Iris by Arthur Wing Pinero — Free Audiobook

1 01 - Act 1 1:04:50

Dramatis Personae. Frederick Maldonado. Read by Adrian Stephens. Lawrence Trenwith. Read by Thomas Peter. Croker Harrington.

Archibald Cain. Colonel Winning. Servant at Mrs. Bellamy's in Kensington.

Man-Servant at the Villa Pringo. Larry Wilson. Iris Bellamy.

Fanny Sylvain, read by Sonia. Aurea Weiss, read by Jen Broder. Mrs. Winning, read by Lynette Coggins. Miss Pinsent, read by Belinda Loveday. Woman Servant at the Villa Pringo. Woman Servant at the flat in Park Street, read by Sandra Schmidt. Stage Directions, read by Michelle Eaton. The First Act, London, Mrs. Bellamy's House in Kensington. The Second Act, Italy, the Villa Pregno, at Cadernabia on the Lake of Como. The Third Act, the Same. The Fourth Act, London, a flat in Park Street. The Fifth Act, the Same. In both the first act and the third, the action is divided into three episodes, which are marked by the falling of the curtain. Between the third act and the fourth, two years are supposed to elapse.

Iris, the first act. The scene represents two drawing-rooms of equal size upon the ground floor of a house in Kensington. In the wall separating the rooms are two arched entrances, the one on the right-hand side, the other on the left, and in the centre between these entrances is a fireplace. Over the fireplace is an opening, shaped and framed like a mirror, so that with the view gained through the archways, the further room is almost entirely disclosed. In this further room, on the left, is a single door admitting to a small apartment. In the centre at the back is a conservatory, seen through glazed doors, and on the right is a window, affording a view of a garden. On the left-hand side of the room, nearer the spectator, are double doors opening from the inner hall of the house.

And on the right, facing these doors, there is a spacious circular bow, in which are three French windows, also looking on to the garden. The rooms are richly furnished and decorated. In the further room, a grand piano, adorned with paintings in the style of Watteau and Lancray, and a music stool stand by the window. By the side of the piano is a chair, and on the other side of the room are two chairs placed together under the branches of a high palm. Against the walls are cabinets containing articles de vertu. In the nearer room, there is an armchair on each side of the fireplace, and, facing the fireplace, a luxurious Chesterfield settee. with a piece of rich silk draped over the back. Behind the settee stands a French ottoman.

On the left of the room are a settee of a more formal kind, a table and a window stool, and on the right a writing table and two chairs. The one in front of the table, the other by the side of it. Also on the right, between the bow and the entrance to the further room, Another high palm shelters a smaller settee. There are flowers in profusion. Some are arranged in vases and jardinaires, while a bank of blossom partially conceals the fireplace. The light is that of a fine evening in summer. The warm glow of sunset is seen in the garden and in the conservatory. Note, the descriptions of the scenery and the directions for the movement of the characters are set out as from the point of view of the audience.

Thus, right and left are the spectators right and left, not the actors. Miss Pinsent, a cheerful young lady in dinner dress, is seated at the writing table, writing. A man-servant enters from the hall. Mr. Kane. The servant is followed by Archibald Kane, a smart, well-tailored man of middle age. He carries an opera hat, wears an orchid in his buttonhole, and has an air of some authority. Miss Pinsent, advancing and shaking hands with him cordially. How do you do? To the servant who withdraws. Tell Mrs. Bellamy. To Cain. She is not down yet. Don't be scandalised by my premature appearance. She has asked me to give her a few minutes' talk before her guests arrive. Miss Pinsent laughingly. I see.

For a quarter of an hour you are not a guest. Merely a hard-working, conscientious solicitor. And how are you, my dear Miss Pinsent? I? Again at the writing-table, putting the writing materials in order. A woman who has the good fortune to be attached to the household of such a sweet creature as Mrs. Bellamy can't be otherwise than robust and happy. I need not ask after her. She was looking radiant at Hurlingham on Saturday. Yes, out of the house. Nothing amiss, I hope? She seems depressed, in low spirits. The end of the season. Fatigue. Scarcely. She's been fretting for weeks. Fretting? Brooding. Upon what? What does my sex brood over? Religion, the affections, the discovery of a grey hair, anything, everything.

Returning to him. I rather fancy the old grievance still irritates her occasionally. The old? Her husband's will. Oh, poor dear lady. Will she never become reconciled to its conditions? Never is a big word. After all, these are early days. She has been five years a widow. She is only six and twenty now. And well off. As far as her heedlessness in money matters will permit of her being so, let her compare her situation with that of other women. Six and twenty and independent. And unable to remarry. She could commit even that indiscretion, if she pleased. Under penalty of losing every penny of her income? If she married a rich man, her interest in her late husband's estate would be no longer indispensable to her.

Rich men generally have some odious quality to counterbalance their wealth. The men one would marry are as poor as mice. Cain shrugging his shoulders. Well, worlds such as Mr. George Adair Bellamy's are common enough. The more's the shame? With mock severity. I wonder you care to be a trustee under so iniquitous an instrument? Aha! The position isn't altogether a bed of roses. It has already worried my fellow trustee, poor Mr. Cauderly, into his grave. However, we ought not to discuss Mrs. Bellamy's affairs too freely. Of course not. I beg your pardon. With a change of manner. I say, Mr. Kane. Yes? I wish you would render me a service. Delighted. You are connected with a number of little concerns that pay decent dividends, aren't you?

Nice, snug little schemes that the public isn't allowed to dip its hands into. Who tells you so? Mrs. Bellamy. She says you do wonders for her great friend, Miss Sylvain, and for Mr. Harrington. Well? I've managed to scrape together nearly 300 pounds. To you, it's the merest trifle, but... You might help her poor lady's companion to increase her stall. Ha ha! Don't laugh. Let me come and see you, will you? Honoured. In Lincoln's Inn Fields? Cain writing on his shirt cuff. Tomorrow? Miss Pinsent with a nod. At what time? Four o'clock. Oh, I'm awfully obliged. I... Listening. This is she, I think. Iris, richly but delicately gowned, enters at the door in the further room, drawing on her gloves.

She comes to Kane and gives him her hand. She is a beautiful woman with a soft, appealing voice, and movements instinct with simple grace and dignity. Her manner is characterized by a repose amounting almost to languor. Miss Pinsent, taking from the writing-table the paper upon which she had been writing and presenting it to Iris. The arrangements of the couples at dinner. Iris slips the paper into her bodice, and Miss Pinsent withdraws, passing through the further room. Iris, glancing into the further room to assure herself that she and Cain are alone. Then indicating the doors in the nearer room. Is there a draught? He closes the doors while she seats herself upon the ottoman. I want to talk to you, Archie, concerning a young man in whom I am slightly interested.

Kane sitting facing her upon the window stool. Oh, yes? A Mr. Trendwith. Do I know him? You may have met him. He has been about this season a great deal. Surely I introduced him to you one night during La Boheme? Oh! Is he the good-looking boy I have seen in your box at the opera several times recently? Two or three times. His name had escaped me. And he was at Hurlingham with you on Saturday, wasn't he? More with the Little Dales than with me. I gave him a lift down. He's quite poor, you know. Really? He must have friends. The Little Dales, for example. We mean friends who ask him to parties. They are of no use when even a cab fare is a consideration. It occurred to me that you might be inclined to exert your influence in some direction or another in his behalf.

What's his age? Twenty-eight, I'm afraid. Who ever done anything? He has tried many things.

His great misfortune was being ploughed for the army. That was a thousand pities. Lately, he has been reading for the bar, but he finds he has no taste for law. His ear for music is wonderful, and he draws cleverly in pastel. The failures in life are masters of the minor talents. Hush! And now his only relative with money and position, an uncle who is an archdeacon, has become disheartened. You would expect an archdeacon to be sympathetic and patient, would you not? Beyond a certain point, I would not. You are too cynical. At any rate, this uncle offers him a few hundred pounds on the understanding that he goes out to a cattle ranch in British Columbia, a dreadful place, a sort of genteel Siberia.

I am so grieved for the boy. A difficult case. Don't say that. He belongs to a large class. He is a young gentleman to whom it is absolutely essential that somebody should bequeath five thousand a year. You will jest, Archie. My dear Iris, What career is there, apart from the criminal, for engaging but in pecunious incapacity? In its usual course, it begins with a beggarly secretaryship, passes through the intermediate stages of a precarious interest in a wine business and a disastrous association with the turf and the stock exchange, And ends with the selling, on commission, of an obsolete atlas or an unwieldy bible. Iris shudderingly. Terrible. Will you follow my advice? Oh. Back up the Archdeacon.

Urge the young man to clear out without delay. She rises and moves to the fireplace, where she stands looking down upon the flowers. Cain, rising with her. I appear extremely disagreeable. No, no. Cain, strolling over to the writing table and examining a photograph which he finds there. This is Mr. Trenwith, is it not? Iris, after a glance in his direction, sitting upon the settee facing the fireplace. Yes. Cain, replacing the photograph and approaching her. Shall I bore you by offering a little further counsel? You are very good. Cain, sitting on the ottoman. Iris, a woman in your position can't be too cautious. Cautious? I don't want to disturb you by recalling the terms of poor George's will.

At the same time... Iris turning to him. My dear Archie, nothing that you can say upon the subject will disturb me. The threats of that will seem to me to be weaved into the decorations of my walls. I construe them daily, almost hourly. Closing her eyes as she recites. You forfeit all interest in your late husband's estate by remarrying. I tread them into my carpets. As before. In such an event, the whole source of your income passes to others. The street music makes a lilt of them. You have no separate estate, wed again, and you cease to be of independent means. When a stranger is presented to me, I divine his thoughts instantly. Why, you are the woman, he remarks to himself, who loses her money by remarrying.

Reclining upon a pillow, with a faint attempt at a laugh.

For the thousandth time, why are such provisions made, can you tell me? They are designed primarily, I hope, to protect the widow. To protect her? From unscrupulous men, from fortune-hunters. In the present instant, for example, it is only fair to assume that your husband, knowing how greatly your happiness depends upon personal comfort, was actuated solely by a desire to safeguard you. Ah, the safeguarding of women. Its effects may be humiliating, cruel. Hmm. Upon one of its effects, as concerning yourself, I should like to lay particular stress. May I be perfectly frank? Do. Allow me to remind you, then, that a lady, circumstance as you are, still youthful, beautiful... Iris. Touching his sleeve gently.

Who is seen constantly in the company of a young man who she could not dream of marrying subjects herself inevitably to a considerable amount of ill-natured criticism. She raises herself looking at him. Criticism, conjecture, scandal. I didn't think you meant that. Ah, thanks. She leaves the settee showing signs of discomposure. Kane standing before her. I have completely spoilt your enjoyment of your little dinner party. Iris giving him her hand. Dear friend. This is the advantage of employing a fashionable solicitor, one whose practice has its roots in the gay partiers of society. I get the gossip of the boudoir at first hand. My object? Ah, I am infinitely obliged. But, Archie... Yes? Iris her head averted.

