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HONOR 
 
 * 
 
 A Family Drama in Three Acts 
 
 ..By.. 
 
 John Franklyn Phillips 
 
 ^ 
 
 Printed by the Author in an Edition of 33 Copies 
 
 NEW YORK, 1909 
 
i 
 
HONOR 
 
 * 
 
 A Family Drama in Three Acts 
 
 ..By.. 
 
 John Franklyn Phillips 
 
 ^ 
 
 Printed by the Author in an Edition of 33 Copies / 
 
 ;tb3/ 
 
 NEW YORK, 1909 
 
T- 
 
 Copyright, 1909 
 By John Franklyn Phillips 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 LiSKARY of CONGRESS I 
 Two Cooies Reeeived | 
 
 JUN 16 m'4 
 
 CUSS Jf AAc S ■, 
 
IN 
 
 » ««, 
 
 to 
 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 
 Colonel Willlam Wendell, age 45. 
 
 Emma Wendell, his wife, age 26. 
 
 Frank Wendell, his son by an eariier marriage, 
 age 23. 
 
 Catherine Rapoint, Frank's half sister, age 25. 
 
 Paul Fallington, Emma's brother, age 28. 
 
 Augustus, the Butler. 
 
 Time: The Present. 
 
 The action of the drama takes place within four- 
 teen and one-half hours. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 The study of Colonel Wendeirs home on the north 
 shore of Long Island during the month of October. 
 Book cases, etchings and engraved portraits surround 
 the room. In front is a massive library table on zvhich 
 stands a vase filled zmth roses, an electric lamp, Shake- 
 speare and Tennyson in morocco, and current month- 
 lies. To the left are French zvindows, zvith a small 
 zwiting desk betzveen. Farther back is a door opening 
 into the hall. In the back are folding doors opening 
 into the drazving-room, zvith pedestals and busts of 
 Longfeliozv and Whittier on either side. In the right 
 corner is a leather settee. Farther front is an open fire- 
 place, and a mantel zvhich supports a large Szviss clock 
 and silver candelabra. A nezvly lighted log fire is 
 blazing on the hearth. Heavy chairs of appropriate 
 design and Persian rugs complete the furnishings. The 
 time is eight o'clock in the evening. Catherine is read- 
 ing Lord Byron's poetry by the electric lamp. Paul 
 comes to the door, stops, sees her, and comes in. 
 
 Paul. Fve been looking for you. I thought you 
 had gone upstairs with Emma. 
 
 Catherine (looking up, a little annoyed at the in- 
 terruption). No, I have been here since dinner. 
 
 Paul (moving about zvith an air of importance). 
 The Colonel has gone to meet Frank. He's in excel- 
 lent spirits because your brother's coming home to- 
 night. I sincerely hope there will be a complete recon- 
 ciliation between them. 
 
 Catherine. Perhaps. One never can tell what 
 
relation may exist between father and son nowadays. 
 They may even be . . . perfectly friendly. 
 
 Paul (taking her seriously). We must do every- 
 thing in our power to make them so. I think that is 
 one reason why the Colonel invited us here to celebrate 
 Frank's home-coming. 
 
 Catherine. Do you, indeed? Do you think he 
 is afraid of Frank? 
 
 Paul (standing still). Afraid of his own son! 
 Good heavens, no! (Walking over to the fire.) Colo- 
 nel Wendell, however, is a man who is keenly sensible 
 to domestic discord; and you know that disgraceful 
 book that Frank published after he left college caused 
 his father bitter sorrow. It was a shameful thing for 
 him to do. 
 
 Catherine "The Exital Influence of Belief in 
 Honor?" I thought it w^as a most delightful book. . . 
 It was so entirely devoid of humor. 
 
 Paul (impatiently). It was also entirely devoid 
 of a single sane idea. Nevertheless, it made Frank 
 notorious, so that his name got into the newspapers, 
 and his father had to bear the disgrace of it all. You 
 know what an untarnished name the Colonel has car- 
 ried through his political career. He is one of our 
 few statesmen whose honesty is unquestioned. 
 
 Catherine. That is very true. It has made him 
 dreadfully conspicuous. 
 
 Paul (protesting). I assure you, Catherine, you 
 should not speak lightly of your stepfather's well-de- 
 served reputation. It is dearer to him than life itself. 
 (Insistently, zvalking slozvly away from her.) As I 
 said, we must relieve any awkwardness that may arise 
 at first, and after that, natural affection will consum- 
 mate their reconciliation. 
 
 Catherine (laying her book dozvn). It is very 
 nice of you to be so interested, Paul. Very nice, in- 
 deed. Interest is so rare in these socialistic times, I 
 
am told. " But are you quite sure you are not too in- 
 considerate of the Colonel? You know his digestion 
 improved wonderfully after Frank went abroad. 
 
 Paul. Yes, in spite of the estrangement from 
 your brother ; certainly not on account of it. ( Going 
 closer to her.) Just to prove to you that the Colonel 
 has forgiven Frank, I shall tell you something in con- 
 fidence. 
 
 Catherine. Take care, Paul. I never repeat 
 things that are told to me in confidence. 
 
 Paul (missing her subtleness). Certainly not; I 
 didn't suppose you did. (Pause.) Whilst the Colonel 
 and I were playing billiards this afternoon, he told 
 me that he is going to endow a charity hospital in 
 honor of Frank's graduation from Pasteur's Institute. 
 
 Catherine (nninterestedly) . How very, very 
 kind of him ! 
 
 Paul. So you see he is not so austere as you be- 
 lieved. And, Catherine (standing beside her chair), he 
 has offered me the position of secretary. 
 
 Catherine (looking up at hint). Do you care to 
 be connected with a charity institution, Paul? Do you 
 really approve of charity ? 
 
 Paul (hurt, moving away). I certainly do. What 
 a singular question to ask of me. You know I have 
 already dedicated my life to my less fortunate brothers. 
 
 Catherine. I am so sorry. Unless you are very, 
 very careful, you may . . . actually help them. 
 
 Paul (ivith dignity). To do so is my greatest 
 wish. 
 
 Catherine. Do not say that, Paul. To help the 
 poor shows such extreme partiality. I think it is 
 much nicer to give them useless presents on Christmas. 
 
 Paul (with zvarmth). I assure you, Catherine, 
 that you are wrong. To assist those in need is the 
 loftiest mission this life has to offer. There is no joy 
 equal to the joy of relieving human suft'ering. 
 
Catherine. But how can you be a secretary of a 
 hospital and a minister of an Episcopal church at the 
 same time? 
 
 Paul (standing zvith his hack to the fire). I can- 
 not, so I have arranged to see Dr. Minn this evening 
 in regard to withdrawing from clerical activities. I 
 shan't return to Harvard this Fall. 
 
 Catherine. I am sure Dr. Minn will be very, very 
 sorry. Is he one of your friends? 
 
 Paul (less insistently). Since my father died he 
 has been my best friend. It was through his in- 
 fluence that I went to Harvard as a theological stu- 
 dent. Don't you remember the Doctor? 
 
 Catherine. Yes, indeed. I remember him very 
 well. He was much displeased because I would not 
 join the church, and he said my father was a pagan. 
 He was quite right. 
 
 Paul. He is a gentleman of the old school, Cath • 
 erine, with decidedly orthodox views ; but he has a big, 
 manly heart, I assure you — a man of high ideals. 
 
 Catherine. I cannot disbelieve it. He used to 
 impress me as being so manly that I always felt an un- 
 speakable satisfaction in being feminine. 
 
 Paul (turning tozvard her). And you are no less 
 womanly than he is manly, notwithstanding you please 
 to be cynical. 
 
 Catherine. Paul. — You do me a great injustice. 
 We have not seen each other in two years until we ar- 
 rived here this morning. Consequently, you are par- 
 donable. But please never, never call me womanly 
 again. I am a woman ; yes. But a womanly woman — ! 
 Ah, how could you think I had fallen so low ! 
 
 Paul (more gravely). I wish you would not be 
 facetious just now, Catherine. I have something seri- 
 ous to say to you. 
 
 Catherine (divining his intention, getting up and 
 walking over to the fire). I am too old to be serious, 
 
 8 
 
Paul. It is too much to ask of me. I have passed my 
 twenty-fifth year. 
 
 Paul {reflectively). True, and I have passed my 
 twenty-eighth. 
 
 Catherine {with enchanting placidity). Is it not 
 deHghtful to grow old, Paul ? As one advances in life 
 one loses the reasonableness of youth, the dull reason- 
 ableness that makes life so intolerable. I believe I 
 know less and less as each year goes by. 
 
 Paul {unwittingly permitting her to divert him 
 from zvhat he intended to say). Believe me; that is an 
 utter impossibility. 
 
 Catherine {zvith lyrical cadence). Ah, Paul! 
 You are so discouraging. You are very discouraging. 
 I devote three hours every day to forgetting what I 
 already know. To do so, I think, shows great sym- 
 pathy with the higher classes. 
 
 Paul {tantalised). Don't you ever get tired of 
 all that flippancy, Catherine? 
 
 Catherine. Yes — positively exhausted. Some- 
 times I even try to be clever, but it is extremely danger- 
 ous. I am so often . . . entirely understood. {Patd 
 vigorously pokes the fire in exasperation. Emma 
 comes in.) 
 
 Emma. It's time they were here. I hope Frank 
 hasn't given up coming to-night. 
 
 Paul. Oh, no ! Had he done so he would have 
 telephoned again. Probably the train is delayed. By 
 the way, I must let Dr. Minn know that we shall be a 
 little late. Excuse me. {He goes out.) 
 
 Catherine. Paul has developed into such a gen- 
 tlemanly fellow, has he not, dear? So very, very nice, 
 and filled with such nice ideals. He is a most mar- 
 riageable man. 
 
 Emma {zi;ho takes everything that Catherine says 
 good-naturedly; drawing a chair to the other end of the 
 
table and sitting doztm). Yes, I think so; and I believe 
 he already intends to marry, too. 
 
 Catherine. Do you, indeed? I am so glad. I 
 was afraid he might do something serious. 
 
 Emma. Serious? What do you mean by that? 
 
 Catherine. He is so interested in domestic poli- 
 tics and brotherly love. I was afraid he might join 
 the Woman Suffrage Movement. 
 
 Emma. Do you call that serious? 
 
 Catherine. Yes. It is the most trivial thing in 
 existence. 
 
 Emma. But while we were at school, dear, you 
 were a staunch defender of the rights of women. 
 
