESENTED HY 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 
 
OTHER PLAYS BY THE 
 SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE LIKENESS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 A LONG DUEL 
 
 THREE PLAYS, a volume containing 
 Hamilton's Second Marriage 
 Thomas and the Princess 
 The Modern Wat 
 
 Several One Act pieces 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. W. K, CLIFFORD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS 
 
 1915 
 
*** 
 
 V 0'; 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Copyright 
 
 in the United States of 
 
 America 
 
 JUl 5 1915 
 
 Printed in Great Britain by 
 BaUantyne, Hanson and Company Ltd 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Richard Bowden 
 
 Henry Langton, his cousin 
 
 Jack Percival 
 
 Sir Horace Taylor 
 
 Algy Carstairs, a poet 
 
 Widhurst, an actor 
 
 Hbsketh, an editor 
 
 Bertram, a young Cambridge man 
 
 A VISITOR (at Innsbruck) 
 
 Blanche Bowden 
 Millicent Percival 
 Mrs. Vynor 
 Countess Augusta 
 Mrs. Martin 
 
 Servants, Porters, etc. 
 
 Act I— An Ante-room in the Bowdens' house, 
 Green Street, Park Lane. 
 
 Four years ago. 
 
 Act II — Hall of the Kaiserhof, Innsbruck. 
 
 Two years ago. 
 
 Act III— Blanche Bow den's drawing-room in 
 Green Street Present time. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 "A Woman Alone" appeared in the Nineteenth 
 Century and After last spring: considerations of 
 space made some omissions necessary. Three special 
 performances were given at the Little Theatre 
 late in July ; but as the end of the Season was near 
 the rehearsals were few and somewhat hurried. 
 Miss Lillemor Halvorsen, the distinguished Nor- 
 wegian actress, created the part of Blanche Bowden, 
 and so beautifully that she almost persuaded me to 
 like my own work : that was a new sensation. 
 
 Any interest the play has was meant to lie in the 
 attitude of its chief characters towards current 
 ideas. In Blanche Bowden I wanted to draw a 
 woman full of intellectual energy and ideals who, since 
 she was not strong enough to carry them on to achieve- 
 ment alone, longed to see them take shape in the life 
 that was dearest to her. She finds herself handi- 
 capped by natural feminine instincts and comes to 
 realise that the affections have still an unsuspected, 
 sometimes an overwhelming, power of their own. 
 
 In this, the only acting version of the play, there 
 are a good many slight but important alterations and 
 
 vii 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 additions. I mention them lest some tired reviewer 
 should write anything about it from his memories of 
 the original version ; just as two or three dramatic 
 critics, who had evidently read it in the Nineteenth 
 Century, seem to have written about the theatre per- 
 formance. But life is short and time for anything at 
 all more and more difficult to find : this makes me 
 very grateful for all that some most kind and thought- 
 ful writers did for me. 
 
 L. C. 
 
 7 Chilworth Street, 
 London, W. 
 
ACT I 
 
 Time : Four years ago. Afternoon. 
 
 Scene : A small drawing-room or ante-room at the 
 Bowdens' house in Green Street, Park Lane. 
 Well-furnished. Fireplace R., door l. Facing 
 stage drawn curtains suggest a larger room beyond. 
 Sitting over the fire is Henry Langton, thin, 
 delicate, and about forty. Pause. Jack and 
 Millicent Percival come through the curtains. 
 They are young and happy looking. 
 
 Millicent. Why, it's Mr. Henry Langton. 
 
 Langton. How do you do, Mrs. Percival ? 
 
 [Re has a dry cynical voice. 
 
 Millicent. I was so sorry to hear you had been ill. 
 
 Jack. Better, old chap ? 
 
 Langton. Not much. [Warms one hand.] I am 
 waiting on the chance of seeing Richard. ... So 
 glad there's a fire — some people won't have one if the 
 month happens to be called July. 
 
 Millicent. [Sympathetic] I know 
 
 Langton. I'm always chilly — in England; fires 
 should be compulsory all the year round after five in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 1 a 
 
2 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Millicent. Are you going in to see Mrs. Bowden ? 
 
 Langton. No, thank you. She has enough visitors 
 without me. I don't feel up to her level to-day. She 
 is my relation since she married Richard — so there's 
 no reason why T should be civil. 
 
 Jack. Afraid of her ? 
 
 Langton. No — but ... I can't talk to clever 
 women — they have so many loose ends about them, 
 you never know which they'll take up next. 
 
 Millicent. I think she's wonderful. 
 
 Langton. I like them commonplace. 
 
 Millicent. Oh — but — she isn't strong-minded or 
 anything of that sort, and she is very sympathetic. [To 
 her husband.] I told her to-day that we'd only been 
 married two months. She asked if she might come 
 and see us — I think she knows how happy we are. 
 
 Jack. [To Langton.] Do you hear her ? I try to 
 treat her well. 
 
 Langton. [Cynically.'] Ah ! Early days — but I dare 
 say you'll get on better than Richard and his wife. 
 
 Millicent. Oh, but they adore each other. I know 
 she adores him, that is . . . Why should you think 
 they won't be happy ? 
 
 Langton. I didu't say that. But when a man of 
 seven-and-thirty and a woman of eight-and-twenty 
 marry, I expect they've managed to rake in a good 
 many opinions of their own beforehand and stick to 
 them — at any price occasionally. 
 
 Jack, He hates the crowd she has gathered round 
 her. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 3 
 
 Millicent. She can't help it, people run after her 
 so. 
 
 Langton. [ With a shrug!] Every one seems to know 
 her — and they've only been married a year. . . . Her 
 name is in printed lists, too, pretty often ; that sort of 
 thing grows on a woman like a taste for drugs. 
 
 [Mrs. Vynor, young and pretty, enters through the 
 curtains. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. Oh ! Mrs. Percival, you are still here ! 
 [To Langton.] How do you do ? 
 
 Jack. [Aside to Langton.] It's Mrs. Vynor. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. [Hesitating.] I forgot to ask Mrs. 
 Bowden who was likely to be put up for the Royal 
 Academy next week. 
 
 Langton. [Drily.] She would know, of course ? 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. Oh yes, she knows everything. . . . 
 It doesn't matter. I won't go back. 
 
 Millicent. How is your little girl ? I wanted to 
 ask you just now. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. Better ; but she had a temperature this 
 morning. Mrs. Bowden called twice in one day last 
 week to ask after her, and sent such wonderful 
 flowers. 
 
 Millicent. I am certain she is a dear. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. She is — but I must go. I wish I'd 
 asked her about the election — Geoffrey will be vexed 
 at my forgetting. He couldn't come himself — he 
 was so disappointed. 
 
 Millicent. [Turning to her husband.] Did you hear 
 
4 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 that ? Mr. Vynor was disappointed at not coming 
 himself. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. Of course he was, and [with a sigh] 
 he is dreadfully down on most women. Good-bye. So 
 glad we met to-day. [Exit Mrs. Vynor. 
 
 Millicent. [To Langton.] Don't you want to see 
 her? 
 
 Langton. No. 
 
 Jack. She's fascinating — even that woman has 
 succumbed. 
 
 Langton. [Reluctantly.'] I acknowledge it. ... I 
 believe she's bothering Eichard to go into politics. 
 
 Millicent. Why shouldn't he ? 
 
 Langton. Why should he ? He'd hate it. What 
 he likes is to bury himself in the country or some 
 place where he is not likely to meet anyone who has 
 ever seen him before. 
 
 Millicent. Do you know his mother ? But of 
 course you do. She told me [Stops, 
 
 Langton. You needn't be afraid. ... It was 
 probably something disagreeable ? 
 
 Millicent. She said that before he was married he 
 often went away for months at a time and gave no 
 one his address. 
 
 Langton. [Nods.] It was one of his provoking 
 habits. . . . He took himself off for a year just after 
 he had taken his degree — matters weren't to his 
 liking at home, or something displeased him. His 
 theory is if you don't like a thing go away from it — 
 if you don't like a man, cut him. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 5 
 
 Jack. There's a good deal to be said for it. 
 
 Langton. Once he was away for two or three years 
 and not a soul knew whether he was alive or dead, 
 for he never writes a letter — and it doesn't occur to 
 him to telegraph. 
 
 Jack. It was during one of those absences that he 
 first met his wife. 
 
 Langton. [Looking up.] In Vienna. . . . But you 
 were with him, Percival ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. It was through me, in fact, that they 
 did meet. I took him to old Count Zipernowsky's. 
 
 Langton. I know. But I never heard much about 
 it. I was away. Who precisely was Ziper — Ziper — 
 something ? 
 
 Jack. Her uncle — he used to make speeches, very 
 fine nonsense they sounded — a splendid old chap 
 with white hair. He lived in a palace that was 
 crumbling to bits. She looked after him and held a 
 court once a week. I expect that's how she got at all 
 this business. Heaps of men were at her feet, but I 
 was amazed when Richard went down. . . . [To his 
 wife.] Look here, we must be off. We ought to have 
 gone half an hour ago. [To Langton.] We're going to 
 a restaurant dinner and the play. She loves a spree. 
 
 Langton. I believe people do that sort of thing 
 when they are newly married. 
 
 Millicent. [Gaily.] It's all so exciting. 
 
 Jack. You see, she lived in the country till she 
 
 was married — and picked buttercups and daisies 
 
 Millicent. I didn't . 
 
6 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Jack. [Teasing.] Well, played lawn tennis and 
 went to tea at the vicarage. 
 
 [The Percivals are about to go when enter 
 Richard Bowden door l. He is tall and 
 handsome, about thirty-eight, ivith an ofc- 
 stinate indolent manner; gives an impression 
 of being reserved. 
 Jack. Here is Richard. 
 Richard. Why — are you going, Jack ? 
 Jack. Must, I'm afraid, awfully sorry. But glad 
 
 to have caught sight of you for a minute Come, 
 
 Millie. 
 
 Millicent. How do you do, Mr. Bowden, and 
 good-bye. [Shakes hands.] We are going out on a 
 little spree — we shall be late. 
 
 Richard. I hope it will be a good one. 
 
 [Exeunt Jack and Millicent. 
 Richard. Are you better ? 
 
 [It is evident that the two men like each other. 
 Langton. A little — it doesn't matter. . . . I'm 
 going away — directly almost. Think I shall live 
 abroad for the future. 
 
 Richard. [Anxiously.] You can manage it ? 
 Langton. I must — this beastly climate does for me. 
 I have been hoping you would come in — waited ou 
 the chance. I didn't venture to intrude there. 
 
 [Kods towards oth@r room, 
 Richard. Are there many fools left ? 
 Langton. I think not. [Richard makes a sound of 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 7 
 
 satisfaction.] The cackling has been growing fainter 
 for some time. 
 
 Richard. That's it — cackle — cackle. 
 
 Langton. Lord Faringhurst went out as I came in 
 — judging from his mysterious air he had been telling 
 your wife a few Cabinet secrets. Or perhaps she 
 wants him to find you another job. Didn't he give 
 you that mission to Petersburg ? 
 
 Richard. Yes. 
 
 Langton. You've done nothing since — let your 
 great talents run to seed. 
 
 Richard. For God's sake let my great talents go to 
 the devil if they like. 
 
 Langton. What has become of the political ideas 
 you were hatching two years ago ? 
 
 Richard. [With a quick smile.] I was pretty eager 
 about them, wasn't I? [Crosses the room.] . . . I hate 
 all this nonsense — we have dined out five times this 
 week. One night we went to the Geographical, 
 to-night we go to the Foreign Office. There have 
 been people to luncheon twice — to discuss some 
 philanthropic scheme she has joined. . . . One after- 
 noon there was a tom-fool committee here — some 
 precious society for keeping people at home in the 
 evenings 
 
 Langton. I should have thought you would 
 approve of that ? 
 
 Richard. Not if they make it an excuse to invade 
 my home, , . , Besides, I dislike women who mix 
 themselves up with public matters. , , , These 
 
8 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 drawing-room cackles are the thin end of the 
 wedge. 
 
 Langton. [Cynically.] They mean to drive it in. 
 But I don't think Blanche will do it — offensively. 
 [Richard gives a snort.] . . . You ought to be proud 
 of her ; she's a fashion. And ambitious, I believe — 
 for you. 
 
 Richard. Ambitious people annoy me. They de- 
 generate into pushers if they are women. 
 
 Langton. [Quickly.] Blanche will never be a 
 pusher. 
 
 Richard. [With a hard note in his voice.] No, I'll 
 take care she isn't. 
 
 Langton. You ought to have married a pretty 
 little simpleton like Percival's wife. She would have 
 suited you much better. 
 
 Richard. She would have bored me to death 
 
 [A man comes out of the inner room. 
 
 Langton. Here's the great editor. 
 
 Richard. [Coldly.] How do you do, Hesketh ? 
 
 Hesketh. How do you do and good-bye. I've had 
 a delightful talk with your wife ; she has been telling 
 me that I must get some fresh blood into the paper ; a 
 few young slashers who can write good English, and 
 are ready to solve the Universe whenever you please. 
 She's quite right. We want waking up. 
 
 Richard. What people call waking up is making 
 this country unfit to ive in. 
 