You don't believe, evidently... That I am capable of throwing selfish considerations to the winds, marrying a poor man. You? Iris sitting upon the window stool. I know. The last woman on earth, you would say, who would find courage for such an act. Are you joking? Ha! You marry a poor man? You, with your utter disregard for the value of money, why, luxury to you is the salt of life, my dear Iris. Great heavens! I try to do a little good with my money, too, Archie. An indiscriminate sovereign to a beggar, where a shilling would suffice? Three times his fare to every cabman? Oh, don't scold me. Not I. I gave that up long since. You were sent into the world so constituted. Iris smiling. So afflicted.

You are right, Archie. The step would be preposterous. Cain raising his hands. Oh! Only, I should like to think that I don't shrink from it out of sheer worldliness and cowardice. I should like to think...

rising. As you observe, one is sent into the world shaped this way or that. Producing Miss Pincense's memorandum and referring to it. Will you take Fanny Sylvan in to dinner? Charmed. Who are your guests? Fanny and a little niece of hers whom she has taken under her wing. The Croaker, the Winnings. Delightful. Iris, walking away from him to avoid the embarrassment of meeting his eye. And Mr. Trenwith. Oh, and Frederick Maldonado. Maldonado? Yes. May I say I'm glad. The wound is healed then? He writes, begging me to include him again in my dinner parties. Poor Maldo. She is standing beside the writing table. From a drawer, she takes out a ring case and produces a tiny ring. What's that? Iris, slipping the ring on her finger and displaying it.

A token. He gave it to me when he, at the time, telling me that if ever I relented, I had only to return it to him without a word, and no matter what part of the globe it found him in, he would come to me on wings. The plumage is golden in his case, Iris. Yes. Closing her eyes for a moment. But I couldn't, Archie. Removing the ring from her finger thoughtfully. Yet I've been on the point of sending this to him more than once during the past month. You have? Iris mechanically replacing the ring in its drawer. As a way out of my perplexity. The double doors are thrown open, and a servant announces, Miss Sylvain and Miss Weiss. Iris advances to greet Fanny Sylvain, who enters with Aurea. Fanny is a bright, attractive woman of 30.

Aurea, a frank-looking girl still in her teens, Fanny and Iris kiss affectionately. Dear Fanny. Dear Iris. Presenting Aurea. My niece, Aurea. Iris advancing to Aurea. Ah. Fanny shaking hands with Cain. Well, Archie. Cain talking to her apart. How are you, Fanny? I've bad news for you. Fanny clutching his arm. No. I am to take you in to dinner. Brute. I thought you were going to tell me that some of my investments have gone wrong. Ha ha ha! You are still doing well for me, Archie. Miss Pincent has reappeared in the further room. She now joins Fanny and Kane, shaking hands with the former. Iris with Aurea by the settee on the left. And so, this is your first dinner party, Aurea. Of a formal kind.

Iris smiling. A few old friends gathered together for the last time this season. Anyway, it is sweet of you to include me. Colonel and Mrs. Winning are announced. Winning is a soldierly man of fifty-five, his wife a pleasant-looking lady, much his junior. Iris, shaking hands with the Winnings. How do you do? How do you do? How are you? Iris to both. Were you riding in the park this morning? Jack was. I have lumbago. Ah, that's very painful, is it not? When I was a boy, early servants had it. May jove these a living days with a vengeance. Shaking hands with Fanny, who was come to Mrs. Winning. How you, Miss Sylvain? Seeing Cain. Hello, Cain. Shaking hands with Miss Pinsent. How you? Mrs. Winning greeting Miss Pinsent.

How do you do? Mrs. Winning, Miss Pinsent and Kane, in one group, and Colonel Winning and Iris, forming another, talk together on the right, while Fanny joins Aurea, who is now seated upon the settee on the left. Fanny to Aurea. Well, are you disappointed? She is adorable. Fanny sitting facing Aurea upon the window-stool triumphantly. Ah! When did you and she first know each other, aunt? When she was fourteen. We were at school together. Even then there wasn't a girl who wouldn't have sold her little white soul for a caress from Iris, and the spell she casts never weakens. Here am I, a woman of thirty, and I believe she is more attractive to me than never. Of course she'll marry again. She must.

She has been pestered to distraction ever since she discarded her mourning. Tell me, are any of the men dining here this evening in love with her? Some of them are, or were, glancing in the direction of the Winnings. Colonel Winning married that amiable creature over there in despair at having been refused three times. Does his wife know it? Certainly, and feels honoured, as she ought. A servant announces Mr. Harrington. And Croker Harrington, a dapper but exceedingly ugly little man of five and thirty, enters gaily, Iris welcoming him. So pleased to see you, Croker. Croker, kissing her hand gallantly. Dear lady. Discovering Fanny. Ah, those alabaster shoulders can belong but to one person. Fanny giving him her left hand, which he presses to his bosom.

I hate you. You didn't come to the bazaar yesterday. I did better. I told the richest man I know to go there. Freddy Maldonado? He never turned up. The traitor. My finger shall be at his throat directly, he appears. To Iris. He's to be here tonight? Yes. He joins those on the right and is received joyously. Iris exchanges a few words with Fanny and Aurea, and then, producing Miss Pincent's memorandum, goes to Croker. Aurea to Fanny. I hope that plain little gentleman has never dared. Mr. Harrington? Oh, yes. Croker Harrington has dared in his time. No. He laughs openly at his repeated failures. He laughs till he cries, he says, but I suspect the laughter has not always accompanied the tears. Dear Croker, however, he is now resigned to his position.

His position? He declares he wonders why the inland revenue people don't fine Iris for omitting to take out a dog license for him. Poor little man. Still, he is so exceedingly ugly. The most sensible men in the world, my dear. The ugly ones? The vainest of them confide the truth to themselves at least once a day, while shaving. Frederick Maldonado is announced. He enters, a tall, massive man of about forty, with brown hair and beard, handsome according to the Jewish type, somewhat ebullient in manner, his figure already tending to corpulency. Iris giving him her hand with perfect dignity. You have been too long a stranger, Maldo. Welcome. Maldo, my old diminutive. Time is effaced by your use of it.

Shaking hands with Fanny. Fanny. You didn't patronise the bazaar yesterday, Frederick. Sincere regrets. I found it impossible to get away from the city. Greeting Crocker and Cain. My dear Crocker. Archie, my good friend. Iris presenting him to the winnings. Mrs. Winning, let me introduce Mr. Frederick Maldonado. Colonel Winning. He bows to them and shakes hands with Miss Pinsent. Aurea to Fanny. Who is that? Frederick, one of the great Maldonado family. Great? Well, not great. Big. Big financiers. Foreign? The grandfather was a Jew tradesman in Madrid who broke and went out to South America. He made a fortune in tobacco in Havana, and afterwards married an Englishwoman. Since then our public schools have been favored with the education of the male Maldonados.

They are reckoned among the three leading groups of financiers in Europe. What is a financier, exactly? A financier? Oh, a pawnbroker with imagination. Aunt! And is he in love with? Fanny to Cain, who at this moment appears at her side. Ah! We are talking about her. How ethereal she looks this evening. My niece, Archie. To Aurea. Mr. Cain. Cain remains with them talking. A servant announces Mr. Lawrence Trenwith. And Lawrence, a handsome stalwart, but still boyish young man, enters. Iris advances to meet him. Her lips form the words of a welcome. They shake hands silently. You know many who are here, I think. Moving away to the right, he following. You have met Mrs. Winning? No? Presenting Lawrence.

Mr. Trenwith. Colonel Winning. Mr. Harrington, I am sure you know. Mr. Frederick Maldonado. Lauren shaking hands with Miss Pinsent after bowing to the others. How do you do? Fanny, who has risen, to Cain in a whisper. Archie, thank goodness she starts for Switzerland on Saturday. Cain to Fanny with a nod.

A servant enters.

The servant retires. Iris brings Lawrence over to the left. Cain shaking hands with him. How do you do? Fanny shaking hands with him. How are you, Mr. Trenwith? Fanny and Cain move away. Iris presenting Lawrence to Aurea. Mr. Trenwith? Miss Weiss. To Laurence. Will you take Miss Weiss? With great pleasure. Iris, in the centre of the room. Croker, please play host and go first with Mrs. Winning. Croker gives his arm to Mrs. Winning, and they pass out. Colonel Winning, after a polite offer of precedence to Kane and Fanny, follows with Miss Pinsent. Fanny and Kane go next. Then Laurence and Aurea. To Maldonado's surprise, Iris stands immovable, looking into space. Maldonado offering his arm. "'I am to have the honour.' Suddenly, with a gleam of resolution in her eyes, she moves to the writing-table and again produces Maldonado's ring.

She offers it to him. Maldonado receiving it incredulously. My ring. The token, Maldonado. Iris! Iris! Hush! Passing him, then turning and placing her arm in his quite collectedly. Have you been abroad lately? I read of your being in Vienna in the spring. The curtain falls as they go out. It rises again almost instantly, showing the window-blinds lowered and the rooms brilliantly lighted. In the conservatory, little lamps glitter among the palms and flowers. Iris and Mrs. Winning occupy the settee in the centre. Fanny is in the chair on their right. Miss Pinsent is at the piano, playing the final bars of A Nocturne of Chopin. While Aurea sits near her, turning over some music. The men enter. Colonel Winning and Kane appearing first.

Maldonado, Croker, and Lawrence following. Iris rises and motions Kane to withdraw with her from the rest. Maldonado places himself beside Mrs. Winning. Croker, standing facing them, takes part in their talk. Winning and Fanny seat themselves on the settee, under the palm on the right. Lawrence joins Aurea and Miss Pinsent at the piano. Iris, standing by the settee on the left, is a seat. Archie? Yes? You need be under no apprehension concerning me. I have done it. You have done what? Ended my perplexity. I have told Frederick Maldonado I will marry him. Iris! Not a word, if you please, to anybody. I will not have it announced till after I have left town. Accept my congratulations. What made you form this resolution so suddenly, may I ask?

I felt the sensation of stumbling, that I must snatch at something tangible. Closing her eyes. I am glad. I hope it is for your happiness. It is for my safety. There is now no risk of further scandal should Mr. Trenwith decide to remain in England. Good. On the other hand, if he migrates to British Columbia, I stifle the temptation to play housewife among the pots and pans of his poor little log hut. I am secure either way. Hmm. Then you did entertain the idea seriously. I have been miserably perplexed. Miss Pinsent plays some snatches of music lightly. Croker approaches Iris and Kane. My dear Iris, what a delightful dinner you have given us. Your dinners are always charming. Iris sitting upon the settee.

My guests are always charming. Cain moves away, joining Winning and Fanny. Winning yields his place to Cain, and ultimately sits with Auraya under the palm in the further room. Croker sitting facing Iris, his tone changing slightly. Divinity, what's the matter with you tonight? The matter? Something disturbs you, distresses you. How do I show it, Faithful One? In your lustrous and never-to-be-forgotten eyes. Iris beating a pillow and nestling in it. Ha! I am simply dog-weary. It has been a hard season for your poor divinity. Oh, how I am longing for my month among the mountains, and my sun-bath at Cadernabia. You dropped down to the lakes, then, after San Moritz? Yes. I am renting the Villa Prigno and his staff of servants from its owner, Mr.

van Reisler, for a few weeks. When are you off? On Saturday. This is farewell. I picture the caravan. The fair pincet, your courier, your maid, your fruit, your flowers, your birds. No, are not those troublesome birds. You know I never move anywhere without my birds. Are you coming to Switzerland this year? Croker almost surlily, looking away. No. Perhaps. Of course I am. I am one of your human birds, Divinity. One of my great, kind human birds that fly after me wheresoever I go. That fly, yes, and yet are caged. Hush! Croker! I beg your pardon. It slipped out. Ah, I'll not be vexed with you. I am continually breaking my promise. Someday you'll tire of me and send me about my business. Never.