 Catherine {sitting at the desk). Ah, the rights of 
 women ; yes. I still stand for the rights of women, 
 Emma. If we were only allowed equal rights we 
 would lessen our power a great, great deal. We have 
 too fine an instinct not to oppose all feminine suprem- 
 acy. It is the men who thrust responsibilities upon us. 
 
 Emma. Men! Catherine! You know nothing 
 about them. They are not as easily understood as we 
 used to suppose. 
 
 Catherine. Of course not, dear. That is their 
 chief charm. If we understood them we should pardon 
 all their faults, and then they would desert us entirely. 
 
 Emma (laughingly). Oh, come, come, Catherine. 
 You're merely talking for the sake of being clever, just 
 as you did at school. (Smiling triumphantly.) But 
 I'm a real married woman now. 
 
 Catherine (changing her tone). Have you, then, 
 found marriage so successful, so charming, so thor- 
 oughly satisfactory? (Emma zvinccs. Pause.) You 
 know% dear, I have not seen you since your wedding. 
 
 Emma (equivocally) . I really haven't had time to 
 decide as yet. It's all so strange. 
 
 Catherine. But at least you have not been dis- 
 appointed?? 
 
 10 
 
Emma (hesitatingly). N-n-no. Your stepfather 
 has been very kind and good to me. 
 
 Catherine. You know, Emma, you always said 
 that if you miarried a man with whom you were un- 
 happy, you would leave him without the slightest com- 
 punction. I used to think it was so bold of you. 
 
 Emma (seriously). Yes; and I say so yet. With- 
 out love and happiness any bond would be intolerable. 
 I would never be ruled by custom to — (starting). 
 Hark! Didn't I hear the auto? ... I thought I 
 heard the horn. (They listen.) 
 
 Catherine. I think not. . . . Then your expecta- 
 tions have been realized? 
 
 Emma (as a zi'oinan of experience). Yes. That is, 
 I am satisfied. But what one expects during the en- 
 gagement, and what one discovers after the ceremony, 
 I'm convinced, are never the same. 
 
 Catherine (rising). Ah, but would you have it 
 otherwise? Would you deny people at least one great 
 surprise in life? 
 
 Emma. Then you still hold your old cynical views 
 on marriage? 
 
 Catherine. No, indeed. I abandoned them long 
 ago. Cynicism is extremely shallow, dear, and very, 
 very vulgar. I seldom think about marriage now. 
 It is such a hackneyed theme. Even philosophical peo- 
 ple have opinions about it. (She sits dozvn by the tire.) 
 
 Emma. You're hopeless, Catherine. You're as 
 hopeless as Frank was when he wrote that impossible 
 book. 
 
 Catherine. You and Frank were very friendly 
 at the time, were you not, dear? (Emma blushes.) 
 
 Emma. We've always been friendly. You, and 
 Paul, and Frank and I grew up like brothers and 
 sisters. (Sadly.) It seems like only yesterday since 
 we used to romp in the fields and play hide-and-go-seek 
 
 II 
 
in the stable. Don't you wish we were children again, 
 Catherine ? 
 
 Catherine. No ... I do not. Childhood is so 
 uncompromising. 
 
 Emma (rising, continuing without thought of Cath- 
 erine's reply). Ah, but how we enjoyed life then! 
 Every minute was a long holiday. And then, when you 
 used to come home to visit your mother, and Frank and 
 Paul and I came to spend our Christmas vacation with 
 you — wasn't it glorious ! The skating and the coast- 
 ing— ! (Reflectively.) Little did I think then that I 
 should some day be mistress of this house. 
 
 Catherine. Really? I always anticipated it. I 
 quite expected it. Though I did not think you would 
 be Mrs. William Wendell. 
 
 Emma (coloring) . Oh, you mean Frank. Child- 
 hood love affairs seldom come to anything. 
 
 Catherine. That is why I expected it. Only 
 the 
 
 Emma. Listen! (An approaching automobile is 
 heard.) There they are! 
 
 Paul (coming in). Frank is here. His father 
 must have missed him, as he came in a hack. (Emma 
 goes to the zvindoiv and drazifs the curtain. Catherine 
 rises. ) 
 
 Emma. And here comes liis father. (Excitedly.) 
 I'm so glad Frank has con:ie. 
 
 Paul. He doesn't know about the dinner, does he ? 
 
 Emma. No. It is to be a surprise. 
 
 Catherine. Ah, yes; I had quite forgotten the 
 dmner. I do hope you will give me poached eggs 
 and milk, as usual, dear. Course dinners have become 
 so commonplace nowadays that even the most fastid- 
 ious people eat them. 
 
 Emma (still at the zvindow). Certainly, if you 
 wish. They're coming in now. 
 
 A Voice (in hall). I'm sorry I missed you, Frank. 
 
 12 
 
The spark gave out just before I reached the station. 
 (Paul starts toward the door. Catherine and Emma 
 follow. Frank and the Colonel enter.) 
 
 Paul. Welcome home, old fellow ! 
 
 Frank (as they shake hands). This is a surprise. 
 I'm glad to see you, Paul. And you here, too, Cath- 
 
 erme 
 
 Catherine. How do you do, Frank? 
 
 Frank {seeing Emma). Why, Emma! {Taking 
 both her hands; to the Colonel.) I had no idea you 
 had assembled a party. {To Emma.) When did you 
 come? 
 
 Colonel. Didn't you get my letter about the wed- 
 ding? 
 
 Frank {turning towards him). No. What wed- 
 ding? 
 
 Emma {soniezvhat confused). I have been here 
 six months, Frank. You must call me mother now. 
 
 Frank {as the truth dazvns on him; trying to con- 
 ceal his agitation). Oh! Have you — have you mar- 
 ried my father? 
 
 Colonel {annoyed). Yes. I wrote to you last 
 April, before the wedding, saying Miss Fallington and 
 I were to be married. 
 
 Fra-nk {recovering himself). I didn't get it. Last 
 April I went to Venice, but all my mail was forwarded 
 to Rome, so that I received no letters at all. 
 
 Colonel. That explains it, then. I could not un- 
 derstand why you had not replied. 
 
 Paul {reassuringly). It has turned out just as 
 well. Frank has been all the more pleasantly surprised. 
 Haven't you, old fellow? 
 
 Frank {sardonically). Oh, of course. Very 
 pleasantly surprised. 
 
 Colonel {sitting down). Well, Frank; it's good 
 to have you back again. Moreover, I'm glad to hear 
 you obtained your diploma with honors. I heard, in- 
 
 13 
 
directly, through the Vice-President, that you had done 
 very brilliant work as a bacteriologist. (Catherine and 
 Emma sit down.) 
 
 Frank. Yes, I got through the course all right. 
 
 Paul. So now you are a full-fledged doctor. 1 
 suppose you can begin to practice at once? 
 
 Frank. Yes, I passed the state examination before 
 I left. But I've almost decided to give up medicine. 
 
 Paul (expostulating). Believe me, you must not 
 think of that. 
 
 Frank (with surprise, seating himself). Why not? 
 
 Colonel. What else would you take up, instead? 
 
 Frank. I am thinking of giving my entire atten- 
 -tion to biology. 
 
 Paul. But that kind of work is practically with- 
 out remuneration, Frank. 
 
 Frank. I know it. 
 
 Paul. And surely you wouldn't be satisfied unless 
 you earned your living, even if you are financially in- 
 dependent ? 
 
 Frank. Yes, I would. To earn one's own Hving 
 is no guarantee of one's usefulness to society. 
 
 Paul (desperately attempting to prevent him from 
 upsetting the Colonel's plans). Excuse me for saying 
 so, old fellow, but living on one's income is very close 
 to parasitism. 
 
 Catherine. Of course, Paul, Frank should not 
 neglect his idling. I think there are far too many 
 people earning their own living nowadays. It shows 
 such an aristocratic desire for personal ease. It is a 
 great, great deal more difficult to do nothing at all. 
 (Frank smiles.) 
 
 Frank. I did not exactly mean that, Catherine. 
 I don't consider scientific work to be a waste of time. 
 
 Catherine. Even so, it would give you an op- 
 portunity to do marvelous things. You might discover 
 that Adam and Eve were really most virtuous ances- 
 
 14 
 
tors, after all. It would be such a comfort to be as- 
 sured that morals are declining. 
 
 Colonel. Hm ! Hm ! Do just as you please, 
 Frank, but it is hardly judicious to spend six years of 
 your life in fitting yourself for a profession, and then 
 to abandon it without a trial. J\Ien rarely succeed who 
 adopt that course. 
 
 Frank. Fm sorry if you are displeased. As yet 
 I have not determined on anything definite. 
 
 Colonel. Well, you are of age now, and must de- 
 cide for yourself. However, I wish to advise you 
 whenever you have anything important under consid- 
 eration. We shall talk about it later. 
 
 Emma (to the Colonel). Frank knows nothing 
 about the dinner to-morrow. Perhaps he will change 
 his mind in the meantime. 
 
 Frank. What dinner is that? 
 
 Colonel. A dinner your stepmother is giving in 
 honor of your birthday. We had planned it as a sur- 
 prise, but, as she has mentioned it herself, I may as 
 well tell you. 
 
 Paul (looking at his n^atch). By the way, Colonel, 
 it's half-past eight. Hadn't we better start for the 
 rectory ? 
 
 Colonel (rising). By George, that's so! I had 
 forgotten all about it. 
 
 Paul. I must apologize, Frank, for carrying your 
 father off this way. We didn't expect you until to- 
 morrow, and I made an engagement for this evening 
 that we cannot very well break. You'll excuse us, 
 won't you? 
 
 Frank (zvJw has risen). Certainly. By all means. 
 
 Colonel. Anything you want, Frank — cigars or 
 anything else — call Augustus. 
 
 Frank. Thanks. (They go out. Frank is occu- 
 pied zvith his ozvn thoughts.) Business engagement, I 
 
 suppose ? 
 
 15 
 
Emma. Yes, and you are concerned, too. 
 
 Frank (coming out of Iris reverie). I am con- 
 cerned? In what way? 
 
 Emma. I mustn't tell you now. It's a secret until 
 to-morrow. . . . Your father will tell you then. 
 
 Frank. Oh, I see. (Pause. As an idea comes to 
 him. ) Catherine, I brought a French translation of the 
 verses you wrote in Paris. 
 
 Catherine. That was very kind of you, indeed. 
 Have you it with you? 
 
 Frank. Yes, I have it in my suit-case. (He goes 
 out and comes back immediately imth a traveling bag, 
 zvhich he opens.) Here it is. (He takes out a small 
 volume and hands it to her.) 
 