 Hesketh. Oh. . . Well, see you at the F.O. to- 
 night — I don't know what your wife is saying to Sir 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 9 
 
 Horace Taylor ; but he seems mighty pleased. I hear 
 he has been given some Foreign Order, by the way, 
 and has leave to wear it. [Exit Hesketh. 
 
 Richard. [To Langton.] Should like to see him 
 get an order for Siberia from the Russian Ambassador 
 — who, I suppose, hasn't power to give it. 
 
 Langton. I fear not. . . . Didn't Blanche see a 
 good many people before she was married ? 
 
 Richard. Too many — the result of living with that 
 old wind-bag, Zipernowsky. I believe she wrote his 
 speeches. 
 
 Langton. You ought to be glad she didn't make 
 them. 
 
 [Sir Horace Taylor comes through the cur- 
 tains, followed by Algy Carstairs. 
 
 Sir Horace. Ah, Bowden, how do you do? 
 Mustn't stop to talk to you. Carstairs and I have 
 both stayed far too long, but your wife is so eloquent 
 — told me all the benefits the Italians gained from the 
 Austrian occupation. Never understood it before. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [Who is affected and intense.'] Sir 
 Horace is entirely subjugated by the beautiful lady 
 with the soulful eyes. 
 
 Richard. [Coldly.'] Indeed — what does soulful 
 mean? 
 
 Algy Carstairs. The soul is the little seed from 
 heaven that is sown in every human being — and the 
 rest depends on ourselves, whether it expands and 
 grows and soars, or withers and falls lower and lower 
 
10 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 into the earth ; and the eyes are the soul's indicators, 
 its messengers. 
 
 Richard. [Shortly.'] Oh. 
 
 Sir Horace. [Amused.] This man speaks as a poet. 
 You should have heard him in there. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. Mrs. Bowden is so stimulating. 
 She makes one feel as if one had genius, and that its 
 achievements might be delayed but were certain. She 
 is a lamp that shows the way. 
 
 Richard. Glad to hear it. A lamp is a most con- 
 venient thing to have in the house. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [To Sir Horace.] He will under- 
 stand later — even for him she will light the difficult 
 paths. [To Richard.] She has given me permission to 
 dedicate my next volume of poems to her — I am going 
 to the publisher now. 
 
 Richard. Do, I wouldn't detain you for the world. 
 Good-bye. [To Sir Horace.] We shall meet to-night, 
 I suppose ? 
 
 Sir Horace. Of course. Come, Carstairs, if I'm 
 to drop you. 
 * Algy Carstairs. I come. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Horace and Algy Carstaiks. 
 
 Richard. [As he looks after them.] I wish some one 
 
 would dedicate your funeral sermon to her. . . . [To 
 
 Langton.] Are there any more in there ? 
 
 Langton. I don't think so — yes, Widhuret, 
 
 Richard, He is the gaping idiot who wants to act 
 
 and can't — so he talks about some asinine scheme he 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 11 
 
 calls a theatre of intellect— with other people's money, 
 and himself as manager, of course. 
 Langton. Here he is ! 
 
 [Enter Widhurst, young, evidently in a hurry. 
 
 Widhurst. [To Richard.] Ah, how do you do ? I 
 have heen having a most interesting talk with Mrs. 
 Bowden. She has promised me an introduction to 
 Thornthwaite— she knows everybody. I told her I 
 should prefer just to walk on—it leaves one time for 
 thought and observation. 
 
 Richard. Suit you, no doubt— you had some 
 scheme ? 
 
 Widhurst. I have— a great one. But the moment 
 is not ripe for it j meanwhile I must humour the 
 philistine. Good-bye. 1 
 
 Richard. Good-bye. [Exit Widhurst. 
 
 Langton. What sort of a chap was this Ziper- 
 
 nowsky ? 
 
 Richard. . Oh, the usual indefinite fanatic. . . . 
 Blanche made half his success and his own picturesque 
 appearance did the rest. Most of the fanatical people 
 are not fit to look at, He was, and [half tenderly) 
 she is, I don't mean that she's a fanatic— but she 
 has ideals, and that sort of thing— which is nearly as 
 bad, Women are so restless nowadays. I wish I 
 could get her away, Luckily the season is nearly over, 
 
 Langton, The season is an accursed time ; when 
 all the idiots ineligible for asylums are let loose in 
 London. Naturally a nice woman, who doesn't know, 
 
12 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 takes them seriously. . . . This is her first year in 
 England. 
 
 Richard. But she knows the world. She's a 
 woman, not a girl. ... I should like to get away 
 again — alone. It suits me to be alone, always did. 
 Or, I wish I were going with you. 
 
 Langton. The manner in which I rough it wouldn't 
 suit you. I'm a poor man and you are a rich 
 one. 
 
 Richard. You needn't rough it. 
 
 Langton. [Drily.] I prefer it. . . . The only thing 
 I shall miss is your society. I like it, in spite of 
 your unfortunate temper. I always regretted not 
 going to Innsbruck that time you asked me. 
 
 Richard. [Who has not been listening.'] Suppose I 
 take you as far as Italy ? When do you start ? 
 
 Langton. Next week, I don't want you, Richard. 
 
 [Gets up. 
 
 Richard. [Chafing.] I was not made for this sort of 
 thing ; I feel caged, caught in a net ... I wonder 
 why men marry ? 
 
 Langton. Perhaps she wonders why women marry. 
 [Enter Bertram from the inner curtains. 
 
 Bertram. Ah, Mr. Bowden, I'm just going. One 
 moment ! [Goes back.] Mrs. Bowden 
 
 Richard. Who is that idiot ? 
 
 Langton. He is [a shrug] I don't know. Yes, 
 
 I do. Rather a nice chap, called Bertram — just 
 taken his degree. Well, good-bye. [About to go, turns 
 back.] By the way, who was the comfortable German 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 13 
 
 woman I met here the other day — Countess Augusta ; 
 is she a daughter of Count Ziper ? 
 
 Richard. No, his daughter-in-law. She has been 
 over here on a visit — going back to Vienna to-morrow. 
 She's too fat. 
 
 Langton. I like them fat. They are comfortable 
 to look at in cold weather. Good-bye. [Exit. 
 
 Bertram. I am the very last. Good-bye. 
 
 [Exit hurriedly. 
 
 [Richard Bowden alone, stands by fireplace 
 
 watching the curtains. They open and 
 
 Blanche is seen facing stage. She is 
 
 tall, beautiful, somewhat imperious. In 
 
 moments of excitement she speaks with a 
 
 slight foreign accent. 
 
 Blanche. Rich-ard [sounds like a caress], you are 
 
 there ! Why did you not come in ? . . . You are 
 
 not cross any more ? 
 
 Richard. I'm tired of the people who crowd this 
 house for the sake of hearing themselves speak. The 
 whole thing is a nuisance and must come to an end. 
 
 Blanche. [.4 little amused.] "Why, you are more 
 cross — even than before ? I am so tired of foolish 
 little quarrels. 
 
 Richard. You bring them on yourself . My mother 
 told me that she found you, with a crowd round you, 
 discussing matters that were better left alone — or 
 she supposed so, for when she entered the talk 
 suddenly flagged. 
 
14 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 She. It did flag, bub it was not for that reason. 
 . . . What else did she say ? 
 
 He. [Evidently chafed at his mother's sarcasm.] She 
 asked if you were trying to get me into the Cabinet. 
 
 She. And you said ? 
 
 He. That if ever I did get into it the door would 
 not be opened by a woman. 
 
 She. You wouldn't like that ? 
 
 He. [With a snap.] No, I should not. . . . You are 
 never happy unless you imagine you are in the whirl 
 of things and have a crowd of people round you. 
 
 She. It is quite true, my Richard. I like to think 
 that I am in the whirl, not sitting still, doing nothing, 
 thinking about nothing, being nothing. . . . And I 
 like the people who come here and tell me of all that 
 is going on. 
 
 He. I do not. 
 
 She. But why don't you, Richard ? They are not 
 useless ; they belong to the crew of the ship. 
 
 He. Ship? 
 
 She. Isn't the world a big ship ? There are the 
 passengers and the crew who make it go — it is the 
 crew that come here. There are those who do 
 politics, those who fight — the men who make history, 
 or pictures, or music — they all make something that 
 helps the world to go on. You will not live always 
 not making something yourself ? [Goes nearer to him.] 
 
 He. [Coldly.] What I make, as you call it, is my 
 own affair. 
 
 She. But you are my affair ; I want to gain for 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 15 
 
 you those things for which you yourself will not 
 stretch out a hand. I should like to see you a king ! 
 Sometimes I say to myself you shall be one — the real 
 kings of the earth are the uncrowned ones. 
 
 He. [Determined not to be propitiated.] This is 
 nonsense. . . . Next Saturday people shall be told 
 that you are not at home. 
 
 She. [Sitting down opposite him.] We will give up 
 the people if you wish, cher ami — is there anything 
 else that vexes you ? 
 
 He. And I will not be annoyed by constantly 
 coming across your name in print. 
 
 She. [Teasingly.] But it does look nice, doesn't it ? 
 
 He. Just now I had a telegram asking me to help 
 with a festival of which you are a patroness 
 
 She. Oh yes — And you answered ? 
 
 He. I answered No, 
 
 She. [With a little laugh.] Oh — oh — but, my 
 darling, that was wicked — very wicked. . . . [A long 
 pause.] Rich-ard ? 
 
 He. Yes? 
 
 She. [Leaning forward eagerly.] What are we going 
 to do with our lives? 
 
 He. Do with them ? 
 
 She. How are we going to pay for them ? 
 
 He. Pay for them ? 
 
 She. Pay the world that lets us live in it, breathe 
 in it, covers us with its beautiful sky, and gives 
 us strength and health and a thousand things 
 besides 
 
16 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 He. Including various ills and worries. 
 
 She. They are penalties. We have to pay for all 
 the good things we have, and for the bad ones we do 
 — to pay a great deal for the bad ones, that is 
 certain. 
 
 He. This is some of Uncle Zipernowsky's precious 
 teaching — how are we to pay for the good things ? 
 
 She. "We who are rich and strong can pay with the 
 lives we live and the work we do — work that others 
 who have to fight for daily bread cannot afford to do. 
 
 He. Socialism. 
 
 She. [Firmly.] No, Richard, not that. I don't 
 want to give away our money and goods ; but we have 
 time and opportunity ; it is as wicked to throw them 
 away as — as to throw away food that would feed 
 hungry people. [He looks at her in wonder.] . . . 
 Besides, we cannot live shut up in this little house, 
 seeing no one, doing nothing that is any good. 
 
 He. We can be quiet — and together. A year 
 after marriage people usually live sensible unruffled 
 lives. 
 
 She. It is why they are often so dull. They settle 
 down ^to the little circle and the family life ; they 
 shut all the windows looking outwards and live 
 sensible unruffled lives. ... It is not enough, not 
 enough, dear Richard. 
 
 He. My mother and sisters had none of the ex- 
 citements you have gathered round you — and they 
 have been content. 
 
 She. [Nods.] And they are very dull. They have 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 17 
 
 only little trivial matters to think about. They stay 
 in a still house and have nothing to do, and they do 
 not understand the people who want to live, who must 
 live as long as they stay in the world. . . . We must 
 go on — and on — if we want to keep hold of life. 
 
 He. Where did you get all these notions ? You 
 hadn't them when we first met. 
 
 She. [Eagerly.] Yes, yes, always. My uncle was 
 getting old ; he used to say I must carry on his 
 work. But — you came and made me love you. 
 [Goes up to him.] It was like the tide of the sea, and 
 swept me into your arms. I am glad. . . . But if 
 you had not come, some day I should have done 
 things — I, your Blanche, would have done them. 
 
 He. My dear, I can't bear ambitious women. 
 [Puts his arms round her and she nestles joyfully, 
 but anxiously, in them.] There, [tenderly] isn't she 
 happiest when her man's arms are round her ? 
 
 She. [JVods.] Oh, I love being here . . . and I am not 
 ambitious for myself any more — it is for you — for 
 you [with a long sigh] ... I could not bear to think 
 that I had married a man who did nothing ! 
 
 He. [Brushing back her hair.] Is it nothing to love 
 you? 
 
 She. [Simply and appealing.] It is my life. But 
 you do not love me dreadfully — dreadfully much ? 
 
 He. I love you as much as most men love their 
 wives — perhaps more. 
 
 She [Drearily.] Perhaps more. . . . 
 
 He [Kissing her forehead and then letting her go.] 
 
18 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Give up all these silly notions ; we will live quietly 
 in the country 
 
 She. No, no [shakes her head] ; it is not as if you 
 had land to cultivate — or duties there. [£ii5s.] We 
 will go by and by, when we are old. Or if God 
 sends us children, or if you have work to do, that is 
 better done apart. But now you must not deprive 
 your country of that which has been born with you, 
 for its use. 
 
 He [Standing by her.] You talk such nonsense 
 [half impatiently, half tenderly]. You mean to say 
 that we have no right to be happy and enjoy life 
 together on the money that I have inherited ? 
 
 She. But anyone can inherit. It is no merit at 
 all. And we can't go on like this . . . you would 
 grow stupid, dearest — yes, you would. . . . [Touches 
 his hand.] And women must have children to mother 
 or work to do, or their lives are useless. Oh, Richard, 
 won't you see it ? If you went into Parliament, for 
 instance? You have a clear head, you are clever, 
 you have time to give to public affairs — it is the best 
 men who should direct them. Yes, darling, it is — 
 [caressing his hands as he stands by her], and I will 
 make all the little conditions of your life so easy 
 that you will do your best, your very best work. 
 