Bending towards him. Faithful one, do you think I could afford to use your true friendship, your ceaseless solicitude?

She sees Lawrence, who is now standing at the writing table, waiting for an opportunity of approaching her, falters and breaks off. Croker, ask Kate to play my favourite mazurka, will you? Croker rising.

He delivers his message to Miss Pinsent, remaining by her side while she plays. With a look, Iris draws Laurence to her. As he advances, she changes her place from the settee to the window still. Laurence standing beside her. This is the first opportunity I've had of a word with you. Yes. I have something to tell you. May I? She motions him to the settee. Laurence sitting. I have accepted my uncle's proposal. You have? There is nothing for it but that. Nothing that I can hit upon. I'll go down to Rapley to talk matters over with the old man tomorrow. Oh, yes. So this may be the last time we shall ever meet. Unless you... Oh, I feel how presumptuous I am to allude to it again. Unless I... Could, after all, bring yourself to share my rough lot with me.

A mad selfish idea, I know. Feelings like mine make one mad. Please! A mad idea indeed. It's good-bye, then. When will you be back from Raipley? I shan't come back. My uncle insists upon my spending my remaining few hours with him. Then I shall go straight to Liverpool. You sail? On the 30th. The day you start for Switzerland, I hear. She assents dumbly. Let me stay behind for a few moments tonight after your friends have left. I am sorry. Mr. Maldonado has already made a similar request. Oh, but you can excuse yourself to him. I... I fear not. Forgive me. I thought this being the end of a... Rising. Never mind. She rises with him. They face one another. "'I shall write to you from Rapley, if I may, and send you a wire from Liverpool.

And when I get to Chilgerton, River Ranch, Chilgerton, British Columbia, I'll... would once a month be too often. Oh, how happy I've been!' She gives a quick glance round, conscious of a general movement, and sees that her guests are preparing to depart. Winning has joined Mrs. Winning. Lawrence. Yes. Return in about an hour's time. Be outside the house on the other side of the way. Watch the door. The Winnings come to her. Iris turning to Mrs. Winning. Must you? We have to go on. Three o'clock in the morning again for us. This week's is the last of it, thank God. When one has lumbago, one may as well keep up. Right as not. I ought to follow you, but I am too indolent tonight. Mrs. Winning kissing her.

It has been so pleasant. Winning shaking hands. Charming. They shake hands with the rest, who are engaged in bidding each other good night, and withdraw, Miss Pinsent accompanying them. Iris to Fanny. Who comes to her with Aurea. You too, Fanny? Only to the Chadwigs, for the sake of this girl, and then to bye-bye. Kissing her on both cheeks. Your dinner table looked superb. Do let me thank you, dear Mrs. Bellamy. Iris to Aurea. Well? Oh, I should like to dine out every night of my life. Ha! If I could always watch your face through the flowers. Iris kisses her and walks with them to the door. Will you be at home at tea time tomorrow? To you, Fanny. Au revoir. They depart as Croker approaches her.

Are you for gaieties, Croker? Not I. Kissing her hand. The last act of Messaline, and a glance at the telegrams at the club will see me through. In the doorway. I shall be on the platform at Victoria. No, no, you mustn't trouble. Croker with a quick look into her face. Trouble? Good heavens! He disappears. Lawrence formally as he shakes hands with her. Thank you for a most delightful evening. So nice of you to come. Good night. Good night. He withdraws. Cain shaking hands with her. Shall we meet again before you run away? Hardly. Well, a pleasant holiday. And to you, Archie. Cain pausing in the doorway, dropping his voice. Once more. Congratulations. Thanks. He goes. She closes the doors and turns to find herself in Maldonado's arms.

Ah! No! At last. Oh! Sweetest. Maldo. Freeing herself with a gesture of repugnance. Maldo! She brushes past him and stands greatly ruffled by the chair beside the writing table. He regards her silently for a moment, puzzled. After the silence. Oh, pardon me, my dear. The stored-up feelings of a lifetime, it seems. It would be an exceedingly poor compliment to you, were I less ardent. She takes a bottle of salt from the writing table and drops into the chair. I... I am tired, Maldo. Ah, naturally, and I most inconsiderate. Coming to the back of her chair. I was rough, savage. The woman should always find repose on the breast of her lover. Bending over her. Let me prove to you how gentle. I can be.

Ah, it is late, Maldonado. Maldonado glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. Barely eleven. Turning to her. Light. Twisting his beard thoughtfully. You who never leave the opera till the final bar is played. Placing himself between her chair and the writing table. But I won't plague you further. Sitting upon the edge of the table and inclining his body towards her. I only ask you to grant me one favour before you dismiss me tonight. Favour? Bestow upon me the title I have coveted so long. It is comprised in a single word. The faintest movement of those beautiful still lips will suffice. You have but to whisper it to send me through the streets in air. Whisper. What? I am your beloved, am I not?

Simply call me Beloved. We... we are not boy and girl, Maldon. Boy? I... no. His eyes glowering. The boy is not scorched up. Body and soul, by such a passion as you inspire me with. She rises, turning from him. Maldonado also rising apologetically. Ah, I scare you again. You'll think me a hot-blooded tyrant. Don't fear. It is merely for the moment, the suddenness of my delight. Besides... You must make some small allowance for me. We Maldonados are not yet wholly English in our ways. You shall complete my education. We'll begin the course of instruction at once. Begin by my promptly leaving you to your slumbers." Taking her hand and crumpling it fondly. There. Was there ever a more docile pupil?

In an outburst, impulsively pressing her hand to his lips and covering it with passionate kisses. Ah, sweetest, be kind. Melt, be warm. Be warm. Iris regaining possession of her hand. Maldo, listen. Maldo, I... I am dreadfully sorry. What I tell you now I ought to have told you before returning your ring, your token. Maldo, I haven't the love for you a woman should have for the man who is to be her husband. In that respect I am as you have always known me. But I will try to do my duty faithfully as mistress of your house, if that will satisfy you. I can promise no more, but I will do my duty, strictly and honorably, Maldo." Strictly and honourably. She moves away to the centre. He approaches her slowly.

Maldonado at her side, his softness gone, speaking in a harsh, grating voice, swallowing an oath. By! I should scarcely have thought it possible. Yes, you positively deceived me, the astute Freddy Maldonado. You've had me in a fool's paradise for nearly three hours. Deceived? What an ass. I really imagined, for three mortal hours, that it was reserved for me to escape the proverbial fate of the millionaire where the love of woman is concerned. Maldo! Why are you marrying me, then, eh? Why are you prepared to marry me? You are very good, Maldo. Very generous. Ah, yes. Amiability itself. Quite so. There is no man for whom I have sincere respect. None, Maldo. None. Yes, yes, all that. But I assume that the qualities you enumerate— Admirable as they are, would hardly suffice to induce you to resign your own comfortable fortune, were I not able to offer you a pretty solid exchange.

A woman, at such a crisis of her life, is swayed by many considerations, of course, Maldo. I am past the romantic age. You... you must think what you please. I cannot defend myself. She sits upon the ottoman stonily. Leaving her, he walks about the room giving vent to short outbursts of ironical laughter. Ultimately, he flings himself onto the settee on the left.

Why, I suppose I ought to be profoundly grateful to you for your candour, the generality of women.

And better now than subsequent to marriage. And after all, you give yourself to me, give yourself in a fashion. In the only fashion it may be, I must console myself with that. In the only fashion in which your temperament allows you to yield yourself. Come, I can't lose you utterly, my dear. I'll be a philosopher and say thanks. Thanks. Returning to her side. Thanks. Thanks, Maldon. It's a bargain, then. You'll be mine, as much mine as the Falasquith, the Raphael hanging on my walls. Mine, at least, to gaze at. Mine to keep from others. Her head droops in acquiescence. And in return, I promise that you shall be one of the most envied women in Europe. Oh, you shall attain your ambition. You shall realize what wealth is.

Steep yourself in it to your heart's content. Iris rising penitently. Maldo. Tush, my dear. I'll not reproach you. You are as God made women, and I... I am a millionaire. After a pause, during which she plays with her handkerchief helplessly. Well, I'll be gone. I fear I've gravely imperiled my character for amiability. Oh. Giving him her hand. Maldo. Eh? Perhaps. Perhaps as the years grow it may become different between us. Maldonado gripping her hand. Iris. Good night. Maldonado devouring her with his eyes. My, my queen. Drawing a deep breath. I take my luck. He releases her, and she goes to the bell beside the fireplace and rings it. Maldonado at the door. Will you be in to me in the morning?

Yes. A thousand apologies for keeping you up. Good night. Good night, Maldor. He departs. With a cry half of pain, half of weariness, she throws herself at full length upon the settee, and the curtain falls. After a brief pause it rises, disclosing the rooms empty and in darkness. and the window shutters, and the shutters of the conservatory doors closed and barred. A key turns in its lock, and one of the double doors is opened gently, and Iris enters, followed by Laurence Trenwith. She motions him to pass her, and carefully closes the door. Then she switches on the light of a lamp, standing upon the table on the left, and silently and impassively seats herself upon the window-stool. Having deposited his hat and overcoat upon the settee on the right, he comes to her, and throwing himself upon his knees before her, clasps her waist.

She remains statue-like, her arms hanging by her side, looking down upon him with fixed eyes. I can't help it. Pity me. Forgive me for being so daring. Remember, In the future, I have to live upon my recollection of you, my recollection of how near I have been to you. Tonight we'll stand out more distinctly than all the rest. You'll kiss me tonight, won't you? Let me kiss you. She raises her hands to shield her face. For once, just for once.

You'll not allow me to go without a kiss at parting. Picture me in my solitary little log hut. Alone after the day's work, twelve miles away from the nearest house, from the nearest companionable creature, and think what the memory of a single kiss will always mean to me. Oh, don't hide your face! Are you angry? Remove your hands! You are angry. I won't kiss you, then. I won't try to kiss you." He attempts to uncover her face, whereupon she rises. He rises with her. There is silence between them for a while. Iris, at length, controlling herself with an effort. Lawrence, my poor friend, I have promised to marry Mr. Maldonado. What? Maldonado. When? When did I make the promise? Yes. Tonight. Last night, that is.

It is past twelve, isn't it? Yes. He turns from her unsteadily and sinks upon the ottoman, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking convulsively. Iris at his side. Don't. Don't. Be strong. What difference can it make? To me? None, I suppose. Oh yes. Yes, all the difference. How? There would have been the hope. There would have been the hope. Hope? Lawrence mastering his emotion and looking up at her. In spite of everything, I should have gone away with the hope that, someday, if I prosper, you would bid me come home to fetch you. And now, Mr. Maldonado. Rising.