 Catherine (turning the pages). Thank you, 
 Frank. Thank you very much. Did you translate the 
 verses yourself? 
 
 Frank. Yes. You undoubtedly want to read 
 them at once, so don't let me detain you. 
 
 Catherine. I should like to read them (she starts 
 to go out). 
 
 Emma (fearfully) . But surely they will keep until 
 to-morrow, dear. We haven't seen Frank for an awfully 
 long time, so let's have a talk before the men get back. 
 
 Catherine. Aside from the verses, Emma, I have 
 some very, very pressing notes to write. Detestable 
 task, writing social notes. 
 
 Frank. I thought you never wrote them ? 
 
 Catherine (as she is leaving the room). I merely 
 do it for intellectual discipline. I find it so much easier 
 to write transcendental philosophy afterwards. 
 
 Frank (facing Emma, looking straight at her, and 
 speaking slowly, in a lowered tone). How could you 
 do it, Emma ? How could you do it ? 
 
 Emma (angrily). You had no right to send Cath- 
 erine out of the room like that. What will she think? 
 
 Frank. I didn't send her out, but I do want to 
 
 i6 
 
talk to you. I never was so astounded in my life as 
 when you told me you were my stepmother. 
 
 Emma. I don't know why you should be. Why 
 shouldn't I marry your father? (He shuts the door.) 
 
 Frank (forcefully). Emma! do you ask me that? 
 You — the one girl whom I have idolized all my life? 
 (She zvavers.) You (ivith a change of tone) — you 
 never really cared for me? Our companionship was 
 nothing more to you than a mere flirtation ? 
 
 Emma (moved). For Heaven's sake, don't go on 
 like that, Frank. You know that is not so. 
 
 Fr.\nk (rapidly zvalking about). Then why have 
 you done this ? Why did you forsake me in this way ? 
 
 Emma. I didn't forsake you. Don't call it that, 
 Frank. 
 
 Frank. Then what do you call it? 
 
 Emma. You were the one who left me. During 
 the two years you were gone you wrote to me only three 
 times, and not in one letter did you 
 
 Frank (interrupting). I seldom write letters. 
 You know I have always considered it a waste of time. 
 I have been working, Emma, working hard, and I 
 expected you to share the results of what I had done. 
 
 Emma. You never said anything definite, Frank; 
 you never did. Of course, as children we promised to 
 marry, but I attached no importance to that. 
 
 Frank. I never formally proposed to you, because 
 I didn't suppose it was necessary. All our lives we 
 have been constant comrades. (Gloomily.) Your 
 feelings toward me must have changed. 
 Emma. Why do you say so? 
 
 Frank. Because there can be no other explanation. 
 (With painful emotion.) Great God! How could you 
 be what you have been to me and then do this? 
 (Brokenly, dropping into a chair.) Emma! Emma! 
 I can't understand why you did it. (Short silence.) 
 
 Emma (moving toward the settee). Do you really 
 
 17 
 
want to know? Do you want me to forget my pride 
 and tell you the most humiliating event in my life? 
 
 Frank (staring in front of him). I can't compre- 
 hend it. 
 
 Emma {quietly). Very well; I will tell you. 
 
 Frank {looking up). What? 
 
 Emma. Since my father's death our family has 
 been in actual want. Although Paul did not know it, 
 miOther and I went without coal last winter to pay his 
 college tuition. 
 
 Frank {springing up). You, Emma — in want — ! 
 You married for money ! 
 
 Emma {zvith pride). I did not marry for money, 
 Frank. I married for bread. 
 
 Frank. Wouldn't anyone loan you money? 
 Couldn't you have written to me? 
 
 Emma {turning away). No, I could not beg. 
 
 Frank. To me it wouldn't have been necessary. . . 
 {Walking about.) And now we are in a pretty mess. 
 {He becomes lost in thought. Short silence.) 
 
 Emma {sadly). Oh — Frank! 
 
 Frank {quickly). What? 
 
 Emma {startled). Nothing. I was just thinking . . 
 
 Frank {pressing her). What were you thinking? 
 
 Emma {relapsing into resignation). Nothing, 
 nothing ... no matter. 
 
 Frank {as one who has come to a resolution; walks 
 over and stands squarely in front of her, compellingly). 
 Do you or do you not love me, Emma ? Do you or do 
 you not care for me as I care for you? Answer me. 
 
 Emma. Yes; but it's too late now. We 
 
 must make the best of it, Frank. We can at least be 
 old comrades again. 
 
 Frank {with decision). No, it is not too late. 
 We love each other — that is enough. 
 
 Emma {turning pale). Frank! What do 
 
 you mean ? 
 
 i8 
 
Frank. I mean you have said you love me, and I 
 love you, and (hoarsely) I want you. 
 
 Emma (greatly agitated). Are you mad? I'm 
 your father's wife ! Stop ! Frank. What are you 
 saying ? 
 
 Frank (zmth somezvhat less vehemence) . What is 
 my father to me? Fve scarcely lived three months 
 with him in ten years. 
 
 Emma. You must never talk that way to me 
 again. (Also, more calmly.) Your father intends 
 to do great things for you. 
 
 Frank (moving up and dozmi the room). Vm not 
 interested in what he intends to do for me. I want 
 nothing from him. I don't want to talk about him. 
 (Violently.) Why should I be awed by the name of 
 father ? 
 
 Emma. Do, for mercy's sake, stop such talk, or — 
 (He looks at her piercingly.) Frank! don't look at 
 me like that. 
 
 Frank (sits dozvn, speaking slozvly and lugubri- 
 ously). Can you guess what I thought when I left 
 Paris ten days ago? 
 
 Emma (standing by the table, zifearily). No. 
 
 Frank (gating blankly at the floor, continuing). 
 I thought I was coming home to marry the girl I 
 loved ... the little girl that loved me. 
 
 Emma (touched). You thought you were coming 
 home to marry me? ... If you had said something 
 before you went away . . . 
 
 Frank (rising). If! If! If! (He throzvs him- 
 self on the settee. Emma goes over and puts her hand 
 on his shoulder.) 
 
 Emma. Poor Frank! 
 
 Frank. How are we going to act toward each 
 other in the future? Do you expect me to call you 
 (sardonically) mother? 
 
 Emma. Not when we are alone. Then we — I sup- 
 
 19 
 
pose we shall act as we always have. But when your 
 father is present, maybe it would be better. 
 
 Frank (rising). So — you are not even free to 
 acknowledge your name. 
 
 Emma (walking azi^ay). No, that isn't it; but you 
 do owe something to your father, Frank. Remember, 
 he is your father. 
 
 Frank. I shall not forget that. He has come be- 
 tween me 
 
 Emma (interrupting). And you blame him? Do 
 you suppose he knew anything about us ? 
 
 Frank. No. I blame you — not him. 
 
 Emma. You — are right, Frank, but 
 
 Frank. I suppose you mean that I should spare 
 you all reproaches. Did you spare yourself? or me? 
 
 Emma. Perhaps not; and isn't that all the more 
 reason why you should be kind to me now? Until 
 to-night I have not been utterly wretched. 
 
 Frank. You were satisfied to marry my father? 
 
 Emma. As satisfied, I think, as the average wom- 
 an is. I have (A knock.) 
 
 Frank (in a zvhisper). Who is it? 
 
 Emma. Augustus. Come in. (Augustus enters.) 
 
 Augustus. Do you wish the partridges for break- 
 fast, ma'am ? 
 
 Emma. Yes ; broiled. 
 
 Augustus. Thank you, ma'am. (He' goes out and 
 closes the door.) 
 
 Emma. You see, Frank, I have things to do. We 
 must stop this dreaming. 
 
 Frank. Great God ! Emma — do you think a man's 
 affection is like a coat, that he can put on and yank 
 off at will ? 
 
 Emma. No, I don't suppose it is. But in the 
 meantime who is to attend to this house? 
 
 Frank (with anger). Very well. If Vvn a sec- 
 ondary consideration to a well-kept household I will 
 
 20 
 
not trouble you further. (Starting to go.) I will leave 
 to-morrow on the nine o'clock train. 
 
 Emma (stopping hun). Frank! No! You mustn't 
 say that. You — must not do it ! 
 
 Frank (^3- the door). So you wish me to remain 
 here, as a nice, dutiful stepson? 
 
 Emma (close to him). I cannot bear to have you 
 angry with me, Frank. But what else can we do ? 
 
 Frank (coming back to the table). Nothing, un- 
 less you will help me. And if not, and you really care 
 for me, you will find this is only the prelude to a life 
 of unending regret. 
 
 Emma (in a strained voice) . Then you will make 
 it so. 
 
 Frank. No. I would make it bright and happy. 
 I would learn with you the joy of the fullness of life. 
 
 Emma (zcith half -closed eyes). If I will give in 
 to you and be untrue 
 
 Frank (internipting) . Don't go all over that 
 moral nonsense again, Emma. You know you don't 
 feel it. 
 
 Emma. But what will people say if 
 
 Frank. Ah, you're afraid? 
 
 Emma (frankly). Yes, I am afraid. How could 
 I bear dishonor? 
 
 Frank (misunderstanding her). But it's not dis- 
 honorable. It is fulfilHng the dictates of nature. 
 
 Emma. Yes, yes, I know. You would go free. 
 But me, Frank; think of the position I would be in 
 if 
 
 Frank (realizing that he is victorious) . I'll at- 
 tend to that. You'll come, then — you will trust your- 
 self to me. (She nods. He takes her in his arms.) 
 Emma! Emma! (Hurriedly.) I will see my father 
 to-morrow and tell him we are going to the city. There 
 we can decide where to go. Say no more about it. 
 
 Emma (apprehensively) . But (Paul comes in. 
 
 21 
 
As the door opens they hastily separate, but not before 
 Paul has caught a glimpse of Emma in Frank's em- 
 brace.) Oh, Paul! how you startled me! 
 
 Frank (trying to conceal his excitement). Was 
 Minn out? 
 
 Paul (ignoring what he has seen). No; we ran 
 out of oil. Believe me, I hope I'm not intruding? 
 
 Emma (as she puts a book in the bookcase). Why, 
 Paul ! What a funny thing to say. Where's the 
 Colonel ? 
 
 Paul. Your husband became very angry at the 
 chauffeur and had a sinking spell. He is lying on his 
 couch. 
 
 Frank. A sinking spell ! 
 
 Emma. It's his heart. He's had them before, but 
 the doctor says they're not serious. The anger is what 
 did it. 
 