 He. [Evidently thinking and not listening,] We 
 will go abroad for a bit, then we shall get away from 
 — all this nonsense. 
 
 She. [Rathsr catching at the prospect.] Yes, let us 
 go abroad » But not for too long — for pleasure that 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 19 
 
 does not come after work or difficulty is soon 
 wearisome. 
 
 He. Work — work again ! What next? 
 
 She. What next ? Why this ! [with a queer little 
 smile] Some day I think people will be taken up for 
 idleness. 
 
 He. [Trying to hide the fact that he is growing angry.] 
 I hate the everlasting movement of the time, and the 
 restless platform women 
 
 She. [Quickly.] I am not one of those — I do not 
 want to be — though I want to be allowed intelligent 
 interests, in my home. That is what women have 
 been struggling for in this country — to be allowed 
 intelligent interests, and occupations, without jeers 
 and patronage, and because this has not been recog- 
 nised, they have gone to extremes. 
 
 [He moves impatiently. 
 
 She. You don't understand. Women are different 
 now from when our mothers were young. They know 
 more, they have thought more, learnt more — and they 
 want to have their part — but not the bigger part ; 
 and it is only the people who are old-fashioned, or 
 narrow, who are afraid of giving women a little share 
 of life. . . . They cannot bear the useless life any 
 longer, unless they are stupid. If I helped you 
 
 He. You want me to worry myself with the wear 
 and tear of public life against my own inclinations ? 
 
 She. I want you to make a career — to justify our 
 existence. 
 
 He, Justify our existence ! What rubbish I Under- 
 
20 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 stand once for all — I will not have my house made 
 intolerable, nor my life laid out for me. 
 
 She. I do not want to lay it out; but you are 
 growing angry 
 
 He. Yes, I am growing angry; it is for me to 
 choose the life I lead, not you. Women have become 
 a public nuisance with their demands and intellect and 
 energy. [A pause. In a hard voice.] We married because 
 we thought we should be happy together — if we find 
 we were mistaken we will try being happier apart. 
 
 She. [Dismayed.] You would do that ! 
 
 He. Most certainly. If you cannot leave me alone 
 to live as I choose, and unless you make this house 
 the sort of place in which I care to stay, I shall leave 
 it. I hate quarrels, and when people annoy me I 
 usually go away from them. 
 
 She. [Shivers.] I cannot bear that you should speak 
 to me in that tone. . . . You expect me to live here, 
 depending on your humours and content with so little 
 — you give me no companionship — we seldom discuss 
 anything apart from our common interests in the 
 house — or the people we have met at foolish parties. 
 I want more — you do not give me enough. 
 
 He. Home is a woman's place, and the life of a 
 normal woman — the one she is best fitted for — should 
 satisfy her. 
 
 She. Not now — she has gone on — though I do not 
 know what you mean by a normal woman — I think it 
 is a stupid one. 
 
 He. [Taking no notice of the interruption^ You can 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 21 
 
 play about — I believe that is the term nowadays — in 
 the house, and amuse yourself in a manner that has 
 contented many charming women. I don't care for 
 society, but I will take you to parties or theatres 
 occasionally, if you desire it. You can become inti- 
 mate with various people, and I will not interfere — if 
 I approve of them. But I will not have this nonsense 
 going on — this struggle for a public or intellectual 
 life — women are not meant for it, nor fit for it. I'm 
 quite aware that a few exceptional women have had 
 salons and so on, but in my opinion they were not 
 desirable women. You can subscribe to charitable or 
 social functions occasionally if you wish ; but I will 
 not have your name flaunted in lists of committees 
 for tom-fool objects, nor of people interested in modern 
 movements — of which I do not usually approve — and 
 you are not to give it to anyone — anywhere — without 
 my permission. Do you hear? 
 
 She. [Staring at him.] Yes, I hear. You want me 
 to live the sort of life that has been sufficient for 
 your mother and sisters. 
 
 He. [Firmly.] Yes. 
 
 She. And you do not mean to give me more com- 
 panionship than you have given me since — since six 
 months after we married. 
 
 He. No. My method has been to live much to 
 myself, and I intend to go on with it. . . . And I 
 will not let you make this house intolerable with a 
 crowd of people I do not want. It was perfectly 
 ridiculous to-day. Henry and I were in this room — 
 
22 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 it felt like a waiting-room — while you and your set 
 gabbled in there, and imagined you were helping the 
 world to go on 
 
 She. But you go out. You go to your club— you 
 are away often for hours and hours. Why should you 
 object if I find other companionships and interests, 
 or if I gather people here — people that I like ? 
 
 He. I dislike hearing them, seeing them, knowing 
 they are about the place. Besides, why should you 
 want to drag me in among them ? 
 
 She. [Her face lighting up] Because they might 
 suggest things to your thoughts, you would hear 
 
 what the world wants 
 
 [Enter Servant with a letter, which he gives to 
 Blanche. 
 
 Servant. His lordship will send for an answer in 
 half an hour. [Exit Servant. 
 
 She. [Pleased and excited as she reads the letter] It 
 is from Lord Faringhurst; he talked of you this after- 
 noon. He said it was wicked you should not be in 
 harness, for you were so clever. Yes, he did, Bich-ard. 
 Listen — " Will you and your husband lunch with me 
 at the Garrick on Thursday ? You know that ladies 
 are invited then ? " — Oh, but I should like that, 
 wouldn't you ? 
 
 He. [Disdainful.'] Faringhurst is a bore. I 
 suppose he thinks you would like to look at the 
 actors who belong to the Garrick. 
 
 She. I should. [Reads] " Then we can discuss the 
 matter at which I hinted to-day. Curiously enough 
 
A WOMAxM ALONE 2B 
 
 I have just heard that there is likely to be a bye- 
 election in my part of the world. Perhaps — [hesitates] 
 if we could — induce him to stand " 
 
 He. Then you have already been laying out my 
 life for me ? 
 
 She. [Astonished.] Why, no, Richard — he likes 
 you so much, and think how splendid it would be if 
 you had not even to wait for a General Election. 
 
 He. I'm not likely to be concerned in a General 
 or any other election, so there is no necessity for our 
 lunching at the Garrick. 
 
 She. Oh, but 
 
 He. You can write him a note at once 
 
 She. But I should like it so much — I mean to 
 lunch. 
 
 He. I should not. Stay, I will write myself. 
 [Goes to table at side and ivrites a note while she looks 
 at him dismayed. He folds it up, then unfolds it and 
 reads] : " Dear Faringhurst, — It is very good of you 
 and my wife to interest yourselves in my welfare, but 
 I have no intention of disturbing the peace of any 
 constituency at present. I regret we shall be unable 
 to lunch with you on Thursday." [Rings. 
 
 [Enter Servant. 
 
 Give this to Lord Faringhurst's messenger when he 
 comes. 
 
 [Exit Servant with note. 
 
 She. [Clasping her hands.] Oh, it is dreadful — you 
 will not live yourself and you will not let me live. 
 And human beings are meant to do things, that 
 
24 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 is why they count before all other creatures. They 
 are not meant to eat and drink and sleep and do 
 nothing — the world is tired of those, it has no use for 
 them any more, and I did not mean to marry anyone 
 of that sort. 
 
 He. Thank you. I think it would be a good 
 thing if I went away for a time — alone; then you 
 could have your makers of history and all the wind- 
 bags here as much as you pleased — till I returned. . . . 
 While I was away you might learn what I expected 
 from you 
 
 She. [Getting angry.'] You tell me a great deal about 
 what you expect — you do not think that I should 
 expect anything. ... In Vienna I led a wonderful 
 life — a woman's life, but it was full of interests and 
 excitements that were not useless. If all women had 
 useful interests — yes, and men too — men too, Richard, 
 the world would be better, and there would not be 
 so much time for things that are wicked or stupid 
 or unkind. The mascot key of the world is work. 
 
 He. Oh ! — [Impatiently turns away.] I was always 
 afraid of marriage — we rushed into it — it is evidently 
 a mistake. 
 
 She. It is — it is a mistake — if this is it ! [Pas- 
 sionately.] lam miserable — it was glorious to be free, 
 but I didn't know it. 
 
 He. Good. It was glorious to be free. I have 
 felt that too. Perhaps we had better both be free 
 again for a time. 
 
 She. If you want life alone, actually, as well as in 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 25 
 
 thought, I will go. [Pause. She has gradually worked 
 herself up into a state of suppressed but intense excite- 
 ment.] I will go back to Austria — there I was happy 
 — I shall go back. 
 
 He. No, you will not . . . you will stay here. 
 
 She. Why should I stay if I want to go ? 
 
 He. Because it is my pleasure. 
 
 She. [Quickly.] You will make me hate you. [He 
 gives a shrug.] You do not believe it, because I have 
 loved you so — but I can do it — I can hate too — love and 
 hate are very near together, as near as a man and a 
 woman 
 
 He. As near as a man and a woman — who are 
 better apart. 
 
 She. That is so. 
 
 He. Better — far better apart. 
 
 [With a little haughty bow she sits down. Re 
 goes slowly out of the room. The door is 
 left open. Pause. She looks up, pokes 
 fire. 
 
 She. [To herself] Afire — in July! [Shivers. Then 
 in a low voice.] Oh, I wonder — I wonder ! 
 
 [Enter softly the Countess Augusta. She is 
 in outdoor dress, hat, etc. 
 
 Augusta. [Gaily.] What is it you wonder, my 
 Blanche ? 
 
 Blanche. [Rises to her feet.] Augusta ! I did not 
 hear you 
 
 Augusta. And I have only come for a moment — 
 
§6 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 we are going to-night instead of to-morrow — to say 
 Good-bye, for we start at 8 o'clock. But what is it 
 you wonder? [Sits. 
 
 Blanche. Augusta, I wonder why I married. 
 Only I know why I did . . . but I was free, un- 
 shackled, ready to work for my country if the chance 
 came, I could go where I pleased, and when I liked, 
 I was free I 
 
 Augusta. Ah ! they talk so much about freedom 
 — but it is not good, too much of it, for us women, 
 my Blanche. And you are very happy now, for 
 you love. 
 
 Blanche. [In a toneless voice.] Love is not all. 
 
 Augusta. Not to a man — but to a woman, yes. 
 Shall I tell you what is the matter ? You are clever ; 
 and it is not good for you. The dear Count says 
 that being clever spoils a woman's natural pleasures 
 and gives her a man's disappointments without the 
 strength to meet them. 
 
 Blanche. [Amused.'] You are a poor comforter, 
 Augusta. Did he say it of me ? 
 
 Augusta. Oh no, only to console me ; for I am not 
 clever, I am stupid ! . . . He said you had a wonderful 
 head, but 
 
 Blanche, Yes, go on ? 
 
 Augusta. But that no woman ever had a wonderful 
 head who did not pay for it some time with her heart. 
 
 Blanche. [With a little laugh.] You are a very poor 
 comforter, Augusta. 
 
 curtain 
 
ACT II 
 
 Time : Two years later. Noon on an August day. 
 
 Scene : The hall of the Kaiserhof at Innsbruck, large, 
 well furnished, basket chairs, rugs, etc. ; news- 
 papers on tables, etc. Down stage, l.c., a small 
 table and chairs so arranged that two people can 
 sit and talk. At back, c, facing stage, a side-door, 
 or wide window; it should be open, showing 
 snow-topped mountains and beautiful scenery be- 
 yond. At back, r., is the Bureau of the hotel, 
 farther down stage the open front door of the hotel, 
 which should be double and important. On L. up 
 stage is the staircase, and farther down, but not too 
 near the footlights, a door leading to the dining- 
 room. 
 
 Henry Langton stands looking at a newspaper. He 
 puts it down, goes to window at back. An elderly 
 man is sitting, l.c, reading a book. People pass 
 in and out, etc. 
 
 Enter by front door r., Jack and Millicent Percival, 
 very hot and dusty and in high spirits. They have 
 been cycling, and are dressed accordingly. 
 
 27 
 
28 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Millicent. Thank goodness, we are at Innsbruck. 
 I should have died if we'd had to go another mile. 
 [Hotel Servants, Hall Poeter, etc., come forward. 
 
 Jack. [To them.] All right. Our machines are out- 
 side. We don't want rooms — only going to stay a 
 couple of hours ; a friend will meet us here directly. 
 We'll lunch when she arrives. 
 
 [Servants bow and go. 
 
 [Henry Langton listens and cautiously looks round. 
 
 Millicent. [Coming down stage.] I hope she won't 
 be long. 
 
 Jack. [Following her.] It was a pull, wasn't it? 
 
 Millicent. It was. 
 
 Jack. [Seeing Visitor.] How do you do ? We met 
 at Beyreuth last month. 
 
 Visitor. [Puts down book.] Of course. Did you 
 cycle here ? 
 
 Jack. Yes. 
 
 Visitor. Rather warm for it ? 
 
 Jack. Grilling! 
 
 Millicent. [Gaily.] And the hills — and the dust 
 — and the things that sting — and the things that 
 buzz! 
 