I thank your pardon. I ought to offer you my... Thank you. Lawrence gazing at her. You and Mr. Maldonado. I should hardly have... Checking himself. I trust you will be extremely... He fetches his hat and coat and returns to her. Of course, under the altered circumstances, I won't think of troubling you with letters. Perhaps it would be as well that you should not write, for a time at least. I shall never cease to be interested in your career. Losing some of her composure. Oh, you might have disguised it more thoroughly. Disguised? Your astonishment at my marrying Mr. Maldonado. He has loved me. He asked me to be his wife two years ago, and tonight I quite suddenly...

Do you know that you and I were beginning to be the subject of tittle-tattle? You and I? Gossip. Oh. Scandal. How dare people, good heavens, to think I have brought this upon you. What an infamous world. She shrugged her shoulders, smiling miserably. Oh. Going to the mantelpiece and leaning upon it. Oh, it's a dastardly world. I didn't mean to add to your unhappiness. I only wished you to understand exactly what has occurred. Lawrence turning to her. But now I am going away. That in itself will stop evil tongues. There is no necessity now for you to take this step, if you are taking it merely to stop scandal. She sits silently upon the ottoman. Throwing his hat and coat aside, he kneels upon the settee and bending over it, speaks almost into her ear.

Don't do this. Don't. Don't. There's no reason for it. You shan't. You shall not. I must. Not, Martinado. I must. Not the man I met here tonight. Iris seizing his hands and holding them in entreaty. Lawrence. What? I am totally unfit for the life you ask me to lead. The life? Your wife. A farmer's wife, mistress of a log hut. To work with my hands. I dare not. Iris. Out there, here, anywhere, I'm not fit to be a poor man's wife. Iris. No, no, no. I will not. You're marrying him to save yourself from me.

Oh. Her head drops back until it rests upon the edge of the settee. With a cry, he presses a prolonged kiss upon her lips. She rises, her eyes closed, her hand pressed tightly upon her mouth. "'You'll despise me for that. Always have a contempt for me.' After a pause, during which she is quite still, she moves to the writing-table, and, seating herself before it, Switches on the light of a lamp standing upon the table. Lawrence. She selects a sheet of notepaper and writes, he looking on wonderingly. When she has finished her note, she blots it, and hands it to him, and proceeds to address an envelope. Read it. What have I said? Lawrence reading. Forget what has passed between us tonight. It cannot be.

I entreat your forgiveness. He returns the paper and she encloses it. Then she rises, and taking some flowers from a vase, moistens the envelope with the wet stalks. Having fastened the letter, by pressing it with her handkerchief, she gives it to Lawrence. Let her messenger leave that at Mr. Maldonado's house in Mount Street before nine o'clock. Lauren's pocketing the letter. Iris. She leaves him with uncertain steps and sinks upon the settee facing the fireplace. He follows her. Lauren's standing before her. What do you mean? Iris half-rising. I... I don't care. Follow me to Switzerland. Be near me. She stretches out her arms to him, and they sit together in an embrace. The curtain falls. End of Act One.

2 02 - Act 2 53:15

The second act. The scene represents an apartment in a villa, standing upon elevated ground, running up from the west bank of the lake of Como. The room, quadrontal in shape, is a spacious and lofty one. Its walls decorated in a slight relief, and its plasters are of the purest white plaster. On the right-hand side of the room, the wall is straight. In it, deeply recessed, are double doors admitting to a hall. While the circular wall is broken by three vast windows, opening to the floor at equal distances from each other. Outside these windows runs a balcony, the termination of which, at either end, is out of sight. Beyond the balcony are the tops of the trees, palms, magnolia in blossom, and others, growing in the garden below.

And in the distance, under a deep blue sky, lie Bellagio and the juncture of the Lake of Como, with that of Leko. The furniture and hangings of the apartment, in contrast to the likeness of its decorations, are French, of the time of the First Empire. By the further window which is open stand a settee and a writing table and chair. Near the door is a circular table, covered with a white tablecloth, and partially laid for a meal, and on each side of this table is a chair, so placed as to suggest that the meal in preparation is for two persons. A cabinet standing against the wall serves as a sideboard. On it are dishes of fruit, decanters of wine, table glass, etc.

On the other side of the room, by the nearer window, half of which is open, is another table littered with newspapers, magazines, and books. On the left-hand side of this table is a settee. On the right, a chair, and upon the floor, between the chair and the settee, are a heap of cushions, some loose sheets of music, and a guitar. A piece of sculpture fills the right-hand corner of the room, and some busts on pedestals occupy the spaces between the windows. On the balcony there are two or three chairs in basket-work, and outside the middle window, standing upon the broad ledge of the balustrade, several cages of birds. The light is that of a brilliantly fine morning in September. The sun enters through the nearer window.

The rest of the balcony is in shade. Two servants, a man and a woman, are engaged in laying the table near the doors for Dejeuner. Fanny Sylvain and Aurea, dressed for walking, appear on the balcony at the further window, coming from the right. Good morning. Good morning, Miss. Fanny entering. Mrs. Bellamy is out, the gardener tells me. Yes, miss. She has gone for a walk to Tremetzo. I wonder I didn't meet her. Alone? No, miss. With Mr. Trenwith. Oh. Mr. Trenwith is sketching at Tremetzo, miss. Fanny displaying no further interest. Really? Mrs. Bellamy, breakfast at twelve, miss, so she can't be long. Fanny taking a magazine from the table on the left, and seating herself on the settee by the nearer window.

I'll wait a little while. To Aurea, who has followed her into the room. We'll wait, Aurea. Aurea sitting on the settee by the further window. I could gaze at this prospect for ever, aunt. The woman's servant withdraws at the door. Man's servant to Fanny. Mr. Arrington is also waiting for Mrs. Bellamy, miss. I believe you're acquainted with Mr. Arrington. Mr. Croker Harrington? He came down last night from Pomontongo. He's staying at Menaggio. Fanny rising. Where is she now? He's strolling about the gardens, I fancy. Mr. Harrington has arrived, Aurea. Has he, Aunt? Fanny going out at the nearer window, and looking down from the balcony into the garden. Isn't that he by the fountain? Moving to the further end of the balcony, as she calls.

Croaker! Croaker! Waving her sunshade. Croaker! Re-entering the room. How jolly, Aurea. Dear Croker, or Rhea, who is now standing by the table on the left. Do you think all this pleases Mrs. Bellamy, aunt? All this? Her friend's chasing her, as it must seem, from place to place while she is on her holiday. Why, it delights her, naturally. It wouldn't me, if I wanted... Wanted what? Rest and seclusion. The woman's servant reappears, showing in Croker Harrington, then she and her fellow servant retire. Croker kissing Fanny's hand. My dearest Fanny. Croker advancing to Aurea and shaking hands with her. My dear Miss Weiss, ladies, your appearance on a day already sufficiently brilliant. is overpowering.

Opening a white umbrella, which he is carrying, and holding it before him. Remove your eyes from me, I entreat. They rob me of the shade. What a fool you are, Croker. So you've turned up? Last night. You're at Menaggio? You divine my most secret movements. At the Victoria. And you? Fanny with a jerk of the head towards the right. We're at the Bellevue, Ori and I. Svick, span, comfortable Bellevue. To Fanny, his hand upon his heart. But I daren't trust myself in too close a proximity. Fanny striking him gently with her sunshade. Idiot! Have you paid your devotions to our divinity yet? Not yet. It was too late to do so last night. You see much of her, of course? I've been here only a week. Yes, I see her for a few minutes every day.

A few minutes? She's a good deal occupied. Occupied? Sketching. Sketching? Oriya, dear, the sun is off the front of the house. If you kept watch, you might run and meet Iris when she appears. Yes, aunt. She goes out at the nearer window and talks to the birds. Fanny crosses over to the window and closes it. Fanny turning to him. What were we? I was about to commit myself to the observation that Iris doesn't sketch. No, but Mr. Trenworth does. Oh, yes. Is Mr. Trenwith at Cabanabia? At Britannia. Hmm, hmm. A few hundred yards from this villa. There is a pause between them, during which he employs himself in idly turning over the newspapers upon the table on the left. Fanny, seating herself on the settee by the further window.

You were at St. Morris during her stay there. You wrote and told me. For a fortnight. Mr. Trenwith happened to be there also, didn't he? Yes. He is regularly in her train. Oh, hardly more than I, if it comes to that. But he is young, charming, attractive in every way. He throws his head back and laughs almost too uproariously, Fanny jumping up and coming to him penitently. I beg your pardon, Croker. You misunderstood me. Oh, be quiet. What I should have said was one could wish that Miss Pinson's successor were of another sex. Why was Miss Pinson given her congé just before Iris left London? A pleasant, suitable person for a companion, surely. Wouldn't you consider her so? I might consider her so.

Fanny moving away. Don't be coarse. I had a letter last week from Evelyn Liddledale. The Liddledales were at St. Moritz, too. He nods in assent. Everybody was talking, Evelyn says. Talking? What else is there to do at St. Moritz? And here? Here? It's the same here. Everybody is talking. The glass is falling. Two days of rain, and the place will be empty. "'People will carry the topic away with them.'" Leaning upon the back of the chair on the left of the breakfast table. "'Mary Chadwick writes me from Scotland. She mentions it.'" "'Pretty bony pimply Polly Chadwick.'" "'It came to her from London. It has been brought to London already.'" "'The only form of luggage that escapes a charge for excess.'" "'You are too sententious.'" At the breakfast table, suddenly.

Are you breakfasting with Iris? Croker joining her. She doesn't know I've arrived. Because I notice the table is laid for two. On his left. For mercy's sake, men do show some signs of animation. You can be sprightly enough at times. My dear Fanny, to what tune would you have me skip? Why, astonishment! Astonishment at least at our divinity's extraordinary behaviour. Is it extraordinary? Can you find a milder phrase for it? I tell you, Croker, I can't sleep for worrying about Iris. When we were in town and young Trenwith was fluttering round her, I was in a blue funk lest she should be tempted to marry him and plunge herself into poverty. But now... Well, I sometimes catch myself wishing that she would announce her engagement to him.

Leaving Croker and peering at Aurea through the centre window. My niece, too. I am certain she is beginning to wander. Seating herself by the table on the left. What on earth are we to think of it all? Think? That here are two well-intentioned young people. with a natural fondness for each other's society. What else, pray, is there to think? Oh, thanks. I appreciate a snub. Best natured of your sex, I intend no snub. Bring me the man who presumes to snub you, and I will slay him in your presence. No, no. I would only suggest to those who are disturbing you by their gossip that it is simply abominable that close companionships can't exist between reputable men and women without suspicion of wickedness.

Fah! Why must this dear friend of ours be fastened upon? Cannot she be spared? A refined, delicate creature, whose natural pride and dignity queens might envy. Oh, a little spoilt, if you will. Petted by those who have the privilege of intimacy with her, luxurious in her habits, a born spendthrift, but never more prodigal, bless her, than in her charities. I can remember little else to urge against her, except the difficulties of her position, none of her own making. She mustn't remarry, that is, she may not marry whom she pleases. In heaven's name is she to be gagged and manacled for that reason? She is still young, yes, yet from the fact of her already having been a wife, brief as was the duration of that experience, she can't be altogether an unwise woman.