 Frank. I shall see if I can do anything for him. 
 He may need some medicine. (He goes out. Emma 
 starts to follozi*.) 
 
 Paul. Er — Emma. (She stops.) I see you and 
 Frank got along very nicely whilst we were away. 
 
 Emma (slightly embarrassed). Yes. We were 
 talking about German literature, and Frank was de- 
 scribing a thrilling scene from Sudermann's Regina 
 just as you came in. I'm going upstairs now. (On 
 her zi'ay out.) It's getting late. Remember, unless it 
 rains we're going fishing at seven o'clock. Aren't you 
 going to bed? 
 
 Paul (sitting down at the table). I shall wait for 
 Frank. 
 
 Emma. Oh, I wouldn't wait for him. He must 
 be tired after his trip, and if you keep him up to-night 
 he won't want to get up in the morning. 
 
 Paul (picking up a magazine). I shall be up 
 directly. (She goes out.) 
 
 22 
 
ACT II. 
 
 The same room next morning. The curtains, which 
 were closed last night, are nozij drawn. Through the 
 windows can be seen a heavy rain storm, zvhile the 
 moaning of the wind is occasionally heard. Augustus 
 is making a fire on the hearth. Frank, with muddy 
 trousers and disordered dress, comes in. He acts like 
 a man in a trance, and plainly shozi's that he is men- 
 tally upset. 
 
 Augustus. Good-morning, Mr. Frank. 
 
 Frank (in a hollow voice). Good-morning. 
 
 Augustus. Your father, sir, was wondering why 
 you had not eaten breakfast. 
 
 Frank. Has breakfast been served? What time 
 is it? 
 
 Augustus. Yes, sir. Half past eight. 
 
 Frank. Has Miss Fall Has Mrs. Wendell 
 
 come down yet? 
 
 Augustus. No, sir. She had breakfast served in 
 her room. 
 
 Fra-nk (to himself). Oh! 
 
 Augustus. Beg pardon, Mr. Frank? 
 
 Frank. Nothing. (He sits dozvn, and becomes 
 oblivious to his surroundings. Catherine enters dressed 
 for riding.) 
 
 Catherine. Ah ! good morning, Frank. (Augus- 
 tus, who has lighted the fire, goes out.) Your father 
 fears your unpunctuality to breakfast may cause com- 
 ment in the kitchen. Servants are so hypercritical now- 
 adays. Where have you been? 
 
 23 
 
Frank (rising, momentarily pulling himself to- 
 gether). Out for a walk. I'm not hungry. 
 
 Catherine. Frank, you are in an unpardonable 
 condition. Look at yourself. It is an error in dress to 
 appear that way before ten o'clock in the evening. It 
 does not make the slightest impression to be unkempt 
 in the morning. Nearly every one is unkempt in the 
 morning. (Looks at him closer; more gravely.) You 
 are in pain, Frank. You are in mental pain. (Frank 
 walks to and fro. Catherine pauses sympathetically.) 
 Can I help you? 
 
 Frank. No; I'm afraid not. 
 
 Catherine. I did help you once, Frank. 
 
 Frank (affectionately). Yes, I was a foolish boy 
 then .... but now the case is different. 
 
 Catherine. Yesterday I expected that this morn- 
 ing I should have a long, long talk with you. I thought 
 we would talk to one another as we did during the 
 evenings in Paris. I did not think you were coming 
 home to be unhappy. 
 
 Frank (stopping). No; nor did I. Where are 
 the rest? 
 
 Catherine. Your father and Paul are at the 
 breakfast table. Emma has not come down. She says 
 she has a severe headache. 
 
 Frank (appealingly). You will understand me, 
 Catherine. You have always been more than a sister 
 to me. Before I went away 
 
 Catherine. Yes ; I know all about it, Frank. 
 
 Frank (astonished). You know? Has Emma 
 told you? 
 
 Catherine (smiling at his ^idivete as she seats her- 
 self by the table). No, indeed. Emma has not told 
 me. Emma is not the kind of a woman to take me into 
 her confidence. She is very, very reticent. 
 
 Frank. How do you know, then? 
 
 Catherine. I feel, Frank. I am a woman. Did 
 
 24 
 
you not think I knew you wished me to leave the room 
 last night? 
 
 Frank. You were right. 
 
 Catherine. And did you not know I divined 
 your intentions? 
 
 Frank. No. 
 
 Catherine. My dear Frank, you are so unsophis- 
 ticated. A sister sees her brother completely upset by 
 the news of a woman's marriage. The woman's hus- 
 band and the brother go out to keep an engagement. 
 The brother of the observing sister offers her a book 
 and tells her not to let him detain her. She withdraws. 
 What do you think she would think? 
 
 Frank {zvalking about). You seem to be always 
 right, Catherine. . . She has consented to go with me. 
 
 Catherine (r/V/^o-). Openly? She has consented 
 to go with you openly? 
 
 Frank (stops). Yes. 
 
 Catherine. Are you sure? Are you quite, quite 
 sure? 
 
 Frank (annoyed). Haven't I said so? Why 
 should she lie about it? 
 
 Catherine. If it will afford you any joy, I am 
 very, very glad. (Resting her hand on his shoidder.) 
 You are one of the few that are really akin to me, 
 Frank. When do you go? 
 
 Frank (commencing to zvalk again more rapidly). 
 That's the trouble. I don't know whether I shall go or 
 not. This blood curdling relation to my father! (Less 
 vehemently.) I have never considered myself vacillat- 
 ing, and yet I hesitate. 
 
 Catherine. Are you restrained by duty? Are 
 you restrained by a sense of filial honor? 
 
 Frank. You know I am too advanced for that. 
 No ; it is my superior intellect that allows me even to 
 consider action. (To himself.) Was a man ever 
 placed in such a situation ! 
 
 25 
 
Catherine. You are speaking of what makes you 
 hesitate, are you not, Frank? 
 
 Frank (gloomily). Yes. 
 
 Catherine. I do not know the cause of that. 
 There are some things that even women can not divine. 
 
 Frank (hastily). I had forgotten. I have not 
 told you. Last night my father became very angry at 
 the chauffeur and had an attack of heart dilatation. He 
 has been subject to these attacks for over a year. 
 
 Catherine, Ah, he has heart trouble? 
 
 Frank. Yes ; his heart is in bad shape. 
 
 Catherine. I did not know it. Neither he nor 
 Paul mentioned the fact at breakfast. 
 
 Frank. It seems he's very sensitive about having 
 it discussed. 
 
 Catherine. Now I understand why you hesitate. 
 The shock might be serious ? 
 
 Frank. Exactly. It might kill him instantly. 
 Now you see the situation. 
 
 Catherine (unimpressed). Yes. 
 
 Frank. I dreamed last night that I told him the 
 whole affair; how poverty had forced her to accept 
 his offer of marriage. 
 
 Catherine. Ah ! 
 
 Frank (contimting). He drew a revolver, but be- 
 fore he could shoot he fell dead at my feet. Then his 
 corpse immediately arose, and that stark, cold, stiff 
 thing followed me whenever I moved. He always 
 seemed about to say : "Dishonored. Dishonored. Dis- 
 honored." God, it was horrible ! 
 
 Catherine. Dreams usually are unpleasant. In 
 dreams the worst invariably occurs. But surely a 
 dream could not influence you, could it, Frank? 
 
 Frank (shuddering). It was horrible! It is hor- 
 rible to think about. ... To give her up or perhaps 
 be my father's murderer. 
 
 Catherine (standing with her hack to the writing 
 
 26 
 
desk). To hesitate is to experience twofold agony 
 . . . and it is dangerous. He who hesitates is in dan- 
 ger of succumbing to reason. It is much better to 
 yield or to act at once. 
 
 Frank. I know it ; and I'm trying to make up my 
 mind which to do. (Going to her.) You, Catherine, 
 are my friend and my sister. To me you have always 
 resembled a Greek goddess. You look upon men and 
 women as mere dogs and cats. What would you do 
 in my place ? 
 
 Catherine. ]\Iy dear Frank: compared with the 
 average woman I am a goddess. Compared with the 
 woman even a little above the average, I am a god- 
 dess. Still, I can not advise you. I can not put my- 
 self in your place. You are one individual ; I am an- 
 other. You must do it all yourself. You must be a 
 god or you must be a man. Gods, from of old, have 
 done their will. Man, on the contrary, has usually sub- 
 mitted to custom. To will and do is godly. To con- 
 template and submit is manly. The occasion calls upon 
 you to make a choice. 
 
 Frank {moving about). Then I must either put 
 myself on record as the most monstrous fiend that ever 
 lived, or acknowledge to myself that I am a weakling 
 and a coward. 
 
 Catherine. Precisely. Although to be consid- 
 ered a monstrous fiend is not so bad after all. It 
 usually signifies that one has not been found out. To 
 be found out — to expose one's weakness — is the great- 
 est tragedy. It uncovers one's delicate soul to the 
 vandalism of the multitude. 
 
 Frank. Maybe it does, Catherine. But I can not 
 dissemble. I simply can't do it. There is no use in 
 my trying to wear a mask or {He stops.) 
 
 Catherine. I find I am compelled to wear a 
 mask. I must mask my personality in order to live. I 
 must conceal myself in order to live among my friends. 
 
 27 
 
Frank (despondently). Yes, you do it success- 
 fully, and I almost envy you. But I simply can't do it. 
 If I could I should consider a liaison. But how could 
 1 then speak to my father again! 
 
 Catherine. You are too noble to do that, Frank. 
 Needless deception is unworthy of you. At the same 
 time, I warn you not to show your feelings too plainly. 
 {Meditatively.) . . . Are you quite sure Emma is 
 worthy of the youth which you are going to give her? 
 Are you sure you are not forming a mesalliance? 
 
 Frank (incensed). Yes. At least I think Vm 
 capable of deciding whom I want. 
 
 Catherine ( grace f idly balancing herself on the 
 arm of a chair). I did not mean to cast a reflection 
 on Emma. I admire her extremely. I did not think 
 she had sufficient courage to yield to you. For you, 
 Frank, she is sacrificing a great, great deal. She is a 
 girl who has always held in the highest esteem all the 
 conventional values of life. 
 
 Frank. I know it, and she is waiting for me to 
 make the necessary arrangements. I told her I would 
 see my father to-day. If I fail to keep my promise 
 now she will despise me. 
 
 Catherine. Does she know about the condition 
 of his heart? Does she know that the shock might be 
 serious ? 
 
