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Alice Sit-by-the-Fire

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<h2> III </h2> We are back in the room of the diary. The diary itself is not visible; it is tucked away in the drawer, taking a nap while it may, for it has much to chronicle before cockcrow. Cosmo also is asleep, on an ingenious arrangement of chairs. Ginevra is sitting bolt upright, a book on her knee, but she is not reading it. She is seeing visions in which Amy plays a desperate part. The hour is late; every one ought to be in bed. Cosmo is perhaps dreaming that he is back at Osborne, for he calls out, as if in answer to a summons, that he is up and nearly dressed. He then raises his head and surveys Ginevra. COSMO. ‘Hullo, you’ve been asleep.’ GINEVRA. ‘How like a man.’ COSMO. ‘I say, I thought you were the one who had stretched herself out, and that I was sitting here very quiet, so as not to waken you.’ GINEVRA. ‘Let us leave it at that.’ COSMO. ‘Huffy, aren’t you! Have they not come back yet?’ GINEVRA. ‘Not they. And half-past eleven has struck. I oughtn’t to stay any longer; as it is, I don’t know what my landlady will say.’ She means that she does know. COSMO. ‘I’ll see you to your place whenever you like. My uniform will make it all right for you.’ GINEVRA. ‘You child. But I simply can’t go till I know what has happened. Where, oh where, can they be?’ COSMO. ‘That’s all right. Father told you he had a message from mother saying that they had gone to the theatre.’ GINEVRA. ‘But why?’ COSMO. ‘Yes, it seemed to bother him, too.’ GINEVRA. ‘The theatre. That is what she said.’ Here Cosmo takes up a commanding position on the hearthrug; it could not be bettered unless with a cigar in the mouth. COSMO. ‘Look here, Miss Dunbar, it may be that I have a little crow to pick with mother when she comes back, but I cannot allow anyone else to say a word against her. Comprenez?’ Ginevra’s reply is lost to the world because at this moment Amy’s sparkling eyes show round the door. How softly she must have crossed the little hall! GINEVRA. ‘Amy, at last!’ AMY. ‘Sh!’ She speaks to some one unseen, ‘There are only Ginevra and Cosmo here.’ Thus encouraged Alice enters. Despite her demeanour they would see, if they knew her better, that she has been having a good time, and is in hopes that it is not ended yet. She comes in, as it were, under Amy’s guidance. Ginevra is introduced, and Alice then looks to Amy for instructions what to do next. AMY, encouragingly, ‘Sit down, mother.’ ALICE. ‘Where shall I sit, dear?’ Amy gives her the nicest chair in the room. ‘Thank you, Amy.’ She is emboldened to address her son. ‘Where is your father, Cosmo?’ Cosmo remembers his slap, and that he has sworn to converse with her no more. He indicates, however, that his father is in the room overhead. Alice meekly accepts the rebuff. ‘Shall I go to him, Amy?’ AMY, considerately, ‘If you think you feel strong enough, mother.’ ALICE. ‘You have given me strength.’ AMY. ‘I am so glad.’ She strokes her mother soothingly. ‘What will you tell him?’ ALICE. ‘All, Amy—all, all.’ AMY. ‘Brave mother.’ ALICE. ‘Who could not be brave with such a daughter.’ On reflection, ‘And with such a son.’ Helped by encouraging words from Amy she departs on her perilous enterprise. The two conspirators would now give a handsome competence to Cosmo to get him out of the room. He knows it, and sits down. COSMO, ‘I say, what is she going to tell father?’ AMY, with a despairing glance at Ginevra, ‘Oh, nothing.’ GINEVRA, with a clever glance at Amy, ‘Cosmo, you promised to see me home.’ COSMO, the polite, ‘Right O.’ GINEVRA. ‘But you haven’t got your boots on.’ COSMO. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ He pauses at the door. ‘I say I believe you’re trying to get rid of me. Look here, I won’t budge till you tell me what mother is speaking about to father.’ AMY. ‘It is about the drawing-room curtains.’ COSMO. ‘Good lord!’ As soon as he has gone they rush at each other; they don’t embrace; they stop when their noses are an inch apart, and then talk. This is the stage way for lovers. It is difficult to accomplish without rubbing noses, but they have both been practising. GINEVRA. ‘Quick, Amy, did you get the letters?’ AMY. ‘There are no letters.’ Ginevra is so taken aback that her nose bobs. Otherwise the two are absolutely motionless. She cleverly recovers herself. GINEVRA. ‘No letters; how unlike life. You are quite sure?’ AMY. ‘I have my mother’s word for it.’ GINEVRA. ‘Is that enough?’ AMY. ‘And you now have mine.’ GINEVRA. ‘Then it hadn’t gone far?’ AMY. ‘No, merely a painful indiscretion. But if father had known it—you know what husbands are.’ GINEVRA. ‘Yes, indeed. Did he follow her?’ Amy nods. ‘Did you hide?’ Amy nods again. AMY. ‘Worse than that, Ginevra. To deceive him I had to pretend that I was the woman. And now—Ginevra, can you guess?—’ Here they have to leave off doing noses. On the stage it can be done for ever so much longer, but only by those who are paid accordingly. GINEVRA. ‘You don’t mean—?’ AMY. ‘I think I do, but what do you mean?’ GINEVRA. ‘I mean—the great thing.’ AMY. ‘Then it is, yes. Ginevra, I am affianced to the man, Steve!’ Ginevra could here quickly drink a glass of water if there was one in the room. GINEVRA, wandering round her old friend, ‘You seem the same, Amy, yet somehow different.’ AMY, rather complacently, ‘That is just how I feel. But I must not think of myself. They are overhead, Ginevra. There is an awful scene taking place—up there. She is telling father all.’ GINEVRA. ‘Confessing?’ AMY. ‘Everything—in a noble attempt to save me from a widowed marriage.’ GINEVRA. ‘But I thought she was such a hard woman.’ AMY. ‘Not really. To the world perhaps; but I have softened her. All she needed, Ginevra, to bring out her finer qualities was a strong nature to lean upon; and she says that she has found it in me. At the theatre and all the way home—’ GINEVRA. ‘Then you did go to the theatre. Why?’ AMY, feeling that Ginevra is very young, ‘Need you ask? Oh, Ginevra, to see if we could find a happy ending. It was mother’s idea.’ GINEVRA. ‘Which theatre?’ AMY. ‘I don’t know, but the erring wife confessed all—in one of those mousselines de soie that are so fashionable this year; and mother and I sat—clasping each other’s hands, praying it might end happily, though we didn’t see how it could.’ GINEVRA. ‘How awful for you. What did the husband do?’ AMY. ‘He was very calm and white. He went out of the room for a moment, and came back so white. Then he sat down by the fire, and nodded his head three times.’ GINEVRA. ‘I think I know now which theatre it was.’ AMY. ‘He asked her coldly—but always the perfect gentleman——’ GINEVRA. ‘Oh, that theatre.’ AMY. ‘He asked her whether he was to go or she.’ GINEVRA. ‘They must part?’ AMY. ‘Yes. She went on her knees to him, and said “Are we never to meet again?” and he replied huskily “Never.” Then she turned and went slowly towards the door.’ GINEVRA, clutching her, ‘Amy, was that the end?’ AMY. ‘The audience sat still as death, listening for the awful click that brings the curtain down.’ GINEVRA, shivering, ‘I seem to hear it.’ AMY. ‘At that moment—’ GINEVRA. ‘Yes, yes?’ AMY. ‘The door opened, and, Ginevra, their little child—came in—in her night-gown.’ GINEVRA. ‘Quick.’ AMY. ‘She came toddling down the stairs—she was barefooted—she took in the whole situation at a glance—and, running to her father, she said, “Daddy, if mother goes away what is to become of me?”’ Amy gulps and continues: ‘And then she took a hand of each and drew them together till they fell on each other’s breasts, and then—Oh, Ginevra, then—Click!—and the curtain fell.’ GINEVRA, when they are more composed, ‘How old was the child?’ AMY. ‘Five. She looked more.’ GINEVRA, her brows knitted, ‘Molly is under two, isn’t she?’ AMY. ‘She is not quite twenty months.’ GINEVRA. ‘She couldn’t possibly do it.’ AMY. ‘No; I thought of that. But she couldn’t, you know, even though she was held up. Mother couldn’t help thinking the scene was a good omen, though.’ They both look at the ceiling again. ‘How still they are.’ GINEVRA. ‘Perhaps she hasn’t had the courage to tell.’ AMY. ‘If so, I must go on with it.’ GINEVRA, feeling rather small beside Amy, ‘Marry him?’ AMY. ‘Yes. I must dree my weird. Is it dree your weird, or weird your dree?’ GINEVRA. ‘I think they both do.’ She does not really care; nobler thoughts are surging within her. ‘Amy, why can’t I make some sacrifice as well as you?’ Amy seems about to make a somewhat grudging reply, but the unexpected arrival of the man who has so strangely won her seals her lips. AMY. ‘You!’ with a depth of meaning, ‘Oh, sir.’ STEVE, the most nervous of the company, ‘I felt I must come. Miss Grey, I am in the greatest distress, as the unhappy cause of all this trouble.’ AMY, coldly, ‘You should have thought of that before.’ STEVE. ‘It was dense of me not to understand sooner—very dense.’ He looks at her with wistful eyes. ‘Must I marry you, Miss Grey?’ AMY, curling her lip, ‘Ah, that is what you are sorry for!’ STEVE. ‘Yes—horribly sorry.’ Hastily, ‘Not for myself. To tell you the truth, I’d be—precious glad to risk it—I think.’ AMY, with a glance at Ginevra, ‘You would?’ STEVE. ‘But very sorry for you. It seems such a shame to you—so young and attractive—and the little you know of me so—unfortunate.’ AMY. ‘You mean you could never love me?’ STEVE. ‘I don’t mean that at all.’ AMY. ‘Ginevra!’ Indeed Ginevra feels that she has been obliterated quite long enough. GINEVRA, with a touch of testiness in her tone, ‘Amy—introduce me.’ AMY. ‘Mr. Stephen Rollo—Miss Dunbar. Miss Dunbar knows all.’ Ginevra makes a movement that the cynical might describe as brushing Amy aside. GINEVRA. ‘May I ask, Mr. Rollo, what are your views about woman?’ STEVE. ‘Really I—’ GINEVRA. ‘Is she, in your opinion, her husband’s equal, or is she his chattel?’ STEVE. ‘Honestly, I am so beside myself—’ GINEVRA. ‘You evade the question.’ AMY. ‘He means chattel, Ginevra.’ GINEVRA. ‘Mr. Rollo, I am the friend till death of Amy Grey. Let that poor child go, sir, and I am prepared to take her place beside you—Yes, at the altar’s mouth.’ AMY. ‘Ginevra.’ GINEVRA, making that movement again, ‘Understand I can neither love nor honour you—at least at first—but I will obey you.’ AMY. ‘Ginevra, you take too much upon yourself.’ GINEVRA. ‘I will make a sacrifice—I will.’ AMY. ‘You shall not.’ GINEVRA. ‘I feel that I understand this gentleman as no other woman can. It is my mission, Amy—’ The return of Alice is what prevents Steve’s seizing his hat and flying. It might not have had this effect had he seen the lady’s face just before she opened the door. ALICE, putting her hand to her poor heart, ‘You have come here, Steve? Oh no, it is not possible.’ STEVE, looking things unutterable, ‘How could I help coming?’ AMY, to the rescue, ‘Mother, have you—did you?’ ALICE, meekly, ‘I have told him all.’ STEVE. ‘The Colonel?’ Alice bows her bruised head. AMY, conducting her to a seat, ‘Brave, brave. What has he decided?’ ALICE. ‘He hasn’t decided yet. He is thinking out what it will be best to do.’ STEVE. ‘He knows? Then I am no longer—’ His unfinished sentence seems to refer to Amy. AMY, proudly, ‘Yes, sir, as he knows, you are, as far as I am concerned, now free.’ GINEVRA, in a murmur, ‘It’s almost a pity.’ She turns to her Amy. ‘At least, Amy, this makes you and me friends again.’ We have never quite been able to understand what this meant, but Amy knows, for she puts Ginevra’s hand to her sweet lips. ALICE, who somehow could do without Ginevra to-night, ‘Cosmo is waiting for you, Miss Dunbar, to see you home.’ GINEVRA, with a disquieting vision of her landlady, ‘I must go.’ She gives her hand in the coldest way to Mrs. Grey. Then, with a curtsey to Steve that he can surely never forget, ‘Mr. Rollo, I am sure there is much good in you. Darling Amy, I shall be round first thing in the morning.’ STEVE. ‘Now that she has gone, can we—have a talk?’ ALICE, looking down, ‘Yes, Steve.’ AMY, gently, ‘Mother, what was that you called him?’ ALICE. ‘Dear Amy, I forgot. Yes, Mr. Rollo.’ STEVE. ‘Then, Alice—’ AMY. ‘This lady’s name, if I am not greatly mistaken, is Mrs. Grey. Is it not so, mother?’ ALICE. ‘Yes, Amy.’ STEVE. ‘As you will; but it is most important that I say certain things to her at once.’ ALICE. ‘Oh, Mr. Rollo. What do you think, dear?’ AMY, reflecting, ‘If it be clearly understood that this is good-bye, I consent. Please be as brief as possible.’ Somehow they think that she is moving to the door, but she crosses only to the other side of the room and sits down with a book. One of them likes this very much. STEVE, who is not the one, ‘But I want to see her alone.’ AMY, the dearest of little gaolers, ‘That, I am afraid, I cannot permit. It is not that I have not perfect confidence in you, mother, but you must see I am acting wisely.’ ALICE. ‘Yes, Amy.’ STEVE, to his Alice, ‘What has come over you? You don’t seem to be the same woman.’ AMY. ‘That is just it; she is not.’ ALICE. ‘I see now only through Amy’s eyes.’ AMY. ‘They will not fail you, mother. Proceed, sir.’ Steve has to make the best of it. STEVE. ‘You told him, then, about your feelings for me?’ ALICE, studying the carpet, ‘He knows now exactly what are my feelings for you.’ STEVE, huskily, ‘How did he take it?’ ALICE. ‘Need you ask?’ STEVE. ‘Poor old boy. I suppose he wishes me to stay away from your house now.’ ALICE. ‘Is it unreasonable?’ STEVE. ‘No, of course not, but—’ ALICE. ‘Will it be terribly hard to you, St—Mr. Rollo?’ STEVE. ‘It isn’t that. You see I’m fond of the Colonel, I really am, and it hurts me to think he thinks that I—It wasn’t my fault, was it?’ AMY. ‘Ungenerous.’ ALICE. ‘He quite understands that it was I who lost my head.’ Steve is much moved by the generosity of this. He lowers his voice. STEVE. ‘Of course I blame myself now; but I assure you honestly I had no idea of it until to-night. I had thought you were only my friend. It dazed me; but as I ransacked my mind many little things came back to me. I remembered what I hadn’t noticed at the time—’ AMY. ‘Louder, please.’ STEVE. ‘I remembered—’ AMY. ‘Is this necessary?’ ALICE. ‘Please, Amy, let me know what he remembered.’ STEVE. ‘I remembered that your voice was softer to me than when you were addressing other men.’ ALICE. ‘Let me look long at you, Mr. Rollo.’ She looks long at him. AMY. ‘Mother, enough.’ ALICE. ‘What more do you remember?’ STEVE. ‘It is strange to me now that I didn’t understand your true meaning to-day when you said I was the only man you couldn’t flirt with; you meant that I aroused deeper feelings.’ ALICE. ‘How you know me.’ AMY. ‘Not the best of you, mother.’ ALICE. ‘No, not the best, Amy.’ STEVE. ‘I can say that I never thought of myself as possessing dangerous qualities. I thought I was utterly unattractive to women.’ ALICE. ‘You must have known about your eyes.’ STEVE, eagerly, ‘My eyes? On my soul I didn’t.’ Amy wonders if this can be true. Alice rises. She feels that she cannot control herself much longer. ALICE. ‘Steve, if you don’t go away at once I shall scream.’ STEVE, really unhappy, ‘Is it as bad as that?’ AMY, rising, ‘You heard what Mrs. Grey said. This is very painful to her. Will you please say good-bye.’ In the novel circumstances he does not quite know how this should be carried out. ALICE, also shy, ‘How shall we do it, Amy? On the brow?’ AMY. ‘No, mother—with the hand.’ They do it with the hand, and it is thus that the Colonel finds them. He would be unable to keep his countenance were it not for a warning look from Alice. COLONEL, one of the men who have a genius for saying the right thing, ‘Ha.’ STEVE. ‘I am going, Colonel. I am very sorry that you——At the same time I wish you to understand that the fault is entirely mine.’ COLONEL, guardedly, ‘Ha.’ AMY, putting an arm round her mother, who hugs it, ‘Father, he came only to say goodbye. He is not a bad man, and mother has behaved magnificently.’ COLONEL, cleverly, ‘Ha.’ AMY. ‘You must not, you shall not, be cruel to her.’ ALICE. ‘Darling Amy.’ COLONEL, truculently, ‘Oh, mustn’t I. We shall see about that.’ STEVE. ‘Come, come, Colonel.’ COLONEL, doing better than might have been expected, ‘Hold your tongue, sir.’ AMY. ‘I know mother as no other person can know her. I begin to think that you have no proper appreciation of her, father.’ ALICE, basely, ‘Dear, dear Amy.’ AMY. ‘I daresay she has often suffered in the past—’ ALICE. ‘Oh, Amy, oh.’ AMY. ‘By your—your callousness—your want of sympathy—your neglect.’ ALICE. ‘My beloved child.’ COLONEL, uneasily, ‘Alice, tell her it isn’t so.’ ALICE. ‘You hear what he says, my pet.’ AMY. ‘But you don’t deny it.’ COLONEL. ‘Deny it, woman.’ ALICE. ‘Robert, Robert.’ AMY. ‘And please not to call my mother “woman” in my presence.’ COLONEL. ‘I—I—I——’ He looks for help from Alice, but she gives him only a twinkle of triumph. He barks, ‘Child, go to your room.’ AMY, her worst fears returning, ‘But what are you going to do?’ COLONEL. ‘That is not your affair.’ STEVE. ‘I must say I don’t see that.’ AMY, gratefully, ‘Thank you, Mr. Rollo.’ COLONEL. ‘Go to your room.’ She has to go, but not till she has given her mother a kiss that is a challenge to the world. Then to the bewilderment of Steve two human frames are rocked with laughter. ALICE. ‘Oh, Robert, look at him. He thinks I worship him.’ COLONEL. ‘Steve, you colossal puppy.’ STEVE. ‘Eh—what—why?’ ALICE. ‘Steve, tell Robert about my voice being softer to you than to other men; tell him, Steve, about your eyes.’ The unhappy youth gropes mentally and physically. STEVE. ‘Good heavens, was there nothing in it?’ COLONEL. ‘My boy, I’ll never let you hear the end of this.’ STEVE. ‘But if there’s nothing in it, how could your daughter have thought—’ COLONEL. ‘She saw you kiss Alice here this afternoon, you scoundrel, and, as she thought, make an assignation with you. There, it all came out of that. She is a sentimental lady, is our Amy, and she has been too often to the theatre.’ STEVE. ‘Let me think.’ COLONEL. ‘Here is a chair for the very purpose. Now, think hard.’ STEVE. ‘But—but—then why did you pretend before her, Alice?’ ALICE. ‘Because she thinks that she has saved me, and it makes her so happy. Amy has a passionate desire to be of some use in this world she knows so well, and she already sees her sphere, Steve, it is to look after me. I am not to be her chaperone, it is she who is to be mine. I have submitted, you see.’ COLONEL, fidgeting, ‘She seems to have quite given me up for you.’ ALICE, blandly, ‘Oh yes, Robert, quite.’ STEVE, gloomily, ‘You will excuse my thinking only of myself. What an ass I’ve been.’ ALICE. ‘Is it a blow, Steve?’ STEVE. ‘It’s a come down. Ass, ass, ass! But I say, Alice, I’m awfully glad it’s I who have been the ass and not you. I really am, Colonel. You see the tragedy of my life is I’m such an extraordinarily ordinary sort of fellow that, though every man I know says some lady has loved him, there never in all my unromantic life was a woman who cared a Christmas card for me. It often makes me lonely; and so when I thought such a glorious woman as you, Alice—I lost touch of earth altogether; but now I’ve fallen back on it with a whack. But I’m glad—yes, I’m glad. You two kindest people Steve Rollo has ever known.—Oh, I say good-night. I suppose you can’t overlook it, Alice.’ ALICE. ‘Oh, yes, you goose, I can. We are both fond of you—Mr. Rollo.’ COLONEL. ‘Come in, my boy, and make love to me as often as you feel lonely.’ STEVE. ‘I may still come to see you? I say, I’m awfully taken with your Amy.’ COLONEL. ‘None of that, Steve.’ ALICE. ‘We can drop in on you on the sly, Steve, to admire your orbs; but you mustn’t come here—until Amy thinks it is safe for me.’ When he has gone she adds, ‘Until I think it is safe for Amy.’ COLONEL. ‘When will that be?’ ALICE. ‘Not for some time.’ COLONEL. ‘He isn’t a bad sort, Steve.’ ALICE. ‘Oh, no—she might even do worse some day. But she is to be my little girl for a long time first.’ COLONEL. ‘This will give him a sort of glamour to her, you know.’ ALICE. ‘You are not really thinking, Robert, that my Amy is to fall asleep to-night before she hears the whole true story. Could I sleep until she knows everything!’ COLONEL. ‘Stupid of me. I am a little like Steve in one way, though; I don’t understand why you have kept it up so long.’ ALICE. ‘It isn’t the first time you have thought me a harum-scarum.’ COLONEL. ‘It isn’t.’ ALICE. ‘The sheer fun of it, Robert, went to my head, I suppose. And then, you see, the more Amy felt herself to be my protectress the more she seemed to love me. I am afraid I have a weakness for the short cuts to being loved.’ COLONEL. ‘I’m afraid you have. The one thing you didn’t think of is that the more she loves you the less love she seems to have for me.’ ALICE. ‘How selfish of you, Robert.’ COLONEL, suspiciously, ‘Or was that all part of the plan?’ ALICE. ‘There was no plan; there wasn’t time for one. But you were certainly rather horrid, Robert, in the way you gloated over me when you saw them take to you. I have been gloating a little perhaps in taking them from you.’ COLONEL. ‘Them? You are going a little too fast, my dear. I have still got Cosmo and Molly.’ ALICE. ‘For the moment.’ COLONEL. ‘Woman.’ ALICE. ‘Remember, Amy said you must not call me that.’ He laughs as he takes her by the shoulders. ‘Yes, shake me; I deserve it.’ COLONEL. ‘You do, indeed,’ and he shakes her with a ferocity that would have startled any sudden visitor. No wonder, then, that it is a shock to Cosmo, who comes blundering in. Alice is the first to see him, and she turns the advantage to unprincipled account. ALICE. ‘Robert, don’t hurt me. Oh, if Cosmo were to see you!’ COSMO. ‘Cosmo does see him.’ He says it in a terrible voice. Probably Cosmo has been to a theatre or two himself. ALICE. ‘You here, Cosmo!’ She starts back from her assailant. COLONEL, feeling a little foolish, ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ COSMO, grimly, ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t.’ COLONEL, testily, ‘No heroics, my boy.’ COSMO. ‘Take care, father.’ He stands between them, which makes his father suddenly grin. ‘Laugh on, sir. I don’t know what this row’s about, but’—here his arm encircles an undeserving lady—‘this lady is my mother, and I won’t have her bullied. What’s a father compared to a mother.’ ALICE. ‘Cosmo, darling Cosmo.’ COLONEL, becoming alarmed, ‘My boy, it was only a jest. Alice, tell him it was only a jest.’ ALICE. ‘He says it was only a jest, Cosmo.’ COSMO. ‘You are a trump to shield him, mother.’ He kisses her openly, conscious that he is a bit of a trump himself, in which view Alice most obviously concurs. COLONEL, to his better half, ‘You serpent.’ COSMO. ‘Sir, this language won’t do.’ COLONEL, exasperated, ‘You go to bed, too.’ ALICE. ‘He has sent Amy to bed already. Try to love your father, Cosmo,’ placing many kisses on the spot where he had been slapped. Try for my sake, and try to get Amy and Molly to do it, too.’ Sweetly to her husband, ‘They will love you in time, Robert; at present they can think only of me. Darling, I’ll come and see you in bed.’ COSMO. ‘I don’t like to leave you with him—’ ALICE. ‘Go, my own; I promise to call out if I need you.’ On these terms Cosmo departs. The long-suffering husband, arms folded, surveys his unworthy spouse. COLONEL. ‘You are a hussy.’ ALICE, meekly, ‘I suppose I am.’ COLONEL. ‘Mind you, I am not going to stand Cosmo’s thinking this of me.’ ALICE. ‘As if I would allow it for another hour! You won’t see much of me to-night, Robert. If I sleep at all it will be in Amy’s room.’ COLONEL, lugubriously, ‘You will be taking Molly from me to-morrow.’ ALICE. ‘I feel hopeful that Molly, too, will soon be taking care of me.’ She goes to him in her cajoling way: ‘With so many chaperones, Robert, I ought to do well. Oh, my dear, don’t think that I have learnt no lesson to-night.’ COLONEL, smiling, ‘Going to reform at last?’ ALICE, the most serious of women, ‘Yes, Robert. The Alice you have known is come to an end. To-morrow—’ COLONEL. ‘If she is different to-morrow I’ll disown her.’ ALICE. ‘It’s summer done, autumn begun. Farewell, summer, we don’t know you any more. My girl and I are like the little figures in the weather-house; when Amy comes out, Alice goes in. Alice Sit-by-the-fire henceforth. The moon is full to-night, Robert, but it isn’t looking for me any more. Taxis farewell—advance four-wheelers. I had a beautiful husband once, black as the raven was his hair—’ COLONEL. ‘Stop it.’ ALICE. ‘Pretty Robert, farewell. Farewell, Alice that was; it’s all over, my dear. I always had a weakness for you; but now you must really go; make way there for the old lady.’ COLONEL. ‘Woman, you’ll make me cry. Go to your Amy.’ ALICE. ‘Robert—’ COLONEL. ‘Go. Go. Go.’ As he roars it Amy peeps in anxiously. She is in her nightgown, and her hair is down and her feet are bare, and she does not look so very much more than five. Alice is unable to resist the temptation. ALICE, wailing, ‘Must I go, Robert?’ AMY. ‘Going away? Mother! Father, if mother goes away, what is to become of me?’ She draws them together until their hands clasp. There is now a beatific smile on her face. The curtain sees that its time has come; it clicks, and falls. <h3> THE END </h3> <div style="height: 6em;"> </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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