 Visitor. So I should imagine. Have you come 
 far? 
 
 Jack. Not to-day. We've been staying at Rosen- 
 heim. 
 
 Visitor. Have you come from there now ? 
 
 Jack. Well, no — but since yesterday. Only from 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 29 
 
 Jenbach this morning. Quite enough, I can tell you, 
 in this blazing heat. 
 
 Millicent. [To Jack.] We did tell her the hotel 
 was the Kaiserhof ? 
 
 Jack, Of course. . . . Good Lord, it is hot ! 
 
 Visitor. Are you staying here some time? 
 
 Jack. No. Going on to Silz almost directly. 
 
 Visitor. What sort of a place is that ? 
 
 Jack. I don't know — not been there yet, it's near 
 Landeck — fi ve-and-twenty miles — and we've got to do 
 it, that's all I know. 
 
 Millicent. [Looking round.] How lovely it is. 
 
 Jack. Not bad. 
 
 Visitor. [Getting up.] Probably we shall meet at 
 luncheon ; you won't go on without food ? 
 
 Jack. Not if we know it. . . . Are there many 
 English people here ? 
 
 Visitor. Not many. That villa up there [pointing to 
 a little white patch on the mountainside seen through the 
 open door at back] is occupied by two Englishmen ; they 
 usually come down about this time for their letters. 
 
 Jack. [Looking up quickly.] Two Englishmen ? 
 
 Visitor. They've been there some time, I'm told. 
 . . . You ought to see the church before you go — 
 Maximilian's Monument — it's only a few minutes off. 
 
 Jack. Must try — too hot now. 
 
 [Exit Visitor, leaving book on the table. 
 
 Millicent, Oh — I am glad to rest. 
 
 Jack. [Taking up book.] What has the old boy 
 been reading ? — Political Life . . . Looks interesting. 
 
30 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Millicent. It sounds rather deadly — I can't bear 
 politics. 
 
 Jack. Your sex is better without them, darling — 
 far better. . . . Wonder who the deuce wrote this ? 
 
 [Henby Langton comes towards them, 
 
 Millicent. [Excited.'] Mr Langton ! 
 
 Langton. [Drily.'] How do you do ? I recognised 
 you directly ; my back evidently had not the same 
 effect on you. 
 
 Jack. What an extraordinary thing to find you 
 here. Where is Richard — is he with you ? 
 
 Langton. Yes, he's up there — we're the two 
 Englishmen who have the villa. [Nodding towards it.] 
 How do you come to be here ? 
 
 Jack. Been to Bayreuth. 
 
 Langton. Oh. . . . Seen anything of Mrs. Bowden 
 lately ? 
 
 Jack. Saw her yesterday — by a fluke — she has 
 been to Vienna — is on her way back to England ; we 
 agreed to meet here, at this hotel, and lunch. She's 
 driving from Jenbach. 
 
 Langton. This is interesting. 
 
 Jack. I always expected that Austria would draw 
 them both. 
 
 Millicent. She wanted to come to her own country 
 again, of course ; but why should he come ? 
 
 Jack. Because it is her country, and he met her 
 first in it. 
 
 Langton, Not at all — he always liked Innsbruck. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 31 
 
 He came to it several times before he met her — to 
 his own disaster. 
 
 Jack. And hers too. 
 
 Langton. He's a good chap. 
 
 Millicent. Yes — but he's an iceberg. 
 
 Langton. An iceberg with a heart. 
 
 Millicent. If the heart is in the middle of the 
 iceberg it isn't any good — for — for 
 
 Jack. For human purposes. 
 
 Langton. Human purposes are often a nuisance. 
 Are you intimate with her now, travelling together, 
 or what ? 
 
 Jack. Intimate ! No one is intimate with her any 
 more than with him. It's quite simple — she has been 
 to Vienna, and we have been to Bayreuth. We saw 
 her before we left London ; she said she might be 
 here about this date, so we determined to strike it — 
 by great good luck we ran against her yesterday at 
 Jenbach, where she had stopped to see a friend. We 
 are going on to Silz and Landeck after we've fed and 
 rested, and she is taking the train — somewhere ; she 
 didn't tell us where. 
 
 Langton. Not communicative ? They are a curious 
 pair. . . . Well, she stands a sporting chance of 
 running against Richard. He'll be here directly. 
 
 Millicent. Ob ! what will happen ? [With a little 
 burst.] Mr. Langton, why did her husband desert her 
 in that cruel manner? It's two years since he 
 went. 
 
 Langton, [Drily.] I wasn't aware that he deserted 
 
32 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 her except at her own wish. Has she complained 
 much? 
 
 Millicent. She hasn't complained at all — she's too 
 proud even to speak of it. 
 
 Langton. Then you don't know the circumstances ? 
 
 Millicent. All we know is, that very soon after 
 the day when we met you there — you were sitting 
 over the fire, do you remember ? 
 
 Langton. Perfectly. 
 
 Millicent. I believe they had a quarrel that day. 
 I am certain they did — and soon afterwards he went 
 away and has not been seen since. . . . Her cousin 
 Countess Augusta came again and stayed for nearly a 
 month. She was so fat. 
 
 Langton. Dear woman — I could love her. What 
 do people say about Richard ? 
 
 Millicent. No one says much about him — of 
 course they daren't say anything to her. 
 
 Langton. They went their separate ways without 
 any scandal — they've done it most decently. 
 
 Millicent. I wonder if she even dreams that he 
 may be here. I'm quite certain she didn't know 
 where he was a month ago. 
 
 Langton. She could write to his bankers. . . . 
 You probably heard that last year the fanatical uncle 
 in Vienna left her a considerable fortune ? 
 
 Millicent. I knew he died, we saw it in the 
 papers ; but she never tells one anything. 
 Langton. [Grimly.] They are well matched. 
 Millicent. And is he never going back to England ? 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 33 
 
 Langton. Why should he ? He has no home there 
 now. 
 
 Millicent. The one in Green Street. 
 
 Langton. It is not his any longer. She inquired 
 through an agent if he would sell it, and bought it 
 with Zipernowsky's money. There's nothing to take 
 him back. 
 
 Millicent. And are they always to be separated ? 
 
 Langton. I don't know — I never asked him. 
 
 Millicent. Nor we her 
 
 Langton. [With a softer tone in his voice.] I'm 
 sorry for Richard. He's the only relation I don't 
 loathe — he came out to me in Italy — disappeared — 
 turned up again — we came here, to the villa. ... I 
 don't believe they would ever get on together. 
 
 Jack. He loved her from the moment he first saw 
 her. 
 
 Langton. Now did he ? 
 
 Jack. I'll swear he did. I shall never forget that 
 night. I met him close to the Hof burg Theatre ; he 
 was going in to see a poetic drama by some wild 
 Hungarian, whose portrait had afflicted the papers 
 for a month past. I told him he'd better go to old 
 Zipernowsky's. He scoffed, then suddenly chucked 
 the play and went with me. She was standing at the 
 top of the big staircase — at the door of the salon — it 
 was huDg with ragged tapestry, and rusty arms ; I 
 saw them look at each other — it was like a flash of 
 mystified recognition, the whole thing seemed to be 
 
 inevitable 
 
 c 
 
34 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Millicent. It proves that they were born to love 
 each other. And, if they met, and were alone, they 
 might make it up and be happy. Let them have the 
 chance. 
 
 Langton. I'm afraid the chance would soon be 
 over. 
 
 Millicent. I would give the world to see things 
 come right. 
 
 Langton. [Looking at her with a vague surprise.] 
 You seem to be extraordinarily fond of her ? 
 
 Millicent. We both are. Yet she's always rather 
 distant — that little stately manner which she cant 
 get past. But yesterday — -you know what she did 
 yesterday, Jack ? 
 
 Langton. What did she do ? 
 
 Millicent. We met her at Jenbach in a curiosity 
 shop. She invited us to tea and walked back with 
 us to our little inn. I said, "yes" or "no, Mrs. 
 Bowden," of course; and suddenly she said, " I wish 
 you would call me Blanche." I could have knelt on 
 the roadway and kissed her hands. 
 
 Langton. Probably a dusty road, a good thing you 
 didn't. 
 
 Millicent. There you are again. [Laughing. 
 
 Jack. You know, it's a curious thing, the tragedy 
 of these two people, for there's nothing — nothing of 
 the usual sort— in it. 
 
 Langton, Hope on — it may arrive ; while man is 
 man, and woman is woman, there's always a chance 
 for the divorce court in the background. [Pause. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 35 
 
 Millicent. You haven't asked anything about us, 
 Mr, Langton. I wonder if you know that we have a 
 son? 
 
 Langton. Really — a son ! How old is he ? 
 
 Millicent. Just a year — he's splendid. 
 
 Langton. Of course, they always are — what will 
 you do with him ? 
 
 Millicent. Do with him ? 
 
 Langton. Not decided on his profession yet ? 
 
 Jack. At present he counts as Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer in the house — his taxes are fearful. 
 
 Millicent. But we don't mind a bit. 
 
 [Enter Porter with a telegram. 
 
 Porter. [To Jack.] Percival — is that your name ? 
 
 Jack. Yes — but for me, a telegram ! 
 
 Porter. For you. [Exit 
 
 Jack. [Tearing it open.] It's from Mrs. Bowden. 
 [Reads aloud.] " Please don't wait. Am meeting 
 Richard at Innsbruck ; would rather you not there." 
 
 Jack. Good Lord, what an extraordinary thing. 
 
 Millicent. They're going to make it up ! 
 
 Langton. I'm astounded — he hasn't said a word of 
 this 
 
 Jack. [To Millicent]. We'd better go at once, she 
 evidently wants us out of the way. 
 
 Millicent. Of course she does — but I'm so fright- 
 fully hungry. 
 
 Jack. [Hurrying her>] Never mind, we're sure to 
 pass some place where we can get food, Come along 
 
36 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 — *>ur machines are outside, [To Langton.] She 
 ought to be here now. 
 
 Langton. [ Who has not recovered from his surprise 
 at the telegram^ Yes — scuttle. If there is anything 
 Richard dislikes it's observation. 
 
 Jack. [To Millicent ] Scuttle is the word. Come. 
 Millicent. [Looking back.] Do what you can, Mr. 
 Langton. 
 
 Langton. [After a moment's thought.] I will. But 
 I shall serve them best by bolting too. [Looking out 
 at doorway.] I see the postman coming along the 
 road, T'll wait for the letters — he usually leaves them 
 here for us. . . . Good-bye. 
 
 [The Percivals go hurriedly by front door. 
 Langton takes up book Visitor had left, 
 turns over the leaves with a significant 
 smile. Enter Visitor. 
 Langton. Oh ! — you are looking for this ? 
 
 [Gives him book. 
 Visitor. Thank you. An excellent work, have 
 you read it ? 
 
 Langton. Yes, some time ago. Excellent, as you 
 say. 
 
 [Postman enters. Goes up to Bureau. A bell 
 rings. 
 Visitor. And there is the luncheon bell. 
 
 [Visitor gets his letters and exit. 
 Langton. [At bureau.] Are there any for us ? 
 
 [Ls looking through letters handed to him when 
 Richard Bowden enters. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 37 
 
 Langton. Hullo ! I'm just going — no letters for 
 you. 
 
 Richard. I met the postman on the way, he gave 
 me mine. 
 
 [Pulls a packet from his side pocket. 
 
 Langton. [About to go.] You'll be back presently? 
 
 Richard. Wait a moment, I want you. 
 
 Langton. [Coming down stage.] You'll be surprised 
 to hear that a belated idiot staying at this hotel has 
 got your book. He has just told me it's an excellent 
 work. Why don't you let the world know and 
 applaud you ? 
 
 Richard. [Shortly.] I would rather not. In 
 another year or two I shall probably take to active 
 politics. 
 
 Langton. If they are not too corrupt by then. . . . 
 I must hurry back . . . important letters to write 
 before post time. 
 
 Richard. Look here. [Opens a letter in his hand, 
 pulls out some printed leaflets, etc.] I wrote to Cook's 
 people lately. I think of going round the world. 
 They've sent me particulars. 
 
 [Puts them down on side table. 
 
 Langton. Lord! 
 
 Richard. But my plans may be suddenly changed, 
 at least 
 
 Langton. Changed? 
 
 Richard. Just now a telegram was brought up 
 to the villa — from Blanche. She is coming here to 
 meet me. 
 
38 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Langton. I know — the Percivals turned up just 
 now. 
 
 Richard. [Surprised.] The Percivals ? 
 
 Langton. [Nodding.] Cycling. She was to have 
 met them here and lunched, but she telegraphed that 
 she was meeting you and told them to get out of the 
 way — so they've gone on. 
 
 Richard. Oh ! [Pleased but anxious, then abruptly.] 
 How were they ? 
 
 Langton. Just the same — evidently billing and 
 cooing still. [Richard wrinkles his brow.] They have 
 a son. 
 
 Richard. [Gravely, as if he envied them.] A son — 
 by Jove, a son. [Pause. 
 
 Langton. I thought Blanche didn't know you 
 were here ? 
 
 Richard. She explains that in some visitors' list 
 she saw my name and address, and asks me to meet 
 her at one o'clock at this hotel. She is driving to 
 Silz. 
 