 Frank (recoiling). I had almost forgotten that 
 myself. No, she does not. (Sarcastically.) His doc- 
 tor assured her there was not the slightest danger from 
 the attacks. 
 
 Catherine. And do you realize that by telling 
 your father you would be in danger? Have you for- 
 gotten that in his youth he killed a man? Have you 
 forgotten that in his youth he killed a man for insulting 
 your grandmother? 
 
 Frank. Yes. I had: but 
 
Catherine (reflectively). The publicity it gave 
 him was the commencement of his pohtical career. 
 
 Frank. I am not concerned for myself; but dare 
 I risk being the murderer of him who gave me life? 
 ( Walks about clenching and wringing his hands.) Oh, 
 God I Catherine ! That thought nearly drives me out 
 of my mind. 
 
 Catherine (calmly). You are the author of a 
 book, Frank. A book that denies the existence of 
 honor. Are you afraid of your own conclusions? 
 
 Frank (almost in a zvhisper). You would have 
 me tell him? 
 
 Catherine. I would have you do what you will, 
 
 Frank — or, rather, I would have you do what you can. 
 
 Frank. But honor is one thing, and playing with 
 
 a father's life is another. I can not feel that they are 
 
 the same. (Pause.) 
 
 Catherine. Would it not lessen the risk if you 
 waited a little while? If you waited a few days would 
 he not be stronger than he is now? 
 
 Frank. No ; there is no more danger now than 
 there would be at any future time. 
 
 Catherine. Then you are not sure that the dis- 
 closure will do him any harm? 
 
 Frank. I can tell nothing about it. It might not 
 — and then it might snuff him out like that. (Snaps 
 his fingers. Sardonically, pacing in front of the fire- 
 place.) Joyful home coming! As you would say, ''A 
 very, very delightful family reunion." . . . And then, 
 to make matters worse, Paul surprised us last night. 
 He evidently suspects the truth. 
 
 Catherine. Ah! Did he overhear you? Did he 
 overhear what was said? 
 
 Frank. No, but he saw us very close to each 
 other. 
 
 Catherine. How did that happen? 
 
 29 
 
Frank. He came upon ns unawares. But that 
 does not matter, as he knows nothing with certainty. 
 
 Catherine. Still, you say he suspects? 
 
 Frank. Yes. 
 
 Catherine. Then he is sure to do something. 
 You know he has ideals. Ideals are dangerous. Ideals 
 are exital. 
 
 Frank. He wouldn't dare to interfere 
 
 Catherine. But you are thinking of interfering 
 with your father, Frank. Why should Paul not inter- 
 fere with you? 
 
 Frank. Do you consider what I thought of doing 
 to be as contemptible as for Paul to interfere with 
 Emma and me? 
 
 Catherine. No, indeed. Your interference would 
 be actuated by desire. Desire is natural. Desire is 
 healthy. It signifies growth and development. Paul's 
 interference would be actuated by the ideal of duty. 
 Duty is a faith that is hostile to life. Duty is a belief 
 that all men should act alike. Those who are possessed 
 by the idea are like insane men with a life-sucking 
 passion. They would (Paul enters.) 
 
 Paul {to Catherine). The groom has a horse 
 saddled at the door. Surely you are not going to ride 
 on a morning like this. It's pouring rain. 
 
 Catherine (in her usual tone). Yes, Paul. I 
 have a non-shrinkable riding habit. It was miade in 
 Paris. In France they make much better clothes than 
 in America. {To Frank.) I shall be back in half an 
 hour. {She goes out.) 
 
 Paul {unth marked deUberation) . I waited to 
 see you last night, but you did not come back. 
 
 Frank {vainly trying to appear indifferent) . No, 
 I went to bed. 
 
 Paul {facing him zvith constrained equanimity). 
 Believe me, Frank, I shall not enjoy what I have to 
 say. Nevertheless, I must have a talk with you. 
 
 30 
 
Frank {slightly trembles, sits dozvn to conceal his 
 agitation). I am at your disposal. 
 
 Paul, You are doubtless aware that I found you 
 and my sister in rather an unseemly attitude last night. 
 I should like to have you tell me what it meant. 
 
 Frank {under better control, rising). Paul, that's 
 rather a broad insinuation. What am I to infer from it? 
 
 Paul. I think we thoroughly understand each 
 other. You are to infer that I want an explanation. 
 
 Frank. You are decidedly presumptuous, to say 
 the least. Why should you assume that my conduct 
 needs an explanation? 
 
 Paul. You are avoiding the question. Why 
 should you embrace your father's wife? 
 
 Frank {zvalking an'ay). I permit no man to cross- 
 question me. {Colonel comes in.) 
 
 Colonel {annoyed because Frank did not come to 
 breakfast). We have all finished breakfast, Frank, and 
 the servants are waiting to go on with their regular 
 work. 
 
 Frank. I am sorry if I have caused any incon- 
 venience. I don't care for any breakfast this morning. 
 
 Paul. That is strange. 
 
 Colonel. Then I wish you would tell 
 
 {Augustus enters.) Well? 
 
 Augustus. Dr. Minn wishes to speak to you over 
 the telephone, sir. 
 
 Colonel {as he goes out). You may clear the 
 table, Augustus. 
 
 Augustus {follozving him). Yes, sir. 
 
 Paul {after they are out of hearing, in a lowered 
 voice). I am sorry to be obliged to do so, but, in the 
 interest of decency, I must investigate this affair to the 
 very bottom. 
 
 Frank. If you persist in your insinuations, Fal- 
 lington, we are likely to have trouble. 
 
 Paul. Just as you please, Wendell ; however, I 
 
 31 
 
should rather avoid it. Nevertheless, I do insist upon 
 knowing what occurred last night. 
 
 Frank (as if condescending to ansiver him). I 
 believe you have already questioned your sister ; in 
 which case, if she answered at all, she has told you the 
 truth. {Moznng tozvard the door.) I'm not going to 
 allay your idiotic suspicions. 
 
 Paul {blocking the zvay). She told me some pre- 
 posterous story about your describing a theatrical 
 scene. But as I came into the room both of you looked 
 the incarnation of guilt. (Less oiitagonistically.) Do 
 you realize, Frank, that what I saw was suggestive of 
 the basest treachery to your own father? If you have 
 committed an indiscretion, reparation should be made 
 at once. If you will tell me about it, I will talk the 
 matter over with you and be your friend. I say that, 
 Frank, because, by confessing a forbidden desire, one 
 is in less danger of giving way to it. 
 
 Frank (sitting on the table, conteinptiiously). So 
 you wish to be my confessor? 
 
 Paul. There is no need to cast a reflection on my 
 ofifer to help you. And if you knew all I have done to 
 restore peace between you and your father, you would 
 understand my motive. Will you let me be your friend ? 
 
 Frank (getting off the table). No, I'm getting 
 tired of your accusations, Fallington. Mind your own 
 damned business ; attend to your paradise studies, and 
 let me alone. 
 
 Paul (enraged). Your present attitude, instead 
 of being satisfactory, confirms my first opinion. You 
 not only refuse to explain your conduct of last night, 
 
 but you — you You should not be allowed to stay in 
 
 this house, and if necessary to guard my sister's purity 
 and the name of Colonel Wendell, I shall tell your 
 father the whole af¥air. 
 
 Frank (quickly). Do you know what the result 
 of that might be? 
 
 32 
 
Paul. Yes ; it would be rather unpleasant for you. 
 
 Frank (quietly). The excitement might cause his 
 death. My father has a bad case of heart dilatation. 
 
 Paul. A fabrication of that kind will not prevent 
 me from doing my duty. 
 
 Frank. But I give you my word as a physician 
 that you would be putting his life in jeopardy. 
 
 Paul. I don't believe you. (Suddenly, as a 
 thought comes to him.) Perhaps you frightened my 
 sister with that same lie to keep her from showing you 
 the door last night? 
 
 Frank (threateningly). You miserable old wom- 
 an ! I have half a mind 
 
 Paul. I will see her at once. (Hurriedly leaves 
 the room.) 
 
 Frank. Stop ! This meddling of yours has gone 
 far enough. (He hurries after Paul. The Colonel re- 
 turns with the morning mail; sits dozvn at the desk and 
 opens letters. Presently Frank eomes hack.) 
 
 Colonel (zvho has recovered from the annoyance 
 caused by Frank's failure to appear at breakfast, look- 
 ing up). Don't go away, Frank. I want to see you. 
 (He -finishes reading the letter.) Where's Paul? 
 
 Frank (diMdently). Gone out. How are you 
 feeling? 
 
 Colonel. Remarkably well. The attack last night 
 was very severe, but the medicine you gave me seemed 
 to be just what I needed. My heart is apparently nor- 
 mal this morning. 
 
 Frank. If you will open your vest, I should like 
 to listen. 
 
 Colonel (rising). I intended to talk with you 
 about my condition. 
 
 Frank (places his ear over his father's heart; 
 straightening up). A little irregular, but nothing un- 
 usual. 
 
 Colonel. As I did not wish to alarm your step- 
 
 23 
 
mother, I had our family physician tell her that these 
 sinking spells did not portend anything serious. But, 
 Frank, they are getting worse. Each attack is more 
 severe' than the one which preceded it, and I should 
 hke to have your advice. As I told you last night,! 
 have been treated for eight months by a specialist m 
 town, without any apparent results. 
 
 Frank. If you will permit me, I shall ask my old 
 professor at Yale to come to see you. He can give you 
 the best advice obtainable. In the meantime, I should 
 advise you to avoid all excitement. 
 
 Colonel. Then you do not think you are compe- 
 tent to handle my case? 
 
 Frank. I'd rather not. 
 
 Colonel {lighting a cigar). When will you write 
 to your professor? 
 
 Frank (restlessly moving about). To-day. He 
 lives in New Haven/and comes to the city weekly, so 
 he'll probably be out here soon. 
 
 Colonel. Very well. We shall say no more about 
 it It isn't pleasant to talk about one's infirmities, so 
 let us change the subject. (Sitting dozvn). Be seated, 
 Frank. I have something to talk over with you that i 
 originally intended to make known at the dinner to- 
 
 Frank (sits dozvn; nervously plays zvith his zvatch 
 
 chain). Yes. . x -d 
 
 Colonel (slozvly, zvith forensic eloquence), lie- 
 fore you left college we had a dissension about your 
 attitude toward long accepted principles of ethics; I 
 might say your unnatural attitude toward all upright, 
 manly, honest conduct. You said and wrote ineffable 
 things • you associated with low, immoral vagabonds ; 
 you showed a positive delight in disregarding all self- 
 respect; in short, you attacked the very foundation 
 on which rest the pillars of society, and that founda- 
 tion is— honor. (He pauses. Frank moves uneasily.) 
 