Is she not to be trusted to give wholesome counsel to a young man without the interruption of a chaperone? Is she never to play at mothering, like a sage child with a doll, A male companion belonging to her own generation? And this young fellow this Trenwith? Is he necessarily an abandoned wretch? I like him. I wish I were in his shoes. Better still, in his skin. I say, is youth necessarily designing, necessarily vicious? I'll back it against age. And age isn't all bad. I console myself with believing as I pull a grey hair or two every morning. Pacing the room. Pugh! It nauseates me even to argue the matter. Sitting on the left of the breakfast table. Have you ventured to speak to Iris on the subject?

Not yet. I keep putting it off from day to day. Why, feeling as strongly as you do? I suppose I shrink from seeing a pair of placid, grey eyes turn on me with a look of surprise and reproach. Ah! Oh, of course, I know they will look so, and leave me to splutter out of my difficulty like a puppy who has been dropped into a pond. Yes, yes, of course, Croker. In my heart I know she is only foolish, foolish, foolish. I won't admit even that. Only that other people are malicious. Malicious, malicious. Fanny going to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. What a friend you are. Is there any other role for an ugly little devil to play in this world? The friendship of a single man is worth that of a dozen women.

I believe that if our divinity really behaved as she has been doing in my nightmares... Croker looking up at her. Your nightmares? Fanny avoiding his gaze. I believe you'd stick to her even then. Good God, yes. Through any disgrace? Till death. My dear Fanny, please don't imagine such impossible contingencies. And you? Ah, there's the difference between men and women. I should drop quietly away. Would you? Goodness knows I'm not straight-laced, Croker, but would daren't let one's laces get too slack. Yes, I should simply have to drop away quietly. What an end. Croker, rising. Don't let us talk in this fashion. Fanny, rousing herself. No, no. Recovering her spirits. As a matter of fact, your homily has comforted me tremendously, though you did snarl at me like a griffin.

But you don't object to my whispering just one word of warning into that little pink ear of hers when an opportunity occurs, eh? On the contrary. Aurea looking in at the further window. She is coming, aunt. Aurea disappears quickly. One of the caged birds bursts into song. Hark! Croker on the left. Eh? Listen to that silly bird. It's the same with me. Always has been. My heart thumps, thumps, thumps whenever she approaches. And with you? Croker nodding. Yes. What is she looking like? Oh, fresher for the soft air of this place. More colour. Her paleness is wonderfully becoming, though. Fanny, smiling. When you met her at St. Morris, did you notice she had lost some of those little lines we saw last season?

They were going. I miss them. They were nothing but dimples. And her smile? Breaking off suddenly and coming to him. Croker. Yes? Fanny, her troubled manner, returning. I'll tell you what she looks like. What a noise that bird makes. I'll tell you. I should describe her as looking exactly like...

It's the effect of this enchanted lake, I suppose. Exactly like? Fanny again avoiding his eye. A bride. Iris enters at the door, her arm through Auraya's. She is dressed in white and is happier looking and more girlish than when last seen. Lawrence follows, carrying his sketchbook. Iris uttering a cry of pleasure upon seeing Croker. Ah! Kissing Fanny. Dear Fanny. Advancing to Croker with extended hands. Aurea promised me a surprise, but not this. Croker kissing her hands. What are you, the spirit of the lake? No, something warmer to her friends. The lake is deep and cold and occasionally cruel. Fanny has greeted Laurence rather distantly. He now comes to Croker. Croker shaking hands with him, cordially.

How are you, Mr. Trenworth? When did you come down? Yesterday. Iris to Croker. Mr. Trenworth is staying at the Britannia. He has been kind enough to let me watch him sketching at Tremezzo this morning. Removing her hat and veil with Fanny's assistance. And you? I'm Edmund Agio, the Victoria. A mile away from me. How churlish. Laying a hand on Croker and Fanny. Still, this is reunion. You'll all breakfast with me, won't you? Mr. Trenwith has already promised. Yes? Suddenly, dear. Croker depositing his hat and umbrella upon the settee on the left. Glorious. A hundred affirmatives. Aurea to Iris. Oh, I am disgusted. I am engaged to lunch with the Battersby's and to go with them this afternoon on the steamboat to the Villa d'Este.

Yes, and I too, but they will readily release an old woman. Aurea referring to her watch. I had to be at the hotel now. I'll take Aurea back, make my excuses, and return. Croker taking up his hat and umbrella. Let me be your escort. No, no. I insist. To Iris. At what time do you breakfast? I shall be delayed till half past twelve. To Aurea. You will come to see me again, tomorrow perhaps. Aurea assenting. I shall hate the steamboat, and the Villa d'Este, and the Battersby's, and they're such nice people. Fanny going out with Auraya. Half past twelve then. Croaker following them. With the fiercest of appetites. Au revoir. They depart. Iris pulling the bell rope, which hangs by the door. Au revoir.

The manservant appears in the doorway. Iris to the servant. Tell François there will be two more persons for déjeuner. And to delay it half an hour. Yes, ma'am. He withdraws, closing the doors. Iris and Lawrence approach each other. They converse in low, tender tones. Iris to Lawrence. We lose our tête-à-tête, but they are my dearest friends. I understand. Others may gossip about me, shut their eyes at me eventually if they choose. But these two... I don't believe the comments occasioned by our being so constantly together will ever deprive me of their fidelity. Do you? I sometimes fear that Mr. Vane... Iris with a gesture of abandonment. Ah! Drawing still closer to him. Anyhow, I have what is most precious.

Indicating the sketchbook which he retains in his hand. Show me your morning's work. Lawrence exhibiting a page deprecatingly. There is little to show. For shame. And I was reading intently nearly the whole of the time in order not to distract you. True. But my eyes were wandering towards your face nearly the whole of the time. How foolish! Were they? In his ear. I know they were. With a childlike laugh of pleasure. She flings her hat away from her, in the direction of the settee, by the further window, and sinks on to the cushions on the left. The hat falls upon the floor. He picks it up. Oh, my pretty hat! Seeing that he is concerned over its trimmings. It's of no consequence. Lawrence placing the hat and his sketchbook upon the writing table.

It is one of the hats that came from Paris yesterday. Iris taking the guitar upon her lap. Is it? So it is. She thumbs the guitar. He comes to her slowly, contemplating her with a troubled look. Dearest. Eh? Where's your mandolin? I left it in the garden last night, I'm afraid. Careless person. Send for it. Lauren sitting in the chair which is near her. "'Dearest, tell me, have you always been as I have known you?' Always? As you have known me? Refuse. Extravagant. I? Oh, yes, always. From childhood, I've been told. Why? You have asked me something to that effect before, Laurie. Forgive me. Yes, it's in my blood. The very core of my nature, I believe. To be lavish. Reckless. Reckless? You said extravagant.

Is there much difference? Between recklessness and mere personal extravagance? Indulgence? Oh, yes, indeed, indeed. There is courage in recklessness. Blind courage, but courage. An absence of calculation, no thought of self, whatever. And recklessness implies energy, determination of a kind. But I, your poor Iris, do fetch your mandolin. No, no. Talk about yourself.

Your poor, weak, sordid Iris, who must lie in the sun in summer, before the fire in winter, who must wear the choiciest lace, the richest furs, whose eyes must never encounter any but the most beautiful objects, languid, slothful, nerveless, incapable almost of effort. Do you remember the story of the poet Thompson and the Peaches? He adored peaches, but was too greedy to await their appearance at table, and too indolent to pluck them himself. So he used to stand propped up against the wall upon which they grew, and, with half-closed lids, bite into his beloved fruit as it hung from the tree.

No image could give you a better notion of my habits and disposition. Dearest, you blacken yourself willfully. Reckless. Reckless. Why, were I a reckless woman, Laurie, we should now be man and wife, should we not? Lawrence, in low earnest tones, bending over her. Man and wife. Iris, wistfully looking into space. Man and wife. Man and wife. Merit. No one in the world to look askance at us. Yes, we should have hurried off to church and begged the clergyman to turn a rich woman into a pauper, and you would have been saddled with a helpless doll stripped of her gewgaws and finery, if I had been simply reckless. We should have been happy, dearest. We should have been happy. Even then? Even then. Iris, catching a little of his eagerness.

What? "'Happier, do you think, than we are merely as lovers?' "'I believe so. In spite of your mistrust of yourself, I believe so.' Iris relapsing into languor, her fingers straying over the strings of the guitar. "'Oh, of course I know it would have been better for our souls could I have grappled with the problem honestly and courageously, married you and gone out to... What is the name of the place?' River Ranch, Chilkerton. That, or parted from you forever. But you see, I hadn't the recklessness on the one hand, nor the power of self-denial on the other. And so I treat your love as the poet did the fruit. I steal it. Greedily and lazily, I steal it. Laying her guitar aside with a long-drawn sigh.

However, we're contented as we are, aren't we? Closing her eyes. I am. I am. They remained silent for a few moments, he staring at the floor with knitted brows. Suddenly she puts her hair back from her forehead and rises. Phew! It's very oppressive this morning. She passes him, walking away towards the right, and there standing idly. Lawrence after a pause heavily. Dearest. Laurie. Naturally you wonder why I am continually chastising you about yourself. You enjoy diving down into the depths of my character, is that it? Cruel when they are such shallow little depths. The process disturbs the surface of me. Makes ripples, as it were. Lawrence rising and going to her. Yes, my persistency must seem terribly ill-bred.

But it's all part of my anxiety concerning the future. The future? Our future. Why? What is on your mind? Iris, things can't continue as they are. Eh? What has happened? Nothing, nothing. Only, I hate to be obliged to talk to you in this strain. I have to deal with the old question once more. The old question? A means of livelihood. Iris with wide-open eyes. A means of livelihood? You remember that when, six weeks ago, I wrote to my uncle? Telling him I was hanging up for a while at the idea of leaving England, he sent me generously enough his good wishes and a cheque for five hundred pounds. Yes. At the same time his letter conveyed a very decided intimation that I was neither to see him nor hear from him again.

I read Archdeacon Standish's note. It is evident I can look for nothing further in that direction. Quite. What does that matter? Lawrence avoiding her gaze. Therefore those five hundred pounds, or rather, what remains of them, represent all I have with which to... To... To commence operations. Operations? Work. Where? Out there. Laurie. Through my delay, I have lost the chance of taking over Early's ranch at Chilketon, even if I possessed the capital. But the other scheme remains. The other? Joining Fred Baggett. He's five-and-twenty miles nearer to Soda Creek, you know, where there's a post office and all sorts of civilization. I could pay him the premium, he asks, two hundred and fifty, and peg away with a view to a partnership.

The second plan might prove as good in the end as the original one. Laurie! Dearest. Lori, why are you teasing me? Teasing you? Reviving the notion of that terrible ranch. Iris, it is the one career I am fitted for. I should succeed at it. I feel I should succeed at it. But there is no longer any necessity for it. The project belongs to the past. He attempts to speak. She interrupts him. Oh, we have hitherto avoided the subject of money matters, Lawrence. It is such a distasteful topic as between you and me. Dear, you shall never again have the smallest care about money. I want you to regard your embarrassments as absolutely at an end. It is unkind of you to have kept your anxieties from me in this way.

Iris, Iris, you don't understand. What else? You don't understand that a man, some men at least, I among the number, can't accept money from a woman? Why not? Become dependent upon a woman. Walking away and sitting upon the settee by the nearer window. Live upon a woman? Iris following him and standing at the back of the settee. But the circumstances... We love each other. Does that make the situation easier for me? I wish the position would be intolerable. No, no. Intolerable. Intolerable. She leaves him and wanders away to the breakfast table, where she sits plucking at the leaves of some of the flowers which decorate the table. He rises, walks to the further window, looks out, and then joins her.