 Langton. Oh .'—I'll bolt. [Hesitates.] We shall 
 hear her arrive. I shall have time before she comes 
 in. [Looks at door l.] She probably means to try and 
 straighten things out — if you want to bring her to 
 the villa and honeymoon, I'll go to Zell-am-See. 
 
 Richard. [As if against his will.] I wish it would 
 turn out so. 
 
 Langton. [Astonished.] Look here, we have never 
 discussed her — hardly spoken of her. Forgive me 
 for speaking now, but this thing ought to be set 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 39 
 
 right — you are as obstinate as you can stick — but it's 
 probably playing the devil with both your lives. 
 
 Richard. [Between his teeth,] It is with mine, I 
 know that. 
 
 Langton. You may be certain it is with hers, the 
 woman always comes off worst. I know she hit you 
 
 hard in the first instance 
 
 Richard. I never cared for any other woman — 
 never shall. 
 
 Langton. All the same, you were not quite fair to 
 
 ner> [They have sat down. 
 
 Richard. [Sharply.] How wasn't I fair ? 
 
 Langton. Well, you see, you only thought of your 
 
 point of view, it didn't occur to you that she might 
 
 have one. 
 
 Richard. Women should take their point of view 
 from their husbands. 
 
 Langton. My dear chap, that's rot ; education has 
 played the devil with women, just as it has with the 
 working classes — opened their eyes to their own 
 capacities, given them the tip to cultivate them, and 
 
 made them clamour 
 
 Richard. For things they'd be better without. 
 Langton. That isn't the question. They've got to 
 have them, to a certain extent — not all they want. 
 I wouldn't give them the vote — see 'em damned 
 fi rs t — but they expect to have a decent time now — 
 and they mean to have it. They've grown more in- 
 telligent and they want a share, and a voice too, in 
 the affairs of the world. Personally— to thrust my 
 
40 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 opinion on you again — I think they should only have 
 it from their own homes and on matters that concern 
 them. 
 
 Richard. [Impatiently.] Well, I don't object to 
 that. 
 
 Langton. But you expected Blanche to settle 
 down with only your blessed society — when you 
 chose to give it her — and you were never very 
 genial — to wait on your moods and tempers; but 
 never to have hers taken into account. I'm very fond 
 of you, but I think you'd be the deuce for an ordinary 
 woman to live with 
 
 Richard. She's not an ordinary woman. 
 
 Langton, Which made it worse. . . . You won't 
 recognise it because — I'm sorry to repeat it — you're 
 as obstinate as the devil, but the relations of men and 
 women are undergoing a readjustment, and if they 
 only take it sensibly, each side will get more out 
 of the other. When we've progressed a little further 
 we shall hang any man who kicks his wife downstairs, 
 and strangle any woman who gets drunk, but in spite 
 of it, or because of it, we shall have more toleration 
 between the sexes and get on a good deal better. 
 
 Richard. I don't want to listen to a dissertation 
 on the relations of men and women — I wish you'd 
 go back. 
 
 Langton. I'm going. But remember, if you want 
 to turn me out and bring her there, I'll go — off like 
 a rocket on a November night. It's what would 
 happen if you really cared about her. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 41 
 
 Richard. Cared about her [almost fiercely, but 
 
 as if against his will] I love her more than my life. 
 She has never been out of my thoughts — she's the 
 background of everything. 
 
 Langton. [With feeling.] You'd better put her in 
 the foreground again. [Just touches Richard's hand.] 
 
 Richard. I wish to God she would come there. 
 
 Langton. She will — depend upon it, if you manage 
 her properly. [Looks round.] I should order a sitting 
 room — tell them to stick some flowers about — and 
 have her shown up to it when she comes — you can't 
 do much in this setting. 
 
 Richard. [Looking up with a little smile.] I'd 
 better see how the land lies first — she's an imperious 
 lady. 
 
 Langton. If she isn't subdued 
 
 Richard. I did it once. 
 
 Langton. Do it again. 
 
 Richard. She was the most splendid creature in 
 the world when I first met her 
 
 Langton. She was — when you brought her to 
 England. 
 
 Richard. You should have seen her as I saw her 
 first, standing at the entrance of the great salon in 
 the Zipernowsky palace. There was a light in her 
 eyes that seemed to claim me — — 
 
 Langton. I've heard something of this before, it 
 
 must be true I expect all this estrangement 
 
 has been a madness. 
 
 Richard. Or the marriage was one. [Looks at his 
 
42 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 watch.] She ought to be here — Jenbach isn't very 
 far. 
 
 Langton. I believe she's a nice woman — humour 
 her a bit — get her back and don't be a fool. After all 
 she only wanted a fling. 
 
 Richard. She shall have a fling if we set matters 
 right — as big a fling as she pleases. ... I couldn't 
 have stood any other woman for a week. 
 
 Langton. You're in an excellent frame of mind, 
 my dear chap. I shall go and look for my empty 
 portmanteau. . . . [Listens.] She's there, I heard 
 something stop. Good luck. 
 
 [Exit hurriedly. 
 
 [Richard draws hack watching the door r. 
 
 Arrival hell rings. Hotel servants appear, 
 
 a couple of trunks are carried in. Richard 
 
 goes forward. Sir Horace Taylor enters. 
 
 Sir Horace. [Astonished.] Hullo, Bowden, how do 
 
 you do? Quite a surprise; haven't seen you for 
 
 years — two years anyhow. 
 
 Richard. [Taken aback for a moment.] How do 
 you do? 
 
 Sir Horace. "We passed your wife — she's driving 
 and we're motoring — you're waiting for her, of course? 
 Richard. Yes. 
 
 Sir Horace. Staying in this hotel ? 
 Richard. No. 
 
 Sir Horace. We've been to Bayreuth — went by 
 Munich, going home by this route. [To Hotel 
 Servant.] You reserved our rooms? I telegraphed. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 43 
 
 Lady Taylor and my son will be here to-morrow ; I 
 came on in front of them. [To Richard.] They wanted 
 to see Salzburg on their way here, so they're staying 
 behind for a day or two ; I'm going to send back the 
 motor for them. [To Porter carrying bag, etc.] I'll 
 follow yon. Stay— is lunch going on ? 
 Servant. Yes, sir. 
 
 Sir Horace. Well, take up my things, I'll go in and 
 eat— I'm famished. [Goes towards dining-room. Looks 
 hack and says] I expect you'll wait for your wife? 
 Richard. [ Who has taken up paper] Yes. 
 
 [Exit Sir Horace. Richard alone. Business. 
 
 Arrival bell rings. A carriage is heard 
 
 stopping. He comes down stage and stands 
 
 watching door R. Servants go forward, etc. 
 
 Blanche. [Voice heard without] In half an hour I 
 
 shall continue my journey ; I shall not be longer. 
 
 You can wait there. No, no luggage is to be brought 
 
 in. Is Mr. Bowden here? 
 
 Servant. Yes, madame. 
 
 [Blanche Is dressed in travel clothes. All 
 
 through the interview her manner is 
 
 imperious and cold ; her voice is sometimes 
 
 passionate and scornful, but there is no 
 
 anger or ill-feeling in it. Against his will, 
 
 Richard evidently feels her fascination. 
 
 He goes toivards her as she enters. 
 
 Blanche. [Meeting him about centre and slightly 
 
 touching the hand he holds out. To Hotel Porter.] That 
 
 will do. [Waves him aivay. Then to Richabd.] I was 
 
44 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 surprised to come across your name in that list — 
 which I saw only by accident. You have a villa here ? 
 
 He. That villa up on the mountain. 
 
 [She follows direction of his eyes, then turns 
 away quickly. 
 
 She. Are you there alone ? 
 
 He. A friend is staying with me. 
 
 She. Ah ! a friend. 
 
 [Looks round as if deciding where to sit. 
 
 He. We can't talk here very well. I was about to 
 ask for a salon when you arrived. 
 
 She. [Firmly.] Oh no, this will do quite well. I 
 prefer it. There is not much to say. ... I did not 
 expect you would come to Innsbruck any more. 
 
 [Site down by table c. 
 
 He. I have always liked Austria, and Innsbruck is 
 one of my oldest haunts. Why should I avoid it now ? 
 
 She. [With a shrug.] Ah, why ? [Signs to him to sit. 
 
 He. You have been in Vienna ? 
 
 She. In Vienna — to see my relations and to look 
 after my property. The Zipernowsky palace is sold. 
 [In a half-pathetic voice, and as if inadvertently.] 
 They are going to pull it down and build municipal 
 buildings on its site. It is a tragedy. 
 
 He. I agree — a tragedy. And now 
 
 She. I am on my way back to London. And you? 
 
 He. [Frozen by her manner.] At present my plans 
 are indefinite. 
 
 She. You are not coming to England ? 
 
 He. I have no longer a home there. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 45 
 
 She. [ With a little formal surprise.] Oh ? 
 
 He. You were good enough to buy it. 
 
 She. Naturally — since you did not stay there I did 
 not choose to live in your house any more. Till it 
 was my own I felt that you were giving me your 
 charity 
 
 He. [Staring at her.] My charity ? 
 
 She. This is why I wished to see you — why I 
 telegraphed. I felt that we must have an explana- 
 tion. Every quarter your banker sends me money. 
 I wrote to him, it was useless. To your lawyer, it 
 was useless also. I did not know your address till I 
 saw it in that list. Every quarter that money is paid 
 into my account. It is an insult, and I will not have it. 
 
 He. And it was to make this statement that you 
 desired to meet me ? 
 
 She. Yes, since to say it elsewhere has been useless. 
 
 He. It is usual for a man to support the woman he 
 has married. 
 
 She. [Cold and courteous.] But we are not together 
 any more — we have separated — there are no children 
 — there is no tie between us, except a legal one, which 
 
 is only [A shrug.] ... I want nothing from you 
 
 — I will take nothing. I have sufficient money — I 
 had enough before my uncle died — now I have more 
 than enough. 
 
 He. And you are content with the life you are 
 living, in your own house, spending your own money ? 
 
 She [with a smile.] Quite content — it is all I 
 want. 
 
46 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 He. All? 
 
 She. [Cold and firm.] All. 
 
 He. You were not satisfied with the life I gave you. 
 
 She. You did not give me any — after the first 
 months. [A little break in her voice.] You only gave 
 me food and shelter, and money if I wanted it. If 
 you lived any life yourself that was worth calling one 
 — I do not know. You gave me nothing but what I 
 have said, and you disliked that I should make a life 
 for myself — or we might each have been satisfied. 
 
 He. And my love ? 
 
 She. Oh ! it was such a poor thing ; it was 
 reckoned such a long way after your consideration 
 for yourself — that I prefer not to discuss it. Any 
 love I had for you is over and finished. I prefer 
 also not to discuss that ... I can never forgive 
 your leaving me as you did. 
 
 He. We were neither of us satisfied, we were not 
 happy together. I did the best thing for both of us. 
 You like the life you have now 
 
 She [triumphantly, yet half sadly.] Yes ! I know 
 how the world is moving, what it is doing ; I have 
 power and place — 
 
 He. Power and place ! 
 
 She. The manner of life that satisfied me in 
 Vienna before you came — I loved it. . . . I have 
 loved it again since you went. 
 
 He. [Politely.] Obviously there is nothing more to 
 be said. 
 
 She. [With a queer litth laugh.] It has all been so 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 47 
 
 absurd— it began because I gathered people round me. 
 I was ambitious for you— for you, who had done 
 nothing in the world since you went on the 
 diplomatic mission to Petersburg when you were 
 twenty-five or twenty-six— twelve years before we 
 
 met for twelve years you had done nothing. . . . 
 
 Naturally I did not want that to continue ; and for 
 myself, I could not be content with the life of the 
 average woman of thirty years ago. 
 
 He. [Impatiently.] It was better than the restless- 
 ness of the women of to-day— which is the result of 
 men being too generous. 
 
 She. Generous !— how have they been generous ? 
 He. They have opened too many doors to 
 women. 
 
 She. Oh yes, they have opened doors — because 
 women were beating against the bars— but they 
 dislike seeing them go through— they grudge it, 
 sometimes they hate it. We will not discuss that or 
 we shall come to the Suffrage, and I am not a 
 Suffragette— though I understand now the atmo- 
 sphere that evolved them. ... It is tradition that 
 has hampered you — the traditions of years and years 
 ago concerning women. 
 
 He. They were more than traditions, I have my 
 convictions. 
 
 She. Oh yes, you have your convictions. And we 
 parted, and you went away to nourish them. 
 He. I repeat — it was wise. 
 She. It was wise, no doubt, [With a little forced 
 
48 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 laugh.] I am glad you went, for I do not love you any 
 more. 
 
 He. [Calmly and gravely.] You are very certain 
 of your own point of view. It hasn't occurred to you 
 that there is any other worth considering, that a man 
 may possibly want to think and dream in peace — if 
 he can afford the luxury of time — that he may want 
 to be sure of himself before he attempts anything 
 worth the doing. [Pause.] As for women, there is an 
 army of women workers to-day for whom all men, 
 who think and know about things, have admiration 
 and respect. But there are other women, especially 
 women in what we are pleased to call Society who 
 seem to think that the world is carried on by silly 
 committees and tea-parties, hurrying here and there, 
 chattering and worrying, and never calmly possessing 
 their own souls till they die — and then, God knows 
 what becomes of them. 
 