 34 
 
Honor is the cement that holds together friends, fami- 
 lies, communities, nations; yes, mankind itself. With- 
 out confidence in, and reliance on each other, civiliza- 
 tion would fall to pieces. During your misguided col- 
 lege career, you not only injured yourself, but you 
 also compromised my political standing. My enemies 
 slanderously spread the report that, as a public official, 
 I was so corrupt that my own son had turned against 
 me. Think of it, Frank! At that time I was afraid 
 the breach between us could never be closed. And 
 then the change came. No one will ever know with 
 what pleasure, with what happiness, I first realized 
 that my boy was throwing off the evil spell which un- 
 scrupulous scoundrels had cast over him. You did not 
 disclose to me your altered frame of mind, but you 
 stopped your contributions to those poisonous maga- 
 zines ; you associated more and more with reputable 
 people and less and less with murderous revolutionists ; 
 you gradually regained your lost virility ; in short, you 
 went abroad and made a man of yourself. You are 
 now twenty-three years old, the age at which your 
 mother stipulated you were to receive the deeds of 
 her properties, so I shall give them to you whenever 
 you wish them. What light guided you back, Frank, 
 from — I might say — "The Valley of the Shadow of 
 Death ?" 
 
 Frank (in a strained voice). My thoughts are not 
 fixed. 
 
 Colonel (rising). Well, you are now a son of 
 whom any father might be proud. You are a young 
 man just about to commence your mission in life, after 
 six years of laborious preparation, and that is what I 
 want to discuss with you. 
 
 Frank (gets np and lights a cigarette). Certainly, 
 if you wish. 
 
 Colonel (relighting his cigar). In consequence of 
 our reconciliation and the brilliant work you have ac- 
 
 35 
 
complished while pursuing your studies, I have de- 
 cided, after due consideration, to endow a charity in- 
 stitution to be known as Wendell Hospital 
 
 Frank. That will be a fine thing. 
 
 Colonel. I have already offered Paul the position 
 of secretarv, which he has accepted. We went to see 
 Dr. Minn in regard to the matter last night. 
 
 Frank. Oh, Paul is to be the secretary? 
 
 Colonel. Yes, that is settled. You, of course, will 
 be on the medical staff, which will afford you many 
 opportunities and . 
 
 Frank (tinder an intense mental strain, interrupt' 
 ing). That is very considerate of you, but I must have 
 time to think it over. , 
 
 Colonel (resuming his seat). That is needless, 
 Frank. There is not the slightest reason for you to 
 think of doing anything except to take your proper 
 place in the institution in due time. As I was about 
 to say, you will practically control the hospital. It 
 will be managed by a board of trustees who will natu- 
 rally carry out your wishes as far as impartiality will 
 permit that is, you will be supreme in all moral and 
 ethical questions. I shall make a formal announcement 
 of the plan this evening after dinner. In the mean- 
 time if you wish, you can prepare a speech of accept- 
 ance! (He goes to the desk and looks for something.) 
 
 Frank (partly dominated by his fathers assur' 
 ance). Yes, father ; but . . . I (Paul en t as.) 
 
 Colonel (rising). Vm glad you've come m, Paul. 
 I was just talking to Frank about the hospital. 
 
 Paul. That is exactly what I want to see you 
 about, Colonel. I must ask you to give me more time 
 to consider before I accept the position of secretary. 
 
 Colonel. That is a most extraordinary request. 
 What has caused you to change your mind ? 
 
 Paul. At the risk of offending you, and appearing 
 ungrateful, I must beg you not to ask me just now. 
 
 36 
 
Colonel. H'm ! I must say, Paul, your conduct 
 is rather peculiar. 
 
 Frank. Paul and I had a personal disagreement 
 this morning. Perhaps he wishes me to leave the room 
 (Starts tozimrds the door.) 
 
 Paul. No. I cannot stay. Pm waiting to see my 
 sister. 
 
 Colonel. All this is quite beyond my compre- 
 hension. 
 
 Paul. May I ask you a seemingly impertinent 
 question, Colonel? 
 
 Colonel. Yes, you may ask 
 
 Paul. Did your doctor ever say that the sinking 
 spells, to which you are subject, might prove serious? 
 
 Colonel {irritated). No sir, he did not. {Paul 
 turns to go.) Well? 
 
 Paul. I was sure your son was wrong. He said 
 they were serious. Excuse me. {He goes out.) 
 
 Colonel {zvalking about). Why on earth should 
 Paul act like this ! And what did he mean by saying 
 that you told him I was in danger from these sinking 
 spells? 
 
 Frank. I told him there was danger from great 
 excitement. He asked me the question. 
 
 Colonel. It is quite evident that something has 
 occurred which you are endeavoring to conceal from 
 me. I demand, sir, to know what it is. 
 
 Frank. Paul has seen fit to . As he intro- 
 duced these incoherent intimations, I prefer that you 
 ask him to explain them. 
 
 Colonel. You are obviously concerned in what 
 has occurred as well as he ; I repeat, sir, I demand to 
 knov/ what it is. It is my right to be informed of 
 everything that happens in this house. 
 
 Frank {makes an eifort to tell him the truth. 
 Writhes in agony). You see, father, before I went 
 abroad . . . Emma and I 
 
 37 
 
Colonel. Your stepmother; yes. 
 
 Frank. We were friendly — fond of each other. 
 
 Colonel (annoyed by the suspense). Well, what 
 has that to do with it? 
 
 Frank (less excitedly). Father, now is the time 
 for you to control yourself and avoid overtaxing your 
 heart. 
 
 Colonel (thoroughly enraged). What are you 
 trying to get at, any way? 
 
 Frank (unth a supreme effort, facing his father). 
 When I arrived — last night — while — I love your wife. 
 I have told her so, and she's consented to go with me. 
 (The Colonel staggers against the table. He is too 
 stunned to grasp the situation.) 
 
 Colonel. Great Christ ! What did you say ? 
 
 Frank (master of himself). I love your wife. She 
 returns my love, and we are going away together. 
 
 Colonel (realizing zvhat he means). You miser- 
 able, treacherous ingrate ! You dare to tell your father 
 
 ! ! ! (He strikes at him. Frank jumps back and 
 
 avoids the blow. He throws the lamp at him, which 
 narrowly escapes Frank's head and crashes against a 
 bookcase.) 
 
 Frank (still keeping at a distance). I warn you 
 that you are taking chances with your life. 
 
 Colonel (shaking zvith rage, in a voice beyond all 
 control). Get out of my house! Get out I say, before 
 I ! ! ! I disinherit you — I disown you — I annihi- 
 late the very memory of your existence. 
 
 Frank (on his zvay to the door). As you please. 
 
 Colonel. Stop! Before you go Til cram that 
 perfidious lie down your throat. You flagitious, op- 
 probrious, abhorrent, despicable, abominable cur ! By 
 
 God, ril make you rue the hour you dared (Paul 
 
 rushes in. The door closes behind him.) 
 
 Colonel. Where's my wife? 
 
 38 
 
Paul (wrought to the highest pitch of excitement). 
 She was coming downstairs when she heard the 
 
 Colonel. Get her at once. (Paul starts to obey.) 
 We have a traitor among us. An insidious snake. 
 
 Paul (as he opens the door). I see you. You 
 were Hstening. (Emma, deathly pale and trembling in 
 every limb, enters. She leans against the wall for 
 support.) 
 
 Colonel (confronting her). Emma, this contemp- 
 tible dog (pointing at Frank) has had the effrontery to 
 tell me that you are going to openly leave me — and go 
 with him. What have you to say ? 
 
 Paul. I shall withdraw. 
 
 Colonel No ; remain. Your honor is compro- 
 mised as well as mine. (He locks the door. Emma sinks 
 into a chair. ^ 
 
 Frank. I protest. Fallington has nothing to do 
 with this affair. We are capable of settling it our- 
 selves without dragging him into it. 
 
 Colonel (ignoring him). What have you to say, 
 Mrs. Wendell? 
 
 Emma. Oh dear! (She bursts into tears.) 
 
 Colonel (reeling). Do you admit it? 
 
 Frank (stepping between them). Look here! I 
 won't permit you to bulldoze this woman. 
 
 Paul. I advise you, Wendell, to keep quiet. 
 You've made trouble enough as it is. 
 
 Colonel. Come. I demand the truth. Have you 
 dishonored my name? 
 
 Frank (threatening his father bodily violence). I 
 tell you I won't tolerate this cowardly attack. I've 
 already told you the truth. Be a man and deal with 
 me. Don't try to bully this terrified girl. ( The Colonel 
 picks up a heavy chair, with zvhich he attempts to 
 strike Frank. Emma shrieks and covers her face. Paul 
 stops him.) 
 
 Colonel (to Frank). Damn you! If you inter- 
 
 39 
 
fere with me again, I'll break every bone in your body. 
 
 Paul {trying to force Frank into a seat). Sit 
 down! (Frank knocks Jiini dozen. The Colonel catches 
 Emma by the arms.) 
 
 Colonel. Speak ! Speak ! I command you. Have 
 you dishonored me? 
 
 Emma {screaming zvith pain). No — no — no! 
 Frank is wrong. 
 
 Colonel. Do you swear it? 
 
 Emma. Yes. {He releases her.) 
 
 Paul {zvho has risen, and stands out of Frank's 
 way). But last 
 
 Colonel {turning tozcard him). But what? 
 
 Paul. Nothing. 
 
 Colonel {triumphantly). Now,, you convicted 
 miscreant. {His anger again overcomes him). You 
 ! You ! What do }ou say now ? 
 
 Frank {in an unsteady voice). You will not go 
 with me, Emma? 
 
 Emma (looking him straight in the face). Are you 
 mad? 
 
 Frank (unable to believe that he has heard aright). 
 You did not lead me to believe that you would go ? 
 
 Emma (zvith an attempt at composure). Certainly 
 not. How could you tell such an untruth? (Pause. 
 The Colonel and Paul look on critically. Frank strug- 
 gles with himself, undecided zvhether to make another 
 attempt to zmn her, or to acknozvledge he was mis- 
 taken. He decides on the latter course.) 
 
 Frank (in spite of himself, pleadingly). Emma 
 
 Emma (fearing that he zvill plunge her into further 
 difficulties, interrupting). Please don't say anything 
 more to me. Please don't . . . don't. 
 