I know I'm cruel, dearest, but it's of a piece with the rest of my behaviour. I've been cruel to you from the very beginning. Never? Till now? Yes, I ought to have been strong. I ought to have constituted myself your protector. I ought to have said goodbye to you finally on the night of your dinner party. I forgive you all that. That was my fault. But now? Lawrence partly to himself. One could have done it if one had chosen. I simply allowed the current to carry both of us away. Why should we try to escape from the current? We love each other. We've been happy. We are happy. Why aren't you satisfied to be one of my birds? Oh, but my best, my most dearly prized. Just for a scruple. Scruple? Lawrence, directly we return to London, I will see Archie Kane and insist upon his obtaining some suitable occupation for you in town.

I will. He and I have already talked over the matter. He mentioned a secretaryship as being possible. I know. The sort of billet that provides the man with gloves and cavities and a flower for his coat. Iris, Iris. I don't ask you any longer to share the difficulties I must meet with at the outset, a novice starting life on a ranch. But afterwards, when the struggle is over, when affairs settle down into their steady course— Their steady course? Rising. That's it! Their steady course? Oh, don't. Don't! She goes to the settee by the further window, and throws herself upon it, burying her face in the pillows. He follows her. Lauren's standing behind the settee, and bending over her. Iris, dearest, listen.

If all went well with me, it wouldn't be hardship in a bare home I could welcome you to. Within a few years there would be comforts, pretty walls to gaze at, servants to wait upon you. Iris looking up piteously. Two Chinamen? Or three? An extra boy to maid me? Oh, Laurie. The Chinese are excellent servants. Ernie describes them in one of his letters. Raising herself, so that she kneels upon the settee, she puts her hands upon his shoulders. Another time. Let us discuss the point thoroughly another time. Lorrie, another time. When? When we leave here. We are happy. Look how blue the sky and the lake are. Dear, life will never be quite like this again, after we have left this place. If I say yes.

Ah! Dearest, your term here expires in a fortnight. I can continue it for another month. Another month? Hush! Hush, you have promised. I have your promise. I have your promise. There is the sound of voices in the distance, Iris releasing him and listening. Fanny and Croker. Pressing her hands to her eyes. My face. She goes out quickly at the door. He walks about in thought, his head bowed, his hands deep in his pockets. Coming upon the guitar, he picks it up, sits and twangs its strings discordantly. At length, the voice is growing nearer. He lays the guitar aside and interests himself with the magazines. Fanny and Croker enter at the further window, talking. Yes, quite an unexpected encounter.

Where does he hail from? I didn't gather. From X. I recognised his back instantly. You can claim no credit for that. It's the most prosperous looking back in Europe. Fanny to Lawrence. If this invasion continues, Mrs. Bellamy will be driven from Cadernabia by her friends, Mr. Trenwith. Iris returns unnoticed, outwardly composed and placid. Lawrence politely. Only by a desire to follow them when they depart. Who is the new arrival, may I ask? Mr. Frederick Maldonado. Ah! They all turned towards her. Of whom are you talking? Our great friend, in every sense of the word, Freddy Maldonado. We met him a few minutes ago, in the hall of the Bellevue. Oh, yes. He has just come from Milan. He has been at X.

The servants enter, carrying a couple of light chairs. They proceed to arrange the two additional places at the table. The doors are left open. Iris, advancing. Indeed? Is he...well? If he is, he is far better than he looks. I thought his appearance pretty shocking, didn't you, Croker? Let me see. Did I? His colour...what does his complexion resemble? I know. That delicious, subcutaneous part of a wedding cake. The men laugh. And his eyes! I suppose X has made him flabby. I've never seen such great, heavy, what do you call them, pouches as he has under his eyes. The accumulation of wealth. With him, even nature opens a deposit account. Well, what a morrow! These are the sights that reconcile one to the possession of a moderate income.

Iris, in a low voice, looking away. Poor Maldo. Eh? Of course, dear, I exaggerate as usual. But you'll be able to judge for yourself. His first walk, naturally, will be taken in your direction. I... I hope so. Perceiving that the manservant is waiting to address her. Yes. Breakfast, ma'am. Iris at the table. Fanny, will you face me? To Croker, indicating the chair on her right. Croker? To Lawrence. Mr. Trenwith? They sit, Iris with her back to the further window, the others in the positions assigned to them. The woman's servant, who has previously withdrawn, now returns with a tray of various hors d'oeuvres. The man takes the tray from her and presents it to those at the table, who help themselves and eat during the talk which follows.

The woman retires. This is delightful, delightful, delightful. Beyond measure, dear lady. Ah, but to have you and Fanny with me in these sweet surroundings. Croker raises her hand to his lips, chivalrously. Iris smiling. Faithful One. Fanny taking Iris' disengaged hand across the table. Divinity. Dear Fanny. Looking at those around her with a little sigh. Ah, how many real close friends can one hope to carry through life, if one is lucky, in spite of one's imperfections and infirmities? Has it ever been estimated? Oh, yes. As many as you can count upon the fingers of your two hands, we are told. Upon one hand would be a closer computation, I fancy. You're right, Mr. Trenworth, barring the thumb.

That at least allows me four. I have three here. You are very kind. Ah, but remember, you are only a cadet, Mr. Trenwith. Mr. Harrington and Miss Sylvan are fully graduated. I am honoured by the humblest position assigned to me. There is still one finger unprovided for. Who is to be the fourth, the faithful fourth? Croker to Iris. Yes. "'Whom would you elect to accompany us three to the veil of grey hairs and rheumatism?' Iris reflecting. "'Whom?' "'Freddy Maldonado.' Iris is silent, looking down upon her plate. "'Archie Kane?' "'Dear old Archie.' The woman serve in tenters with some letters and newspapers. She lays them on the table at Iris's side. and taking the tray from the man goes out. The man employs himself at the sideboard in mixing a salad.

Iris to the woman. Thanks. To those at the table apologetically. It is a habit of mine when I am abroad to clutch at my letters directly they arrive. Unwise. You may find a bill, a heavy one.

A splendid corrective. The skeleton at the feast. Let us drown the thought. Fanny drinks white wine, Croker. That water is Matoni. Croker helps Fanny to wine from a decanter which has been transferred from the sideboard to the table. Iris passing a decanter of red wine to Lawrence. Mr. Trenwith? Lawrence taking up the decanter. May I? Iris pushing her glass towards him. A little. Observing the newspapers. The papers. I wonder whether the gossip contains news of poor Mrs. Winning. Selecting a newspaper and handing it to Croker. Do look, Croker. Certainly. He tears off the wrapper and opens the paper. The woman's servant returns, carrying a dish of mayonnaise of fish, which she deposits upon the sideboard.

The man removes from the table the plates which had been used, and replaces them with others. The woman again withdraws. Mrs. Winning? Haven't you heard? She was thrown from her dog cart last week. Oh! She had driven to the station at Champness to meet her husband. Her horse wasn't broken to trains, evidently, and bolted. She is badly hurt? Terribly bruised and shaken, I fear. To Croker. Is there a paragraph? Croker turning the paper. Not in the middle of the paper. There may be a footnote. His eye is arrested by some matter in the paper, and he reads silently and absorbedly. Iris watching him. There is an announcement. Yes. Not reassuring. After a pause. Croker. Extraordinary. Extraordinary.

Extraordinary? Leaning towards him, she discovers the item of news which interests him. Croker. The man-servant hands the dish of mayonnaise to Iris. Iris, dear, let us be alone for a few moments. Iris to the servant. I'll ring. The man places the dish before Iris and leaves the room, partially shutting the doors. Directly he has disappeared. Fanny goes to the doors and completely closes them. Iris and Lawrence rise from the table. Croker. Yes, most extraordinary. Iris, looking over his shoulder. What? Croker rising and moving away. But there is nothing in it, I am convinced. It must be an error, a gross libel. Libel? Upon whom? Fanny coming to her. Archie! Archie Cain! Archie? Read it aloud, Croker.

No, no, I can't credit anything of the kind. Don't be alarmed, I pray. Fanny goes to him and takes the paper out of his hand. Fanny Reading. The disquieting rumours which have recently been current concerning the sudden disappearance of a well-known London solicitor are unhappily substantiated by a statement formerly issued yesterday by Mr. James Woolroffe, of the firm of Woodrow and Kane, of Seventy-One Lincolns Inn Fields. From this document it transpires that the missing gentleman is Mr. Woodrow's partner, Mr. Archibald Sidmouth Kane, and its frank avowals afford too much reason to fear that the books of the firm will be found to furnish yet another lamentable instance of the injudicious confidence of clients.

There is a pause, then in a mechanical way. Fanny resumes. Some sympathy is, however, claimed for Mr. Woodruff, whose indifferent health for the past two years has unfitted him for business, and who has, in consequence, been induced to leave affairs in the complete control of his partner. Mr. Archibald Kane resided in Upper Brook Street, and was exceedingly popular in London society. Looking from one to the other. Well... I repeat, I can't credit it. That he has disappeared? That he's a rogue. Mr. Woodruff's statement? And no newspaper would risk. You have some other papers there. Two newspapers remain upon the table. Lawrence hands them to Iris, who passes them to Fanny. Fanny gives one to Croker and retains the other, and they proceed to remove the wrappers.

As they do so, they exchange glances, and then, together, look at Iris, who is now sitting on the left of the table, with her face averted. Iris? Yes, dear? Was another trustee to your husband's will ever appointed in Tom Cawtherley's place? No. It has been talked about. Some names are under consideration. Archie is the only trustee at present. Again, Fanny's eyes meet Croker's, and there is a further pause. Lawrence goes out on to the balcony. Fanny to Croker. You... you were in his hands. Croker with a nod and a smile. Hmm. And you? She raises her arms slightly and lets them fall. Iris rises. I entirely agree with Croker. We are upsetting ourselves quite needlessly. Dear Fanny, you know Archie.

We all know Archie. Too well to... Walking about the room. There will be an explanation. This Mr. Woodroffe. A case, perhaps, of a quarrel between partners. As for my own concerns, of course a fresh trustee ought to have been appointed at once when Mr. Cawtherley died. Pressing her fingers to her temples. Why hasn't it been seen to? Other interests are involved. I must see to it when I go back. While Iris is talking and pacing the room, Fanny and Croker open and anxiously search the other newspapers. She sitting on the left of the breakfast table, he by the lower window. Substantially, the same report as in this paper. I can find nothing. Your letters, Iris. Have you received any letter? Iris examining her letters.

No. With a smile. As you were saying, tradesmen's accounts. Surveying the breakfast table, and then looking at the others. Our unfortunate little dejeuner. We mustn't sit here. Jumping up. We must send a telegram, a wire to London. Croker throwing his newspaper aside, and rising with alacrity. Yes. Let us get the report confirmed at any rate. Contradicted, we hope. To whom can we? Leave that to me. To Iris. May I be excused? She again smiles in assent, and he seizes his hat and umbrella and comes to her. Fanny sits on the left, resuming her search in the newspaper. "'Divinity, some day we shall enjoy a hearty laugh at the recollection of this scare. A scare. Nothing else. Take my word for it.