 She. [Taken aback.] At silly committees and tea- 
 parties many ropes are pulled that help the crowd 
 waiting beneath — the people who cannot make their 
 own voices heard. . . . Now I have said what I came 
 to say, and I am going. [She bows and avoids shaking 
 hands, rises, gathers up her gloves.] 
 
 He. [Astounded at the whole interview.] You are 
 going ! It was to say this that you came here — for 
 no other reason ? 
 
 She. Oh yes, I am going. I came for no other 
 reason. [She is about to go when the tone of his voice 
 arrests her ; te leans a little forward as he speaks,] 
 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 49 
 
 He. You wish to be free, perhaps — free to marry 
 elsewhere ? 
 
 She. [Quickly.] No, I do not wish to marry else- 
 where — I have all the freedom I want. . . . But 
 you, do you wish it ? 
 
 He. No. . . . But you are young . . . beautiful. 
 [She shrugs.] You could marry more happily ? 
 
 She. I have said . . . but — again — it is for your- 
 self you speak? . . . you wish — [He shakes his 
 head] not to make other ties ? 
 
 He. No. I prefer the hard and fast boundary 
 our — what was once our — marriage sets up. 
 
 She. But you have a friend at the villa ? 
 
 He. The friend is my cousin, Henry Langton. 
 
 She. Ah yes. That prevents you from being 
 lonely — though you always liked being alone. 
 
 He. As you do ? 
 
 She. [Wearily.] Yes, as I do. [To a Porter, who 
 crosses the stage at the back,] Would you see if the 
 carriage is there? [Looks round.] It is very 
 beautiful here — this place, I mean. I like to think 
 it is a bit of my country. . . . [Then to Richard.] 
 I hope the villa is pleasant; it looks so charm- 
 ing from here. [She bows, turns away from him 
 and goes towards the door by which she had entered. 
 Then in avoice that is cold and yet full of sup- 
 pressed feeling.] I wish you a great deal of hap- 
 piness. [He bows. Hotel servants come from the 
 background. To them.] The carriage is there? I 
 am going 
 
 D 
 
50 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Servant. [Surprised.] You go already, madame, 
 you require nothing ? 
 
 Blanche. I require nothing — but to go. 
 Richard. [Who has followed her two or three steps.] 
 Let me see you to your carriage ? 
 
 Blanche. [In a voice that is for a moment un- 
 steady.] Please not. [Firmly.] I would rather that 
 you do not. [She turns to go. 
 
 [Re boivs and turns away, goes towards table 
 at the side to take up letters and circulars 
 about going round the world. 
 [She looks at him for one moment, hesitates, 
 which he does not see, then with a quick 
 step goes out. 
 [The carriage is heard going off". Richard 
 stands listening, then sits, puts his head in 
 his hands for a moment, rises abruptly, 
 exit. 
 
ACT 111 
 
 Time : Two more years have elapsed. Afternoon. 
 Scene: Blanche's drawing-room in Green Street. 
 There is afire in the grate. In front of it she is 
 sitting in a high-hacked armchair. Her hands are 
 crossed on her lap and she gives an impression 
 of loneliness. She looks a little older and graver. 
 Some of the Visitors look older, talk together, 
 and are less attracted by her than in Act I. A 
 long pause. Clock on the mantelshelf strikes ; 
 it seems to startle her; she looks up, and 
 round the room, then relapses into reverie 
 again. 
 Enter Servant announcing "Mrs. Percival." 
 Millicent brings some roses, puts them on 
 Blanche's lap.] 
 Blanche. [Pleased.] Ah, I'm glad when you come. 
 [Takes up roses.] How sweet of you. 
 
 Millicent. I'm always glad to come. But, dear 
 Blanche, a fire ? 
 
 Blanche. I know — I was very cold. 
 Millicent. But it's so warm, almost summer. 
 Blanche. [With a little shiver.] Is it? 
 51 
 
52 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Millicent. I came early; I thought we might get 
 a little talk before anyone arrived. [They sit. 
 
 Blanche. Oh yes, it's Saturday. [Bending towards 
 the fire.] It's Saturday every week . . . [Change of 
 tone.] How is your little son ? 
 
 Millicent. He's lovely — You haven't seen him for 
 nearly two months. 
 
 Blanche. [Kindly.] No — but I should like to see 
 him 
 
 Millicent. He runs about everywhere. [Lifts her 
 head as if listening to him overhead.] I love to hear 
 him patter, patter across the nursery floor. 
 
 Blanche. [Wistfully.] You must love it — patter, 
 patter across the nursery floor 
 
 Millicent. [Half afraid.] If you only had a 
 child 
 
 Blanche. [Little sound of dismay and longing but 
 very distant.] A child! [Absently puts her arms 
 together. Then abruptly] It's nearly five o'clock. 
 
 Millicent. [To cover her mistake.] And time for 
 your visitors. 
 
 Blanche. [With a shrug.] If any come. They are 
 dwindling away and they're not so exalted as formerly; 
 they have been coming for five years — four years 
 to me alone. . . . [Cynically.] The new people don't 
 struggle to come any more. 
 
 Millicent. Don't they ? 
 
 Blanche. No. Only some one who is brought once 
 — just once. It is part of his equipment for the 
 world. ... In his middle age he will be able to say : 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 53 
 
 " Oh yes ; I went to her salon when I was young." 
 That's all. [A little laugh and recovering.] But I don't 
 want them — there is a terrible sameness about them. 
 Each one is intent on his own set of interests. They 
 seem to enter with their packs anxious to display 
 their wares, and to go, like so many pedlars. I am 
 tired of them. 
 
 Millicent. But the original worshippers are faith- 
 ful; there's Mr. Carstairs, for instance. He was 
 reading to you the other day 
 
 Blanche. [With a little laugh and a grimace.] Oh 
 yes, I am sorry for him; that is why I Ksten to 
 his poems. He thinks he is going to be immortal, 
 but in the day when all good work comes by its own 
 there will be no sign of anything he has done. [As if 
 without intention.] If Richard had chosen to work — 
 the chances would have leaped to him . . . 
 
 Millicent. Is he never coming back ? 
 
 Blanche. [Coldly.] He likes being abroad. 
 
 Millicent. [Very gently.] Why don't you go to 
 him? 
 
 Blanche. I like being here. [With a change of 
 mood.] It's a good thing to be alone, to live your own 
 life and to be free. There has been so much nonsense 
 talked about freedom, but in freedom and loneliness 
 power is born — and some things are better than 
 happiness. 
 
 Millicent. My dearest Blanche, forgive me for 
 saying it — but that is only high falutin' — with no 
 comfort in it. I think a great deal of nonsense is 
 
54 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 talked about power too. We want happiness — it's 
 the most difficult thing of all to get, and does every- 
 one heaps of good. 
 
 Blanche. [Amused.] Millicent, Millicent, you have 
 been thinking. 
 
 Millicent. No, it's Jack — somehow he always 
 thinks the things that I am going to feel. [Pause. 
 
 Blanche. [Trying not to show any eagerness.] Does 
 Jack ever hear from llichard ? [Millicent shakes her 
 head.] Or of him ? [Gets up, arranges roses.] 
 
 Millicent. Sometimes he sees his name in 
 print 
 
 Blanche. That is how I knew he was at Innsbruck 
 two years ago. I saw his name in print. 
 
 Millicent. [Half afraid to ask.] Do you know 
 where he is now ? 
 
 Blanche. No, only that he went round the world 
 . . . he may be back . . . I don't know , . . I think 
 it's easier when he's far off. . . . [Fastening one 
 rose at her waist] but I have been lonely sometimes. 
 
 Millicent. You have kept every one at such a 
 distance. 
 
 Blanche. I know . . . I couldn't help it ; all these 
 years I have felt as if I were in a little boat tossing 
 on an uneasy sea — the ships passed and the passengers 
 waved their handkerchiefs, but nobody could reach me. 
 . . . Now the little boat is going over the horizon and 
 out of sight. 
 
 Millicent. What do you mean ? 
 
 Blanche. I shall go away. [Stands holding out 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 55 
 
 her hands to Millicent, but avoids their being taJcen.] 
 It's impossible to bear it any longer — I cannot. I 
 shall go back to my own country — to Vienna, or 
 to Hungary; I want to see the great Hungarian 
 plains once more, the infinite — infinite space. 
 
 Millicent. But, Blanche dear, what will the 
 worshippers do ? 
 
 Blanche. There is that woman in Ebury Street, 
 Mrs. Ferrers. She is young and pretty and happy. 
 Everybody goes to her now. 
 
 Millicent. I've heard of her, but I never went 
 there, did you ? 
 
 Blanche. No, and she never comes here. 
 
 Millicent. [After hesitation.] I want to tell you 
 something — perhaps you know already. But Jack 
 heard it only lately — it has been kept a great secret — 
 
 Blanche. A secret — about Richard ? 
 
 Millicent. [Nods.] He wrote that book " Political 
 Life " that made such a stir three years ago. [Blanche 
 is speechless with surprise.] Isn't it queer, a visitor 
 was reading it at Innsbruck when we were there, and 
 Jack looked at it, but never dreamt it was his. 
 
 Blanche. When we were at Innsbruck ? . . . I 
 knew he could do things. He wrote it and never 
 made a sign ! How he must despise me, who thought 
 he would do nothing. It doesn't matter — he did it, 
 he did it. [Looks up, her face is suffused with happi- 
 ness.] If I'd only known at Innsbruck ! 
 
 Millicent. We did so hope things would come right 
 there. You said nothing when you came on to Silz ? 
 
56 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Blanche. No. 
 
 Millicent. We didn't dare ask what had happened 
 — you seemed desperately anxious to get away from us. 
 
 Blanche. Yes, I was desperately anxious to get 
 away. 
 
 [Enter Servant announcing " Mr. Carstairs." 
 
 Blanche. [To Carstairs, trying to be polite.] How do 
 you do ? 
 
 Algy Carstairs. Dear lady, I venture here again — 
 Mrs. Percival ? [Shakes hands. 
 
 Millicent. How do you do? [To Blanche.] I must 
 go, but you'll see me again soon. 
 
 Blanche. [Eagerly.] Yes, soon — come back later to- 
 day — I want you. 
 
 Millicent. I will if I can. [Exit. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [Fervently.] I hoped you would be 
 alone. 
 
 Blanche. You want to discuss something ? 
 
 Algy Carstairs. No . . . it is happiness to be with 
 you — and alone. 
 
 Blanche. We all measure happiness differently. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. There is only one way for me. 
 
 Blanche. Ah ! . . . Tell me, is there any news — 
 political news — or news about books ? 
 
 Algy Carstairs. I have not thought about news. 
 
 Blanche. You have been too busy with your work ? 
 
 Algy Carstairs. I can't work. 
 
 Blanche. Perhaps you have written an epic and 
 feel that you must rest after it ? 
 
 Algy Carstairs. I have written nothing. I shall 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 57 
 
 never write again — unless you help me. . : . You 
 
 must listen to me, you must 
 
 Blanche. [Haughtily^ There is nothing that I 
 must do. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. You know what I want to say — 
 I love you, I love you. You are unhappy. I feel that 
 your soul wrestles as mine does — that you need me. 
 Blanche. I need you ! 
 
 Algy Carstairs. You need my love, as I do yours. 
 I worship you, and cannot live without you. 
 Blanche. You are talking nonsense. 
 Algy Carstairs. No — of life and death. 
 Blanche. You are a poet, and life and death are 
 easy words to you. Either you are talking nonsense, 
 and I forgive you, or you are insulting, and I shall 
 have you turned out. [Rings.] I am ringing for 
 tea. [In answer to his alarmed look.] We must be 
 soothed after this excitement. I shall forget your 
 folly, and you will soon be ashamed of it. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. Oh, dear lady, if you knew — if 
 
 you could dream 
 
 Blanche. I do not want to know or to dream. 
 
 [Enter Servant announcing " Mr. Hesketh." 
 
 Exit. But returns with tea, etc., and arranges it. 
 
 Blanche. Here is the editor — most opportunely. 
 
 How do you do, Mr. Hesketh? Mr. Carstairs is 
 
 writing an epic — you shall publish it in your paper. 
 
 Hesketh. Heaven forbid ! 
 
 Blanche. Oh ! but it would be a great attraction. 
 Hesketh. Most kind of you, my dear Mrs. Bowden, 
 
58 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 most kind of you — but a newspaper is for the vulgar; 
 they have not yet learnt to appreciate epics. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [Trying to recover.] I must go 
 
 Blanche. [Sitting at tea table.] Oh no ; you must 
 have some tea, and be agreeable to Mr. Hesketh. He 
 reviews epics even if he doesn't publish them. 
 
 [Enter Sir Horace Taylor. 
 
 Blanche. How is Sir Horace ? [Shakes hands.] 
 
 Sir Horace. Quite well — and you ? [Nodding to 
 Hesketh and Carstairs.] I congratulate you on 
 your husband's book — every one knows it now, but 
 you kept the secret well. I have not seen him since 
 we met at Innsbruck. You remember ? 
 
 Blanche. Oh yes ; I remember. 
 
 [The others look at her surprised. 
 
 Sir Horace. [Curiously.] Did you go to your villa 
 on the mountain ? 
 