 Frank (resolved). I see I was mistaken. (To 
 his father.) I am entirely to blame. 
 
 Colonel (to Emma). How did all this happen? 
 An explanation is due from you. 
 
 40 
 
Emma (rises, speaking zvith difficnUy). Yes, of 
 course, . . . {pants for breath) Frank was under the 
 impression that I was engaged to him . . . while he 
 was at Yale ... I told him he was mistaken, but he 
 persisted in making love to me. ... I did not regard 
 him seriously. 
 
 Paul. You did not regard him seriously? 
 
 Emma. No. There had been a great misunder- 
 standing between us. . . . Frank felt very keenly over 
 it . . . so 
 
 Paul. But 
 
 Emma (quickly). Remember, Paul, Em his step- 
 mother now. (Pause.) I swear I never gave him the 
 
 slightest reason to believe Oh, Colonel, how could 
 
 you think I could do such a thing? It's monstrous! 
 (She breaks dozvn and sobs.) 
 
 Colonel (pointing to the door). Go. (Frank 
 bozi's and goes out.) 
 
 Paul (offering his hand). Believe me, I scarcely 
 know how to express my sympathy, Colonel. 
 
 Colonel (taking his hand like a man zvhose spirit 
 is broken; yet still maintaining his dignity). Yes, 
 Paul. It is a great blow to me. (Paid silently leaves 
 the room. Softly.) Emma. 
 
 Emma (going to him). You do believe me? You 
 are not angry with me? 
 
 Colonel. I do believe you, Emma. (He takes her 
 in his arms.) 
 
 41 
 
ACT III. 
 
 The room as before, one hour later. Emma com- 
 pletely unnerved, lies huddled in a chair. Paul stands 
 by the settee. 
 
 Paul. Yes, this has been a terrible morning, 
 Emma. You have reason to feel miserable. 
 
 Emma (in a subdued voice). Oh, Paul! What 
 will happen next? 
 
 Paul (going to her). The worst has happened. 
 Now we must see what can be done to mend matters. 
 
 Emma (half to herself). If Frank only hadn't — 
 if he only hadn't 
 
 Paul. I'm satisfied that he is primarily to blame; 
 although, Emma, I'm not entirely satisfied with your 
 explanation. You must remember that I saw you in 
 his arms last night. 
 
 Emma (defensively). I could not help it. He is 
 stronger than I. 
 
 Paul. Do you mean he took hold of you against 
 your will? 
 
 Emma (equivocally). Why dwell on that? 
 
 Paul (slozvly and deliberately). Because I do not 
 believe you are perfectly candid with me, Emma. 
 
 Emma (tearfully). You aren't fair to me, Paul. 
 
 Paul. Your confusion at the time was very osten- 
 sible. (Short silence.) If you wish me to try to set 
 things right, you must tell me everything, without re- 
 serve. 
 
 Emma. What else is there to tell? 
 
 Paul (coldly). You know that better than I do. 
 (He awaits expectantly. Emma sighs.) 
 
 42 
 
Emma. Well, if you must know, he did put his 
 arms around me. As his stepmother I tried to comfort 
 him in his wild infatuation. 
 
 Paul. Only as his stepmother? 
 
 Emma {reproachfully). Do vou disbelieve me, 
 Paul? 
 
 Paul. I did not say that ; but the whole affair has 
 been so scandalous, I don't know what to believe . . . 
 Why were you embarrassed when I came in? 
 
 Emma. You came upon us so suddenly I was 
 frightened, and I instantly realized that you might mis- 
 construe what you saw. That is why I said what I 
 did about Frank's describing a thrilling scene. 
 
 Paul. You told an untruth. That was wrong. 
 
 Emma. I know it, but I was so startled, and you 
 
 looked so queerly at us You do believe me, don't 
 
 you, Paul? 
 
 Paul. What you say seems reasonable enough. 
 But I assure you, you have acted very unwisely. You 
 must tell your husband the whole truth. 
 
 Emma {thoroughly alarmed, jumping up). Paul! 
 No ! No ! No ! That would be fatal. 
 
 Paul. Is truth fatal? 
 
 Emma {speaking rapidly). But I could never make 
 the Colonel understand. Do be reasonable. You saw 
 yourself that he was suspicious of my fidelity. 
 
 Paul. How, then, do you expect to have proper 
 relations with the man whom you swore to love and 
 honor, if there is a lie between you? 
 
 Emma {zvith dignity). I did not lie. I told him 
 the truth. 
 
 Paul. Believe me, holding back part of the truth, 
 in a matter of vital importance, is equivalent to a false- 
 hood. 
 
 Emma {sincerely). Don't you think I am wretched 
 enough as it is without preaching to me? 
 
 Paul {turning from her). Vm afraid, Emma, 
 
 43 
 
your married life has not been what it should be. You 
 do not even call your husband by his Christian name. 
 
 Emma. Is that a crime? 
 
 Paul. No ; but you seem to lack the proper con- 
 fidence. If I am right, if you and your husband have 
 not been as near to each other as you both wish, break 
 down all barriers now, and start afresh. ( With con- 
 viction.) I assure you, the slightest thing withheld 
 from one we love creates a spiritual chasm that can 
 not be crossed. 
 
 Emma (using all her argupnentatiz'e forces). That 
 may be true, Paul, in certain cases, but there are ex- 
 ceptions to all rules. {Earnestly.) You must con- 
 sider what kind of a man the Colonel is. He is older 
 than we, and looks on things differently. He has old- 
 fashioned ideas about propriety ; and, although you 
 know the thought of disloyalty never entered my head, 
 I could not tell him what you wish me to reveal and 
 still make him believe in my innocence. {Pause.) 
 
 Paul {after zvaJking about and meditating). I am 
 a man, Emma, and I have had more experience than 
 you. Also, in my theological studies I have specialized 
 on the moral duties of one human being to another, 
 and I know the inevitable retribution that follows their 
 evasion. Believe me, when you have told your husband 
 the whole truth, you will find you are much happier, 
 and that you have won his entire confidence and 
 affection. 
 
 Emma. But we have not quarreled. 
 
 Paul. Aside from that, you are confronted with 
 a demand of justice. It would be very unjust to Frank 
 not to tell his father that he had some reason for think- 
 ing what he said was true. As much as Frank has 
 wronged you, Emma, you have no right to wrong him. 
 
 Emma (firmly). I tell you, it is simply out of the 
 question. I will not tell my husband something that 
 may shatter all his happiness. 
 
 44 
 
Paul (zvith determination). You viust tell him, 
 Emma. As your brother and your priest, I insist that 
 you tell him. 
 
 Emma {defiantly). And if I refuse? 
 
 Paul. I shall be compelled to tell him myself. 
 {Emma collapses on the settee.) 
 
 Emma. You don't know what you are doing. 
 
 Paul. I assure you, I know full well. Who shall 
 it be : you or I ? 
 
 Emma {subdued). Oh, dear! Oh, dear! When 
 must I do it ? Not now ; I can't tell him now ! 
 
 Paul. No ; it would not be prudent to tell him 
 in his present condition. Some time in the near future ; 
 some time, when you and he are alone, you must tell 
 him in a repentant spirit. Will you promise to do this ? 
 
 Emma {resignedly). Yes; but if it results in a 
 separation you will suffer also. Remember, I have 
 advanced you considerable money since my marriage. 
 
 Paul {indignantly). In the name of Heaven, do 
 you suppose I would consider pecuniary advantages in 
 
 connection with {He chokes zmth indignation.) 
 
 That is an insult — an insult! 
 
 Emma {fearfidly). I didn't mean it in that way. 
 
 I only thought Yes, yes, I will tell him. I would 
 
 do anything to undo what has been done. 
 
 Paul. I did not think you could mean to inti- 
 mate anything so gross as that I could willingly profit 
 by this situation. You know I will repay every cent 
 at the first opportunity. Have you a memorandum of 
 how much I owe you? 
 
 Emma. Yes; but I'm in no frame of mind to 
 think about it now. 
 
 Paul. You are right. We have graver business 
 to deal with. Notwithstanding Frank's insults and vio- 
 lence, I bear him no ill will, and I should like to see 
 him and his father reconciled. 
 
 Emma {sadly). I'm afraid that's impossible. 
 
 45 
 
Paul. No, it's not impossible. We must per- 
 suade the Colonel to accept an apology from Frank. 
 
 Emma. There is nothing I wouldn't do to make 
 peace between them. But (hopelessly) it's too late 
 now. 
 
 Paul. I say it is not too late, although we have 
 no time to lose. Frank is preparing to leave within 
 half an hour. 
 
 Emma. What can I do? 
 
 Paul. First of all (The Colonel enters.) I 
 
 was just on the point of coming to you. 
 
 Colonel (going to the desk). One minute, Paul. 
 
 I have some papers that belong to I have some 
 
 papers concerning my first wife's property that I wish 
 
 Paul. Your son. 
 
 Colonel (taking out an envelope). No, I have 
 no son. I have disowned him. 
 
 Paul. That is just what Emma and I were talk- 
 ing about. 
 
 Colonel. What do you mean? 
 
 Paul. You and Frank. He has already sent for 
 a carriage. 
 
 Colonel. The sooner he goes the better. 
 
 Paul (after a moment's hesitation, zifhile the Col- 
 onel searches through some documents). Pardon me, 
 Colonel, for seeming to interfere, but for father and 
 son to separate in this way is terrible. Just consider 
 
 Colonel (sternly). I have considered and de- 
 cided. Henceforth I am done with him. He has 
 broken all bonds between us by his outrageous conduct. 
 
 Paul. But just consider — he is your own flesh 
 and blood for all that. 
 
 Colonel. Each one of us, Paul, is responsible for 
 his own actions, and not for the actions of those who 
 are related to him by blood. There is nothing more 
 to be said on this painful subject. 
 
 46 
 
Paul. Let me say this, Colonel, and entreat you 
 to listen to nie. Your son and my sister were brought 
 up together. They were playmates in childhood, com- 
 panions in youth, and — and — I was brought up with 
 them, Colonel, so perhaps I can understand your son's 
 feeling better than you. 
 
 Colonel. Would you excuse or condone filial 
 treachery, the vilest ingratitude of son to father? 
 
 Paul, I excuse nothing; much less do I condone 
 Frank's behavior. At the same time, you cannot say 
 he was altogether treacherous. He told you what he 
 thought was true, and tried to act as honorably as he 
 could in his pathetic misapprehension. 
 