Ah, yes, your charming breakfast. You will invite me on another occasion?' Bending over her hand, a suspicion of a tremor in his voice. "'Many, many thanks.' He goes out at the door. She walks aimlessly to the middle of the room. Fanny turning. "'Croker, if you meet little Auria, don't breathe a word.' Following him. "'Croker, let the child have her afternoon's pleasure undisturbed.' She disappears. The doors are left open. Lawrence, seeing that Iris is alone, comes to her side. They speak in hushed voices. Iris? Yes? This man, Cain, can it be that he's a scoundrel? Is it possible? No, impossible, impossible. And yet, suppose, suppose... What? Suppose he has been tampering, speculating. With my fortune?

My dearest, my dearest...

Iris looking at him steadily, with a queer little twist of her mouth. Yes, after all, after everything, wouldn't it be... droll? Fanny's voice is heard calling. Fanny in the hall. Iris? Eh? Iris, a friend. Lawrence retreats from her side. As Maldonado enters. Maldonado advancing. Pardon. I am very unceremonious. Miss Sylvain? He breaks off. There is a moment of constraint on her part. Then she extends her hand to him. Maldonado.

The curtain falls. End of Act Two.

3 03 - Act 3 1:04:19

The scene is that of the preceding act. It is night time. Without, the lake sparkles under a full moon. While the lights of Bellagio cluster brightly at the water's edge. Within the room there is an air of preparation for the departure of its tenant. The druggats are removed, and the statuary curtains, candelabra, and much of the furniture are in Holland wrappers. One of the settees is pushed against the wall on the left. Some footstools are piled upon it. And between the middle window and the further window are two chairs, the one on top of the other. Two bottles of champagne and some glasses are upon the table on which breakfast was served in the previous act. On the left of this table is the other settee.

On its right, a chair. The writing table now stands out in the left centre of the room, facing the lower and middle windows. A chair is before it, and near at hand is a wooden packing case. The lid of the packing case is open, and the guitar and a quantity of books and music are seen to have been carelessly thrown in. The birds have disappeared from the balcony. A single bird-cage, covered with bays, stands upon one of the cabinets. The room is lighted by oil lamps. Fanny Sylvain, with a set face, deep in thought, is seated upon the settee in the centre of the room. She is in semi-toilette, and has a lace scarf upon her shoulders. There is the faint sound of distant music. The double doors open, and Croker Harrington, in travelling dress, is shown in by the manservant.

Croker to the man. Please let Mrs. Bellamy know that I have just arrived. Mr. Arrington, yes, sir? The servant withdraws, closing the doors. Fanny rises and shakes hands with Croker heartily. Ah! My dear Fanny. Dear Croker, have you had a pleasant journey? Croker with a wry face. Pleasant. How is London? Croker placing his hat upon the writing-table, and taking off his gloves. Crowded. What, in the first week of October? Under normal conditions, I dare say I should have regarded it as a deserted village. But when a man is down, and desires to hide his head... The pavement sprouts acquaintances. Precisely. Fanny laying a hand upon his arm. No good news, then. Croker shaking his head. I might have spared myself the trouble.

You undertook it for our sakes as well as for your own. I meant no good news for yourself. We know our fate. You do? We have been in communication with the people who are engaged in examining the affairs of the wretched Rudrov. With a gesture of despair. Oh, it is awful. Croker putting his gloves in his hat as an excuse for turning away. I am glad it doesn't fall to my lot to break the worst to you. I've been robbed of every shilling, Croker. And I? All gone, every penny. Every cent, red or otherwise. Where is that beast? Archie? He's known to have reached America. What has America done? Poor devil. Devil? It was the collapse of this so-called universal finance corporation that overwhelmed him, it appears.

He was deep in it. And we thought him a solid, cautious creature. We were gulls. At the end he made a desperate effort to save the concern, I hear, and with her money. Fanny clenching her hands. Oh, where was he last seen? At a theater, complaining of the quality of the music played during an entre-act. If he'd only had the common decency to shoot himself. Good heavens, and I'm thirty, Croker. I'm nearly forty. And I'm losing my looks. And I'm not.

You... you... you foolish. Hiding her face upon his shoulder for a moment, then lifting her head cheerily and brushing her tears away. Excuse me for compromising you. You'll take your coat off. She will be down in a few minutes. Croker depositing his coat and hat upon the settee on the left. Have you formed any plans yet? Oriya and I go up to Scotland for a month or so, to relations. To enable us to look round as they express it. Perhaps you can explain the process of looking round in the midst of a circle of solemn relatives. Croker returning to her. Ah, you talk in a low key and play homer in the evening and get to bed early. Ha! And you? One of the men I butted into in town thinks I would make an ideal secretary for a new club about to be started in Piccadilly.

What is an ideal club secretary? A fellow who sees that the members have every opportunity for grumbling, and no cause. The music ceases. He goes to the further window, which is open, and looks out. Thank goodness that wretched band is silent. Your musical taste is as fastidious as Mr. Kane's. Sitting in the chair by the writing table. Fancy. For the remainder of one's life, if one lives to be a hundred, moonlight, a still luscious evening, the sound of music, always to remind one of ruin. Croker coming to her, and leaning over her chair softly. Fanny? Yes? How does she bear it? Splendidly. Ah. I've loved her, as you know, for years intensely, but I am proud of her now. Her whole nature seems to have expanded, Croker, become greater, nobler.

The capacity was there. It only needed this. Luckily, she doesn't come off quite as deplorably as you and I. Our poor divinity. Her new man of business believes he'll manage to salvage about a hundred and fifty a year for her out of the wreck. Tis.

I hoped. It would have been more, but it turns out that she's heavily in debt, dear thing. He never curbed her. Cain? Not he. Tempted her, I suspect. Starting up furiously. Professed to be discharging her bills while he was embezzling the money, I shouldn't wonder. No, no. Give the devil his due. Fanny, her fingers twitching. If I could, if I could. Calming herself as she walks about the room. And so the lease of her house in London, her pictures and furniture, jewels, plate, they all have to be thrown into the pot. And she's left with the few louis she has in her portemonnaie and the prospect of this miserable hundred and fifty a year. But her friend... She won't accept a sou from a living soul, she declares.

Setting herself upon the settee in the centre. That's where she's so fine. She will live upon three paltry pounds a week. She! Croker standing beside her with a confident smile. Ah, for the present. But, my dear Fanny, one isn't resigning oneself to the secretaryship of a Piccadilly club for the rest of existence. Going to the back of the settee and bending over it, speaking almost into her ear. I, too, intend to look round. And by and by... You and she, my playmates, companions with me in this mud-puddle game of life, in which we have all got seriously splashed. Ah, stop. Of course you've been away. You haven't heard. What? She has definitely engaged herself to young Trenwith. Croker standing upright.

Ah. At a moment when a man with even a moderate position in the world... but there. She's given her heart to him, and she's full of pluck. God bless her. The distant music is heard again. God bless them both. He... he's a nice chap, and a fortunate one. Sitting in the chair which is behind her, his elbow on the table, his hand shading his face. Capital. Capital. Struck by his tone, She glances at him and observes his attitude. After a slight pause, she rises and moves away to the open window, where she stands looking into the distance. As you say, Mr. Trenwith is favoured of fortune, but it isn't to be quite yet a while. No? Not for two or three years, I gather. He goes out to a ranch in British Columbia and comes back to fetch her when he has succeeded in making a home for her.

He starts for London directly, at something before six tomorrow morning. Pointing to the champagne and glasses upon the table. Look, you have returned in time to drink the boy's health. Croker rising cheerfully. Excellent. I'll drain my last bumper of champagne to him, preparatory to take into Club Porter. And she, during his absence? Observing the condition of the room. She vacates the Villa Prigno at once, evidently. She goes into a humble little pension at Tremezzo for a while. Croker partially suppressing a groan. Oh. Fanny coming to him. Yes, she also dates her new life practically from tomorrow. I've been upstairs with her, helping her to pack the few plain gowns she's retaining out of her stock.

Why, has her maid... Beaumont her maid went a week ago. Croker sinks upon the settee, burying his head in his hands. "'Oh, my dear man, don't groan. Our divinity. To see her on her knees among her trunks, with such a sweet, earnest, helpless, confident look. It's one of the prettiest sights imaginable.' Maldonado's voice is heard lightly humming, an accompaniment to the air played by the band. Fanny listening. "'There's Frederick.' Croker looking up. Frederick? Maldonado. Oh, is he still here? Yes, he has been so brotherly and sympathetic to us women. She goes to the window and meets Maldonado. Maldonado is in evening dress and is smoking. Notwithstanding the changes in his appearance, suggested by Fanny in the previous act, he appears to be in excellent spirits.

Good evening, Frederick. Maldonado on the balcony. What a perfect night, eh? I've bestowed a few extra francs upon those fellows playing outside the Bellevue. We will celebrate our young friends' leave-taking with musical honours. Here's Croker. Maldonado entering the room. The traveller returned. Coming to Croker. My dear boy. Croker shaking hands with him. Without rising. Hello, Freddy. I am still kicking my heels about the verge of this monotonous pond. Observing that Fanny has gone out upon the balcony, lowering his voice. One's heart bleeds for these ladies, and yet they both, with the characteristic obstinacy of their sex, decline to avail themselves of my poor services. How goes it? Your visit to London has not proved too satisfactory.

Quite the reverse. Oh, except that I'm likely to take the secretaryship of the new club Bulkley is promoting. No. Hope you'll come in. Maldonado with a protesting shrug. My dear good Crocker, we are pals of some years' standing, you and I. Need I say more? Deuce take Bulkley and his club. Croker rising. Freddy. Pish, not a word. Pray write me a line. Thanks, old man. I haven't reached that stage yet. Never shall, I trust. Gripping Maldonado's hand. But thanks, old man. Fanny returns to the room. The music ceases. Maldonado gently shaking Croker by the shoulder. Confound you. You are as perverse as our fair friends. What? Breaking off upon perceiving Fanny, and walking away. I observe the banquet is prepared, my dear Fanny.

Throwing his hat upon the writing table. Where are the principal figures? I think I've just seen Mr. Trenwith in the garden. Oh, is he meditating a parting serenade under Iris's window? Imitating the playing of a guitar. Rum, rum, rum, rum, tum, tum. He touches the guitar most gracefully. Fanny sitting at the table on the right. The mandolins. Don't be unfeeling, Frederick. Unfeeling? Aye, when I'm here to join in the general, tearful farewell. To Croker. You've heard the great news. Croker again seated upon the settee. Just heard it. Maldonado, carelessly examining a photograph of Lawrence, which he takes from the writing table. And haven't I pledged myself to rise at an unconscionably early hour tomorrow morning, in order that I may escort this lucky young gentleman to the steamboat, and report upon the final incidents of his departure?

You'll assist, Croker? With pleasure. No. Upon second thoughts, I decline to share the privilege. I hold the commission direct from Iris, and I claim the right of executing it unaccompanied. Lawrence wearing a suit of blue serge appears upon the balcony. Maldonado laying the photograph aside. Yes, here is the hero of the occasion. We are talking about you, my dear Lawrence. Lawrence entering the room. Are you? To Croker, who advances to meet him. Mr. Harrington. They shake hands. I'm glad you're back in time to give me a parting shake of the hand. Trenwith, I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. Lawrence with feeling. Isn't it? Isn't it jolly? Iris enters quietly, closing the door after her.