 Blanche. [Distantly^ Richard liked that villa. 
 
 Hesketh. I suppose he will be home soon ? It 
 doesn't take long to get round the world nowadays. 
 
 Blanche. Richard is a leisurely person. . . . 
 Some tea ? 
 
 Sir Horace. Thank you. . . . Mrs. Ferrers will 
 be so interested to hear he wrote that book ; she 
 was convinced it was some one else. 
 
 Hesketh. I'm going on there presently. 
 
 Sir Horace. So am I. 
 
 Blanche. [With a little laugh.] Worshippers at the 
 new shrine. There are two things that always hold 
 tjieir own. Mystery — how fascinating it is ! Should 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 59 
 
 we any of us be good if heaven were an explored 
 country ? 
 
 Sir Horace. Or wicked, if the other place were ? 
 But what is the other thing ? 
 
 Blanche. Firstness, newness — the first time — the 
 new thing — it is wonderful. But when the firstness 
 is over — the newness — then — it is different. 
 
 Sir Horace. That's true ; especially of marriage. 
 . . . [Turning to Hesketh.] By the way, I hear that 
 Galton is going to get a divorce. 
 
 Hesketh. That's rather amusing. 
 
 Blanche. [Cynically.'] Is it? But such strange 
 things are called amusing now. [Enter Widhurst.] 
 Ah, Mr. Widhurst, what is the theatrical news? 
 Have you got a new part ? 
 
 Widhurst. [Sitting down and nodding to the others.] 
 Not yet, Mrs. Bowden. Managers appear to be out 
 all day and on the stage all night, and they never 
 answer letters, so it's rather difficult to get at them. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. It's worse for the author of a 
 play. Parkinson — actor-manager and scoundrel — 
 had one five months, a beautiful thing, purest tragedy 
 in blank verse. 
 
 Widhurst. Of course — blank. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [Frowns.] I know its qualities 
 well, Widhurst. It would have done for your Theatre 
 of Intellect — what became of that ? 
 
 Widhurst. I couldn't get a theatre, and there 
 wasn't any intellect — at least not where there was any 
 money. 
 
60 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Algy Caestairs. And the poet and the great 
 dramatist — what are they to do ? 
 
 Widhurst. [A shrug.] It's no good being that sort 
 of person till you're dead, and then you don't do any- 
 thing ; you belong to the largest leisured class in the 
 world — or out of it. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [Sadly.] And the most beautiful 
 — Immortality goes reaping among it. 
 
 [Enter Bertram. 
 
 Blanche. I hoped you would come. 
 
 Bertram. [Aside to her.] I came to thank you. 
 
 Blanche. It is settled ? 
 
 Bertram. [Nodding.] I heard from the Chief last 
 
 night Yes, some tea, if I may. This morning 
 
 he sent for me. 
 
 [Hesketh and Carstairs on one side standing 
 together. 
 
 Hesketh. [In a low tone.] It's extraordinary that 
 Bowden should have written that book. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. I can't believe it now — he has 
 cleverness, of course, but no genius. 
 
 Hesketh. [Looking at his watch.] The one is often 
 fatal to the other. He is a very remarkable man. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. He is an abstraction, and un- 
 worthy of her. [Looking towards Blanche.] How 
 beautiful she is, and full of poetry. 
 
 Hesketh. She's not what she was a few years ago. 
 I shall never forget her the year that Bowden took 
 himself off. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 61 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [In an undertone.] I could die 
 for her. 
 
 Hesketh. Ah, a young man often feels that sort of 
 thing about a woman a year or two older than himself. 
 
 Blanche. [ Who is talking to Bertram.] I'm so glad 
 my little hint was useful. 
 
 Bertram. It did everything. Lord Faringhurst 
 wrote first, and this morning I heard it was all right. 
 
 Bertram. I can never thank you enough. 
 
 Hesketh. [Overhearing.] Has Mrs. Bowden been 
 putting in a word for you, Bertram ? 
 
 Bertram. She is always doing good deeds. 
 
 [Enter Mrs. Martin, elderly. 
 
 Mrs. Martin. Dear Mrs. Bowden. Surrounded as 
 usual 
 
 Blanche. How do you do ? [Gets up.] Stay, do sit 
 here, this chair is so comfortable. 
 
 Mrs. Martin. [Mistaking the chair offered.] Oh, no, 
 I couldn't sit there — it's your place. 
 
 Blanche. Yes, yes [smiling] — and some tea ? Oh — 
 it doesn't matter. 
 
 [Mrs. Martin with a bland smile has 
 floundered into Blanche's chair, who is 
 thus left standing ; she looks amused. 
 
 Blanche. [Introducing.] You know Sir Horace 
 Taylor — Mrs. Martin. 
 
 Mrs. Martin. So pleased to meet you, Sir Horace. 
 [To Blanche, so that he hears.] Such a famous man. 
 [Re is evidently disgusted.] There are always such 
 interesting people here. [Mrs. Martin makes business 
 
62 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 with the tea-things; Widhurst hands her cake, etc. 
 To Widhurst.] I feel sure you are a celebrity, too ? 
 
 Widhurst. Oh no — I take a humble interest in the 
 theatre — wish it returned the compliment* 
 
 [Enter Servant with note, " From Mrs. Per- 
 cival" for Blanche, who moves apart from 
 her visitors, 
 Blanche. [Beads.] " Mr. Bowden is in England — 
 Jack heard it. He is going away immediately." 
 
 [She gives a little cry and scrunches the note 
 in her hand. 
 Algy Carstairs. Mrs. Bowden, are you ill? 
 Blanche. Oh, no; my head — that is all. It is 
 nothing — I am tired perhaps. 
 
 [Smooths out note and reads it again. 
 Hesketh. I must be going. 
 
 Sir Horace. So must I. Oh, I quite forgot to tell 
 you a funny story. [Laughs.'] I met Grimshaw last 
 night. Asked him when he was going to marry 
 again ; said he didn't think he should — white women 
 were so much alike he never could tell his own wife 
 from another man's, and he didn't like black women. 
 
 [Re and Hesketh laugh. 
 Mrs. Martin. [Primly^] It's not a very pleasant 
 story. 
 
 Sir Horace. Awfully funny, you know. 
 Algy Carstairs. I don't see any point in it. Do 
 you, Mrs. Bowden ? 
 
 Blanche. [Looking up.] I fear I wasn't listening ; 
 it was very rude of me. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 63 
 
 Bertram. [ Sympathetically. ,] We ought to go away. 
 Mrs. Bowden is tired. 
 
 Blanche. Oh no. 
 
 Hesketh. I must go. 
 
 Sir Horace. And I'm due in Ebury Street. Good- 
 bye, Mrs. Bowden — so glad about the book. 
 
 Hesketh. I'll come with you. 
 
 Sir Horace. Capital ! Come too, Carstairs ? Mrs. 
 Ferrers delights in the rising poet. We'll introduce 
 you. 
 
 Sir Horace. [Aside to Hesketh, while Carstairs 
 is bending over her hand.] She is getting almost dull; 
 that story was thrown away upon her. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [Aside to Blanche.] Let me stay 
 a little while. 
 
 Blanche. [Bewildered.] No, I would rather you 
 went. 
 
 Algy Carstairs. [To Blanche.] You forgive me ? 
 
 Blanche. Forgive ? Oh yes 
 
 Hesketh. [To her.] Good-bye. We ought to have 
 known sooner about that book. 
 
 [Blanche shakes hands with him and with 
 Sir Horace. They depart with Carstairs. 
 
 Mrs. Martin. You were so kind to me the other 
 day about the plot of my new novel, Mrs. Bowden. 
 [Opens black bag, brings out MS.] 
 
 Bertram [Aside to Widhurst.] Do let's get her 
 away. Mrs. Bowden is very tired. 
 
 Mrs. Martin. [Goes on.] I wanted to consult you 
 on one more point. I make Philip marry the wrong 
 
64 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 woman — the dramatic side will interest Mr. Wid- 
 
 hurst 
 
 Blanche. I am too stupid to-day, I fear 
 
 Widhurst. I wish you'd consult me, Mrs. Martin. 
 I'm rather a dab at that sort of thing. My sister 
 wrote a novel, so did my aunt. If you will let me 
 drive you to North Kensington j you said you lived 
 there the other day — charming neighbourhood — we 
 might talk it over on the way. I know Mrs. Bowden 
 has a headache, but my head's in particularly good 
 condition. If you don't mind coming now 
 
 Blanche. {Gratefully to Widhurst.] Oh 
 
 Mrs. Martin. I shall be delighted. [Gets up. 
 
 Blanche. Good-bye. I shall see the result in 
 print. Mr. Widhurst is splendid — so clever. 
 
 [They go, only Bertram is left. 
 
 Blanche. [To Bertram.] That nice man took her 
 away out of kindness. 
 
 Bertram. It really was noble of him, [Hesitates.] 
 
 I'm going too If I can be of any service to you 
 
 at any time, do let me. I shall never forget all you 
 have done for me. 
 
 Blanche. When do you go to India ? 
 
 Bertram. Next month. I shall often think of you 
 — and write too, if I may, and tell you how the 
 appointment works out. 
 
 Blanche. Yes, do. [Exit Bertram. 
 
 [Blanche alone ; sits by the fire again. 
 Servant takes away tea. A pause. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 65 
 
 [Enter Millicent. Blanche gets up and 
 waits, unable to speak. 
 
 Millicent. I thought you might want me. 
 Blanche. [As if afraid to ask.] Yes, I want you. 
 Tell me all you know. 
 
 Millicent. It is hardly anything. George Austin 
 saw him two nights ago at Euston. He had just 
 arrived from Japan or somewhere. He is leaving 
 London again to-night. 
 
 Blanche. But where is he ? 
 Millicent. Brown's Hotel. 
 
 Blanche. [Desperately.] Oh, if he would see me 
 and take me back. I cannot bear it or pretend any 
 longer. I want him back. 
 
 Millicent. [Astonished.] Blanche ! Go to him. 
 Blanche. I am afraid— I did— a month after 
 Innsbruck, he was in London for two nights before 
 
 he sailed 
 
 Millicent. Yes? 
 
 Blanche. He was like a stone to me. It is killing 
 me— I deserve it ; for I was cruel, brutal, detestable 
 at Innsbruck. 
 
 Millicent. [Still astounded.] We thought you 
 didn't care. You seemed to exult in your freedom. 
 
 Blanche. I did for a little while. I wouldn't let 
 myself think or feel— it was as if against my will— 
 my underwill— I was carried over a tide ... but it 
 has all been a disguise of my love for him, of my 
 desperation. Why shouldn't I say it ? He is mine 
 
66 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 though he stays away all the days of his life — he is 
 mine. 
 
 Millicent. [Still wondering.] And all the time 
 you have cared ? 
 
 Blanche. [Distracted.] Cared ? For good or ill he 
 has not been one instant out of my thoughts since 
 we parted. Some hours have been calm — I buoyed 
 myself up with a sham happiness — but it has seemed 
 as if in some secret place — that was always near — 
 there was a rack that mercilessly drew me to it for a 
 little spell or a long one — just as might be — every 
 day or night, sometimes one and sometimes the other 
 — and bound me to it, and ground at my heart and 
 soul, and every pulse that is in me . . . 
 
 Millicent. Something must be done. 
 
 Blanche. [As if she had not heard.] And he is 
 there — not ten minutes off, yet I dare not go to him. 
 He wouldn't even see me. I know it. 
 
 Millicent. Let Jack go to him. They knew each 
 other so well at one time. He is downstairs, he 
 didn't like to come up. But let him go to Mr. 
 Bowden. 
 
 Blanche. It would be no good. He would talk 
 about his convictions — he has built an altar to them 
 and my happiness is the burnt sacrifice offered up 
 upon it. 
 
 Millicent. What did he say when you went to 
 him — in London, I mean ? 
 
 Blanche. [Bitterly, and as if in a dream.] He said 
 that we had decided to live apart ; that I had not 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 67 
 
 cared for the life he gave me, nor to live in his 
 house, so he had left me to the life I liked in the 
 house I had bought; that admiration and freedom 
 were what I prized most, and now they were mine ; 
 that I had said at Innsbruck my love for him was 
 over and finished and everything between us was 
 at an end — and it was true — it was at an end. 
 His manner froze me, paralysed me — and I went. 
 [Millicent tries to caress her, but she shakes her off.] 
 ... If I only knew how he lives and whether there 
 is any other place he calls home. Or if he would come 
 back for just a little while I might bear the separate 
 ways again. I could bear reproaches, anger, any- 
 thing but this silence and this empty house — this 
 starving for sight and sound of him. 
 
 Millicent. Do let Jack go to him. It can't make 
 things worse — it might do some good. 
 
 Blanche. I wonder — I wonder 
 
 Millicent. Or write to him ? 
 
 Blanche. [Hesitates — then suddenly.] Yes, yes, I'll 
 write to him. And Jack shall take it. [Goes towards 
 writing-table on the l well down stage. Turns to 
 Millicent.] Go down, dear, and tell Jack — ask him 
 if he'll go — I must be alone while I write. Come 
 back in five minutes and bring him. [Millicent 
 takes her hands, kisses them, and goes. Blanche, left 
 alone, kneels or throws herself down on a chair — 
 passionately repeats the words as she writes them.] 
 