 Colonel (zmfh increasing vexation, uioving about). 
 Was it an honorable action when he attempted to per- 
 suade my wafe, his stepmother, to disgrace the ring 
 she wears? Your defense of him is quite beyond my 
 comprehension. 
 
 Paul. In the domain of ethics. Colonel, I know 
 your son has sinned grievously. But if he were to ask 
 your forgiveness, to come to you and say: "Father, I 
 am your wretched and miserable son. Have mercy 
 upon me," I am not sure but that you would also sin if 
 you still disowned him. 
 
 Colonel. According to that, any one could do 
 whatever he chose with impunity, if he only professed 
 his sorrow afterwards. No, as a matter of principle, 
 I could not consider it. 
 
 Paul (redonbling the insistence of his appeal). 
 God, the Father of us all, forgives all sinners who 
 truly repent. And Jesus, the Man — I do not speak of 
 Christ, but Jesus, the most perfect and just man that 
 ever trod the earth — forgave the thief on the cross 
 when he asked for pardon. 
 
 Emma (rising and going to the Colonel, plead- 
 ingly). Yes, Paul is right. 
 
 47 
 
Paul. And Frank has sinned in thought only ; he 
 did not actually sin in deed. 
 
 Emma (imploringly). Colonel! 
 
 Paul. I will guarantee an apology from your son. 
 Will you refuse to accept it? 
 
 Emma (to the Colonel, laying her hand on his 
 shoulder). No, no; you will not, will you? For my 
 sake don't refuse him that. It would break my heart 
 to think that I had separated father and son. (Pause. 
 Paid nmts confidently.) 
 
 Colonel (slowly, to Paul). How do you know 
 that he will express his regret for what has happened ? 
 
 Paul. Believe me, Colonel, I know the human 
 heart. That is one advantage we theologians have. 
 
 Emma (to Paid). Shall I send for Frank at once? 
 
 Paul. No, we must see him first. Then, Colonel, 
 will you talk to him? 
 
 Colonel (conceding). Since you both wish it, I 
 will hear what he has to say. 
 
 Paul. Thank you, Colonel (shakes his hand), 
 thank you. By a little forethought and forbearance 
 we will avert a family disaster. 
 
 Colonel. But bear in mind that I have little faith 
 in his compunction. 
 
 Paul (nshering the Colonel to the door). I as- 
 sure you I shall happily prove that you are in error. 
 Where shall we find you? 
 
 Colonel. I am going to the billiard room. 
 
 Paul. Emma and Frank will be there directly. 
 
 Colonel. If Frank is willing to make atonement, 
 ring, and I shall return. Otherwise I do not care to 
 see him. (He goes out.) 
 
 Paul (coming from the door). Now, Emma, you 
 must do the rest. 
 
 Emma. Yes, yes; what is it? 
 
 Paul. Frank is naturally angry with me because 
 
I was the first to discover his intentions; but he cares 
 for you. You must point out to him his duty. 
 
 Emma. I'll do my best; but suppose he won't 
 speak to me? 
 
 Paul. He will. Remain here, and I shall have 
 Augustus send him to you. 
 
 Emma. I will do everything in my power. How 
 can I ever repay you for all that you're doing for me? 
 
 Paul. By keeping your promise to tell the whole 
 truth to your husband. There is nothing further for 
 me to do. The rest lies with you, Emma. Don't for- 
 get to ring as soon as Frank wishes to see his father. 
 {He goes out. Emma, nozv that she is alone, loses 
 her courage. She goes to the door and calls to Paid. 
 He does not anszi'cr. She nervously walks about the 
 room and talks to herself. Presently Frank enters.) 
 
 Frank. You wish to see me, Mrs. Wendell? 
 {She closes the door.) 
 
 Emma {relieved after the suspense of meeting him 
 is over). Frank, no doubt you feel very bitter toward 
 me. {He stands motionless and looks at her.) Per- 
 haps you have reason. Oh, Frank, Frank ! How 
 could we have said and have done what we did last 
 night ! I can't realize it — it all seems like a horrid 
 dream. 
 
 Frank. It was quite realistic, Mrs. Wendell. 
 
 Emma. You do feel bitter toward me; you hate 
 me. I shouldn't blame you if you loathed the very 
 sight of me. I lied, Frank. I couldn't help it. I did 
 care for you — but to face public condemnation — to be 
 
 socially ostracised It was brutal of you to expect 
 
 it of me. Where were your wits? 
 
 Frank. Passion is a serious thing. It does not 
 stop to consider wits. 
 
 Emma. You are so unreasonable I never 
 
 dreamed that you expected me to elope with you. 
 
 Frank {looking at her in astonishment). What 
 
 49 
 
did you expect? (Pause.) Is it possible that you 
 didn't understand me? 
 
 Emma {blushing). Yes; I did not consent to 
 elope. 
 
 Frank (a light breaking in upon him). You 
 thought I meant to take you to the city for a few 
 hours and then bring you home? (She does not reply.) 
 I see we did not understand each other — but it is of 
 no consequence now. 
 
 Emma (sighing). Yes. I suppose it is all over. 
 Do you despise me, Frank? 
 
 Frank (coldly). Fd rather not discuss the matter 
 further. (She walks thoughtfully to the ivindoiv and 
 looks out.) 
 
 Emma (turning toward him). I said I was inno- 
 cent of wrong intent, and you did not deny it. (Ap- 
 pealingly.) You will never say anything to the con- 
 trary, will you? 
 
 Frank. No ; you need not worry about that. Per- 
 mit me to get the rest of my things. (He starts to 
 leave the room.) 
 
 Emma (going in front of him). Wait. I have 
 something important to say to you. 
 Frank. What is it? 
 
 Emma. After this awful misunderstanding we 
 must do what we can to mend matters. 
 
 Frank. There is nothing for me to do except to 
 leave. 
 
 Emma. Yes, there is; we can do a great deal if 
 you will only help me. 
 
 Frank. I am listening. 
 
 Emma. Paul and your father were talking about 
 you a few minutes ago. At first your father was re- 
 lentless, but by a strong appeal to his better feelings 
 Paul made him promise to accept your apology. 
 
 Frank (shozving first signs of annoyance). Paul, 
 Paul, eternally Paul ! What has he to do with me ? 
 
 50 
 
Emma. If you but knew it, he is your friend. 
 For my sake, Frank, if not for your own, ask your 
 father's forgiveness. {Catherine comes in, dressed for 
 the street. She hears Emmas request.) 
 
 Frank. Never! Not while I have one drop of 
 blood in my veins. (To himself.) I want my papers. 
 (He walks past Emma and touches the electric bell be- 
 tzveen the zvindozvs.) 
 
 Emma. Catherine — help me to keep him from go- 
 ing away like this. 
 
 Catherine (to Frank). It is so commonplace to 
 quarrel with one's father nowadays. Every one quite 
 expects you to do it. Perhaps you should apologize, 
 Frank, for the sake of individuality. 
 
 Emma. How can you talk like that? Are you 
 absolutely heartless? 
 
 Catherine. Absolutely? No. 
 
 Emma. I won't believe that you are. (Beseech- 
 ingly.) Please be my friend now, Catherine. You 
 used to call yourself my friend at school, when I didn't 
 need one. 
 
 Catherine (examining a magazine). Ah, yes. 
 That is the most advantageous time to have friends. 
 Friends (The Colonel enters. Catherine pauses.) 
 
 Colonel (to Frank). Well, sir? 
 
 Frank. I beg your pardon ; I rang for Augustus 
 to ask you for my papers. 
 
 Colonel. Your papers? I don't understand. 
 Have you apologized to your stepmother? 
 
 Frank. No. 
 
 Colonel (surprised). What are you doing here, 
 then ? 
 
 Frank. Your wife sent for me to apologize to 
 you 
 
 Colonel. Do you wish your sister to withdraw? 
 
 Frank (continuing) — which I have not the slight- 
 est intention of doing. 
 
 51 
 
Colonel (in a rage of disappointment). Then 
 what do you mean by remaining in my house? I told 
 you to get out an hour ago ; do you need assistance ? 
 
 Frank. I want the deeds to my mother's prop- 
 erties. I think that's what you called them. 
 
 Colonel (taking them out of his pocket and 
 throzmng them on the table). There they are. Now, 
 get out. (Frank starts to go.) 
 
 Catherine. Wait a little, Frank. (He stops at 
 the threshold.) Colonel Wendell, I wish to thank you 
 for the charming visit I have enjoyed at 3'our home. 
 It has been so delightfully diverting. 
 
 Colonel. Young w^oman, your remark is a piece 
 of gratuitous impertinence. 
 
 Catherine. I should not think of being imperti- 
 nent to you, Colonel. You are so dignified. You are 
 such an accomplished actor. You imitate a gentleman 
 so well. One can never tell when you are serious. 
 (Frank leaves the room.) 
 
 Colonel. When you are ready to take your de- 
 parture, Miss Rapoint, Augustus will order the auto- 
 mobile. (He goes out.) 
 
 Emma (sobbing). Oh, Catherine! Have you — 
 turned — against me — too? 
 
 Catherine (putting on her gloves). No, indeed, 
 Emma. I am not angry in the least. I admire your 
 courage extremely. It is so brave to be honorable. So 
 very, very intrepid. It is only the weak, vacillating 
 woman that gives in. (Paul enters.) I am going 
 now. Good-bye, dear. 
 
 Paul. You have wantonly insulted the Colonel, 
 Catherine. 
 
 Catherine. My dear Paul, how unkind of you ! 
 The Colonel was quite unreasonable. I really do not 
 believe he noticed that I have on a new traveling suit. 
 Do you not like it, Paul? 
 
 Paul. What kind of a creature are you? 
 
 52 
 
Catherine. Half divine; half diabolic. (Frank 
 comes to the door zvith suit-cases.) 
 
 Frank. The carriage is here. 
 
 Catherine. Yes, Frank, I am coming. (Adjust- 
 ing her hat in front of the glass over the mantel.) Are 
 you not going to say good-bye? 
 
 Frank. I think the formality unnecessary. 
 
 Catherine. How very, very rude of you ! Good 
 bye, Paul. Good bye again, dear. (They go.) 
 
 Emma (piteonsly, throzving herself on the settee). 
 I am so miserable ; I am so, so miserable. 
 
 Paul (bending over her). That will all pass away, 
 dear sister. It might have been a great deal worse. 
 You still have your husband and your honor. 
 
 53 
 
m 16 1909 
 
4 
 
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 Cor. WilliBm and FrBnkfort Sts., New Yc 
 

 
 
 
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