 " Richard, my Richard — come back. I am longing 
 for you, dying for you. Come back. I send you this 
 
68 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 rose — [plucks it from her dress] — I have covered it 
 with kisses — come to me, I cannot bear life without 
 you. — Your own — yours and yours, Blanche." 
 
 [Folds the letter, puts it for a moment against 
 her face. Enter Jack and Millicent. 
 
 Blanche. [Giving note to Jack.] Take it — bring 
 him back 
 
 Jack. [Taking note and rose.] I will, I swear I 
 will. Let Millicent wait with you. Only a little while 
 and I will bring him to you as I did the night he 
 first saw you. 
 
 Blanche. Oh ! — if you do — if you do ! 
 
 Jack. I will, dear friend, I will. [Exit. 
 
 Blanche. [With a shudder and looking towards the 
 clock.] A few minutes — and I shall know my fate — 
 shall be in Heaven, or for ever shut out from it. 
 
 Enter Servant announcing " Mrs. Vynor." 
 
 Mrs. Vynor [Evidently worried.] I came late on 
 purpose. I hoped I might find you alone. 
 
 Blanche. [Aghast at her coming.] Yes, I am alone, 
 except for Mrs. Percival — but it is late — and 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. [Hesitatingly.] I do so want to speak 
 to you. 
 
 Millicent. I'll go into the next room to write a 
 note — if I may ? [Exit Millicent. 
 
 Blanche. [Piteously.] I'm very tired to-day 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. I will only stay a few minutes. You 
 were so kind long ago when my little girl was ill — 
 and when she died you made me feel the Majesty 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 69 
 
 of Death . . . and so much I'd never thought of 
 before. 
 
 Blanche. Ah, poor thing, I remember about the 
 child. But I don't remember being kind. 
 
 Mrs. Yynor. Oh, but you were indeed ; and now I 
 come again. I want you to help me 
 
 Blanche. [Wonderingly.] To help you? How can 
 I help you ? [The effort to be calm puts a wild look 
 into her eyes.] 
 
 Mrs. Yynor. I'm so unhappy about Geoffrey. This 
 last year or two I have altered — I have read a great 
 deal and been to meetings and I see things differently. 
 Last week I spoke at a meeting and he hated it. He 
 won't let me do the things I want to do. He 
 doesn't understand that the world has changed — 
 for women. 
 
 Blanche. Oh yes, it has changed, but not in the way 
 that many women think. What are you going to do ? 
 
 Mrs. Yynor. He says he can't care for me if — if I 
 do this sort of thing. I thought that perhaps you 
 would advise me. If I were to separate from him 
 and be free as you are ? Would people say things — 
 would they think there had been anything wrong ? 
 
 Blanche. [Scornfully.] People! What do they 
 matter ? [ Walks across the room and stops before Mrs. 
 Yynor.] Why did you marry your husband ? Because 
 he was rich ? 
 
 Mrs. Yynor. No. 
 
 Blanche. Because you were tired of not being 
 married ? 
 
70 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. No. Because I loved him — I love 
 him still, but there are other things 
 
 Blanche. [With a curiously defiant manner.] Oh 
 yes, there are other things — but unless we have 
 love — the love of those we love — the world is empty. 
 "We are two women standing here alone, and it's better 
 to face the truth ; men can do without love, can be 
 happy or content, but women can't — it's no good pre- 
 tending. They can't — can't — till they are old and 
 burnt out, and then they are mourner sat a funeral. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. [A little scared.] But women are doing 
 so much nowadays one doesn't want to be out of it, 
 and heaps of them are happy without love. 
 
 Blanche. [Shakes her head.] No, they only act as if 
 they were. They want human ties — close — close ties. 
 They are taking makeshifts. . . . That is why I'm so 
 sorryjfor them. . . . And if men had treated them differ- 
 ently women wouldn't have clamoured for the vote — 
 nor broken windows — life would have been full enough. 
 
 Mrs. Yynor. [Blankly.] Men are cleverer and 
 stronger than we are, I suppose ; that is why — 
 why 
 
 Blanche. [Calmer.] Oh yes, it is why — why many 
 things ; but of two people one must be the stronger. 
 And our weakness — the inward secret weakness of our 
 hearts — puts us at their mercy. This — this is the real 
 tragedy of our sex, its handicap. We try to hide it, 
 to conquer it, but we can't— can't — and if women get 
 the power they are struggling for, it will be a husk 
 unless they have love too. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 71 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. But why can't we have both ? We 
 are not stupid any more. 
 
 Blanche, [Holds out her arms with a gesture of 
 despair, then with a queer little laugh.] Ah ! , . . "We 
 are what we are and we can go so far — let us go. . . . 
 The leopard cannot change his spots nor the black man 
 his skin, nor woman her nature . . . and nothing 
 fights for its own as Nature does. . . . Oh, I have 
 thought it over — all these years — thought and 
 thought till I am tired of thinking. Women may 
 reach out to the world with pride and joy feeling 
 their capacities — and they have them — but in the 
 end they come back to their own for happiness or — 
 [with a little gasp] for peace. That does not mean 
 that they are not to use the capacities, but . . . that 
 they should be wise gardeners. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. And what am / to do ? 
 
 Blanche. Go home — and think too — think it all 
 over. ... I want you to go now [very gently as if it 
 is an entreaty], I'm ill and tired. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. [Still a little scared.] You look so 
 unhappy 
 
 Blanche. I have been, I may be — I don't know. 
 Perhaps I am very happy — I am waiting. So much 
 of women's lives is spent in waiting. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. You are waiting for 
 
 Blanche. [Desperately.] You mustn't question me. 
 I can't bear it. . . . There are plenty of things in life 
 for women — go home and take those you can reach to. 
 Go home — and look pretty and laugh ; men are not won 
 
72 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 by tears — tell him that you love him — and be thankful 
 for the sound of his voice — [In a half reckless, half 
 scornful voice.] 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. But there's such a thing as spirit. 
 
 Blanche. Oh yes, there's such a thing as spirit ; 
 but one has to make the best of life with the material 
 there is to hand. It is foolish to suffer hunger and 
 thirst, or to die of cold when water and food and 
 shelter are near. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. [Firmly and surprised.] Mrs. Bowden, 
 you don't understand — and you have changed so — you 
 seem to have gone back — to be worsted somehow 
 
 Blanche. Just now you said that men were 
 cleverer and stronger than women 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. Yes — yes — and they must be — for 
 women are such hero-worshippers; they don't see it yet 
 — they don't know it — but that's what the woman- 
 movement means, for as women reach high they will 
 want men to reach higher, so that they may love them 
 still 
 
 Blanche. [Quickly.] They want that more than 
 anything in the world, and to be loved back. 
 
 Mrs. Vynor. [Half despairingly.] Yes, more than 
 anything in the world. [Exit. 
 
 [Blanche stands quite still. 
 [Re-enter Millicent from the other room. 
 
 Millicent. I heard her go. 
 
 Blanche. [Standing dazed.] I am glad she came, 
 for at the last she said a wise thing — perhaps it is an 
 upward movement. . . . But Millicent, what a Jugger- 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 73 
 
 naut love is — women try to keep out of its way — and 
 pay dearly if they succeed. Some throw themselves 
 under it desperately, and some joyfully, as I shall — it 
 is on every road — coming — or going . . . [Millicent 
 nods her head, Blanche looks at the clock with a gasp.] 
 ... It must be time. 
 
 Millicent. They will be here directly. . . . 
 
 [They wait nervously listening and watching 
 the clock. 
 Blanche. [Desperately.] It is such a little way. The 
 letter must bring him — and if he's angry and won't 
 
 read it, he'll see the rose, and [Turns away. 
 
 Millicent. He must come. 
 
 Blanche. He must come . . . [Uplifted and 
 happiness breaking over her face] I can feel that he 
 will . . . [Restless, crosses the room, listens and 
 returns.] I'll persuade him to go away from this house. 
 . . . [Pause.] I've wandered up and down the stairs 
 and buried my head in every cushion to drive back the 
 agony that stupefied me — and the memory of it clings 
 to the walls and to everything between them. ... I 
 will make him take me to the country. Or we'll go 
 abroad — together. ... I know he'll come, I can see 
 him — and just how he will look. At first he will be 
 
 a little cold and stiff 
 
 Millicent. Jack would take me in his arms and 
 cover me with kisses if he were making up a 
 quarrel. 
 
 Blanche. It hasn't been a quarrel — [half resenting] 
 and Richard is not that sort of man. He'll come in 
 
74 A|WOMAN ALONE 
 
 and hesitate, and say " You sent for me ? " And I 
 shall say " Yes — yes." And then I shall go up to 
 him — and he will stand still — and — Hark ! he is 
 coming. [Listens.] Yes, they have come ! [Flies 
 to door.] 
 
 Millicent. [Holds her back.] It will only be a 
 second longer. 
 
 Blanche. [Transfixed.] One man's step — one. 
 
 [She staggers back as the door opens. Enter 
 Jack ; he stands quite still. She waits 
 dumb and trembling. 
 
 Millicent. Jack, speak — \he hesitates] — you must. 
 
 Blanche. Was he there ? 
 
 Jack. He has been there — he has gone. 
 
 Blanche. Gone! 
 
 Jack. Three hours ago. 
 
 Blanche. [In a dead voice.] Where ? — when does 
 he return ? 
 
 Jack. They don't know. He is going on some 
 expedition — they thought two years — or less or 
 more — they were quite vague. 
 
 Blanche. Two years! ... I shall be dead. . . . 
 It won't matter, I shall be dead. [They go forward, 
 she makes a little sign to keep them back.] Where is 
 the letter — and my rose ? 
 
 Jack. I put them into a little cardboard box. 
 They are to forward letters when he telegraphs an 
 address. I thought it might go with them. 
 
 Blanche. I see. Thank you, Jack. [Gently, but in 
 a cold stately voice, as they go forward again.] Don't 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 75 
 
 touch me. , . . You will go now . . . you won't 
 mind ? I must be alone. 
 
 Millicent. Mayn't I stay a little ? 
 
 Blanche. I think not dear — if you will forgive 
 me. [Turns to Jack and says gently] Take her away. 
 I must be alone if I am to keep my senses or even to 
 live. But I shall never forget what you two have 
 done for me this night. 
 
 Jack. If there is anything more in the world 
 
 Blanche. I know — you will do it. [She holds out 
 her hands as if entreating, and they go.] 
 
 [Blanche alone. She goes to the chair by the 
 fire again and sits very still with her 
 hands on her lap. Enter Servant with a 
 note. 
 
 Servant. The messenger is waiting for an answer, 
 ma'am. 
 
 Blanche. Ah ! [Rises to her feet, sees the hand- 
 writing, hurriedly reads letter, and her excitement dies 
 away. She sits againi and she says in a dull voice.] 
 Bring me the writing-pad. [Looks towards writing- 
 table. He brings it.] Come back in two minutes. 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 
 Blanche. [Reading note aloud.] "lam very happy 
 again. I told him it was your doing. I love you. — 
 Clare Vynor." [Blanche gives a long sigh. Writes. 
 The pad is on her lap.] "I am glad. Be happy 
 always." [Rest indistinct. Folds note. Servant enters] 
 Put this down, and here is the answer. 
 
 [Gives him pad and note. Exit Servant. 
 
76 A WOMAN ALONE 
 
 Blanche. [Turns to the fire, again. A long pause. 
 Puts her face in her hands. Starts, listens, as if she 
 heard something, shakes her head as if it couldrit 
 concern her. 
 
 The door behind her opens, and Richard enters and 
 hesitates. She slowly turns, sees him, and starts to her 
 ■feet.] Richard ! Rich-ard ! [She holds out her arms 
 for one minute. But he stands as if paralysed, and 
 she drops them and speaks in a voice she can hardly 
 control.] They said you had gone. 
 
 Richard. [Coldly.] I had left something behind 
 and went back — I found the note — and the rose. 
 
 [She stands scared and waiting. He doesn't 
 move. 
 
 Blanche. [At last manages to say.] And you 
 forgive ? 
 
 Richard. There was never any question of for- 
 giving between us. We have both been wrong — 
 both. I was a brute. [She shakes her head and 
 shudders as if at the remembrance.] I was going away 
 again 
 
 Blanche. [Under her breath.] But you haven't 
 gone. [Then passionately^] Oh, these years, what 
 they have been ! 
 
 Richard. I thought you were content with a life 
 of your own. 
 
 Blanche. [Shaking her head a little.] When I was 
 with you I wanted to be part of your life. [Then with 
 a burst of emotion.] . . . And to be loved — all women 
 want that — more than anything in the world. 
 
A WOMAN ALONE 77 
 
 Richard. [Under his breath.] So do men, but they 
 won't own it — or don't know it. [Pause. Almost 
 doggedly and coldly.] I took the kisses off your 
 rose. 
 
 Blanche. Oh — [She stands still staring at him, 
 paralysed. 
 
 Richard. [Goes on as if speaking half to himself.] 
 I know this — that I love you more than my life, and 
 the thing I have longed for most in the world was to 
 hold you in my arms again. 
 
 [She gives a cry of joy. They meet, and he 
 holds her close. 
 
 Blanche. And you will not go away again ? 
 
 Richard. Never without you — beloved. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
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