She is plainly dressed without ornament of any kind. Her face is somewhat wan, her eyes red, her manner very gentle and subdued, but her whole appearance and bearing express a spirit of happiness and resolve. Fanny rises, and the men, hearing Iris enter, turn silently towards her. She advances to Croker, Iris giving him her hand. Dear Croker. The bad penny. With no satisfactory news of your affairs? I'm all right. A bachelor whose hat covers his kingdom. What about yourself? Lawrence is on her other side. She lays a hand upon his arm. Iris to Croker. They have told you? Croker with a nod. I've returned in the nick of time, eh? I should always have grieved if you had not been with us tonight. You congratulate us.

Croker smiling at Lawrence. I've already patted him on the back. That he has. Give me your good wishes. Oh, my dear. Stooping a little, she invites him to kiss her brow. Croker, his lips touching her forehead. I congratulate you. Iris going to Maldonado. Good evening, Maldo. We have dragged you away from the dinner table. Surveying the table on the right happily. Look at our modest preparations, the last of my excesses. After tonight... Going to the settee in the centre and speaking across the table to Fanny. Fanny, ask Henry to give us our wine. Croker? Fanny goes out at the door. Irish sits upon the settee. And Croker comes to her side. Maldonado and Laurence, Maldonado's arm round Laurence's shoulder, move away to the open window.

The music is resumed. Iris to Croker. You have heard everything from Fanny, faithful one. Croker nodding. You are moving on to Dremezzo, I understand. Tomorrow morning, early. Closing her eyes. Directly I hear that I am alone, that he has gone. Recovering herself. I shall remain there for a few weeks. The pension is moderately clean and pleasant, and then transfer myself to another cheap place. A reese, perhaps. As long as I avoid heavy travelling expenses, I shall manage admirably. Admirably. You are like a child with a new toy, Divinity. Croaker. Poverty. A new toy. A new experience, at any rate. Are you sure you are justified in imposing this ordeal upon yourself? Ordeal? This life of mean economy.

It is imposed upon me by circumstances. They can be lightened by friends. It is maddening to reflect that I am useless to you at such a crisis, but there are dozens of other people who are attached to you. Freddy Maldonado. No, no. Croker. He seats himself beside her, on her left. Dear, dear friend, I... I want to tell you... I welcome this change in my fortunes. I welcome it. Welcome it? I have deserved it, Croker. I regard it as my proper penalty, my scourge. Scourge? For what in heaven's name? Oh, do you imagine a woman can be as self-centered as I have been, pamper herself as I have done, without meriting chastisement? You are a good woman to receive your reverses in this spirit. Am I? There can be nothing very meritorious in accepting resignedly that which gives me self-respect.

Makes me worthy of Lawrence, equips me for the future I am one day to share with him. Shaking her head. It is only another, a better form of selfishness. Oh, but I feel so much happier, so much happier. Croker patting her hand. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I actually enter into my new being. Tomorrow. Fanny returns, followed by the manservant, who proceeds to open one of the bottles of champagne and to fill the glasses. Iris rises and, going to the open window, speaks to Lawrence and Maldonado, who are now upon the balcony. Fanny joins Croker. Iris to Fanny as she passes her. Thanks, dear Fanny. Fanny to Croker eagerly. Has she been talking to you? Yes. Well, am I not right? Isn't she noble? Croker nodding.

All conditions of life are relative. For her, this is martyrdom. A cork is drawn. He glances over his shoulder at the table. I feel as if I were about to help fire the faggots. He stands with Fanny at the table. She on one side, he on the other. Iris brings Lawrence into the room. Maldonado follows them and goes to the table. May I have the honour of presiding at these proceedings? Iris sitting by the writing table. How simple you are, Maldonado. Ha! There is a jealous light in our croaker's eye, but I would have him know that the idea of this ceremony originates with me, a stirrup cup to Mr. Trenwith. Croker presenting a glass of champagne to Iris. A stirrup cup to a traveller by boat and rail?

Your metaphor is faulty, Freddy. Hark! He revenges himself upon my metaphors. Croker walks away towards the open window, laughing. Fanny brings a glass of champagne to Lawrence, who is standing at Iris's side, and returns to the settee. The servant withdraws. The music stops. Maldonado handing a glass of wine to Fanny. My dear Fanny. Fanny seating herself upon the settee. Thanks, Frederick. Maldonado giving a glass to Croker. Croker. Raising his own glass. Our friend, Mr. Trenwith, my dear young companion of the past three weeks, whose departure tomorrow morning is, let us hope, An unerring step towards the brilliant future we desire for him. To Lawrence toasting him. Lawrence, my dear boy. Generally.

Mr. Trenwith. All save Lawrence put their glasses to their lips. Yes. A few weeks hence, our friend Trenwith embarks upon a career in a distant country, far away. A great deal too far away. From those who, in spite of short acquaintance, have learned to hold him in their esteem, in their affection. With a gesture. Laurie. Lawrence advances to Maldonado, who again places an arm around his shoulder. You have a stiff time before you, dear boy, but the thought of the reward awaiting you will put grit into the toiler. Carry him lightly over his hundreds of acres, and give ease to his weary limbs at the end of the day. And then the triumph, eh? The hour when the victor returns to us, when he claims the prize, when he is in a position to beseech delicate beauty, to grace his modest establishment at...

what do you call the place? Soda Creek.

Raising his glass again. She was a great lady who embodies, in her single person, loveliness, virtue, unspeakable charm, whose very name, for those assembled here, is perfume and music. Combined. Iris. All except Iris drink the toast. After which ceremony, Fanny puts her glass aside and goes to Iris and embraces her. Thank you, Mr. Mortonado. If one has to leave one's friends behind one, there is a grim consolation in knowing that they are such true friends. The best a man ever had. Freddy, I've never heard you in better form, even at a city banquet.

Iris going to Maldonado with outstretched hands. Thanks. Thanks, dear Maldonado. Lawrence, Iris and Maldonado form a group on the right talking together. Croker joins Fanny on the left. Croker to Fanny. Fanny? Eh? Pish. Why need Freddy treat us to that piece of bombast? Of course it isn't so. But he spoke as if he didn't feel a syllable of it. I agree with you. A few simple words and a handshake. Maldonado, paternally to Iris and Lawrence. Well, having discharged my duty and mixed my metaphors, I leave you two young people to yourselves and to the company of the moon. Croker moves to take up his hat and coat. Iris smiling. No, I'm going to hand Lawrence over to your keeping at once, Maldo. Croker and Fanny looked round in surprise.

Maldonado also raising his brows. At once? Iris composedly, but with eyes averted. You have promised to see him on board the boat in the morning. Oh, yes. Half past five. 542, to be precise. It is very good-natured of you to deprive yourself of your rest. Ah, for you! Iris smiling again. No, for him. But am I to come to you afterwards, to bring you his final message? Iris with an inclination of the head. I shall remain here till you have called. Maldonado bending over her hand. Good night. These are the sad moments of life, but you are brave. That's admirable of you. Good night. Good night, Maldonado. Maldonado, taking his hat from the writing table and shaking hands with Fanny. I wish you good night, dear Fanny.

Good night, Freddy. Maldonado, shaking hands with Croker, who was again at the further window. Good night, my dear Croker. Good night. Maldonado turning. You will find me in the garden, Laurie, sounding your praises to the lizards. Lawrence waves a hand to him in response, and he departs by way of the balcony. Lawrence advances to Fanny. I want to thank you for your kindness to me, Miss Sylvain. Ah! Fate is taking you in another direction for a time, but I shall always think of you. It will be a consolation to me to do so, as being at Iris's side. I shall contrive to be near her again soon, never fear. He holds out his hand. She grasps it. Luck. I shall have it. Don't be long. Lauren's lifting his head high.

No, I shan't be long. He leaves Fanny and encounters Croker, who comes to him. Well, Trenwith. Well, Mr. Harrington. When does England see you again? In two years. Three are the furthest. I believe you, if I'm alive. They grip hands and part. Iris is now on the balcony. Lawrence joins her there. Fanny and Croker, the one on the left of the room, the other on the right, stand deliberately looking away from the lovers. Lawrence takes Iris in his arms and kisses her. Then he calls to Maldonado. Mr. Maldonado? Maldonado in the distance. Oh, hi. Lawrence disappears, and Iris remains on the balcony, leaning upon the balustrade, watching his retreating figure. Fanny, discovering by a glance that Iris is alone, goes quickly to Croker, who is struggling with his overcoat.

Croker? Eh? Is this their farewell? I... I presume so. Good gracious! Oh, but we forget. They have said good-bye already, poor children. Fanny nodding. Yes, that must be it. Still... Rousing herself. Shall I assist you? She helps him into his coat. The band strikes up a fresh air, and the curtain drops. It rises after a moment's pause, and the windows and the Jalousies are closed, and the room is in almost total darkness. Through the darkness, Iris is seen reclining upon the settee in the centre, sleeping. Lauren sits in a chair at the head of the settee, watching her. Both are dressed as in the earlier part of the act. The bells of a neighbouring church tinkle a little chime, and then strike the quarter hour.

At short intervals, this is repeated by other bells in the distance, whereupon Lawrence rises softly and tiptoes over to the writing table. There, taking a matchbox from his pocket, he strikes a match and lights a wax taper, which stands upon the table. The light awakens the sleeper, who opens her eyes, and raising herself upon her elbow, Lawrence? Lawrence?

Lawrence? I had fallen asleep. Yes. I've been sitting here watching you. She rises with his help, a little unsteadily, and walks across to the writing table where she consults the travelling clock. A quarter past four. Turning to him. Oh! Why, you will soon, soon be... Clinging to him. Almost directly. Oh, how cruel of you to allow me to sleep, to waste the time. How cruel of you! Observing a faint light through the chinks of the Jalusis. There's the dawn. Yes. The dawn. She turns from him, and seating herself in the chair, before the writing-table, lays her head upon the table and weeps. Lawrence bending over her. You were so white and weary. I saw your eyelids drooping, drooping. I hand the heart to rouse you.

Dearest, dearest, dearest. She composes herself gradually, and rises drying her eyes. Forgive me. I am very childish. Nothing can alter it. The day has to begin. Indicating the further window. Open the jalousees. He opens the window, and stepping out upon the balcony. Pushes back the gelouses. The dawn is seen, leaden-coloured and forbidding. She blows out the light of the taper and joins him at the window as he re-enters. He closes the window, and they stand together for a while, his arm round her waist, gazing at the prospect. Iris shivering. Oh, oh, oh. She leaves him and walks away to the settee in the centre, where she sits with a scared look upon her face. He follows her. Lori? Yes? It was a mistake, dear.

A mistake? This sitting together through the night and talking away our last hours. It would have been wiser if I had done what I had first had a mind to do, parted from you yesterday when the sun was shining brilliantly. The sun will show himself again in a few minutes. As it does when one is driving home from a late ball, defining everything sharply, making everything appear terribly distinct. Holding out her hands to him. Terribly true. He sits beside her, and slipping her arm through his, she rests her head upon his shoulder. For how long was I sleeping? An hour, perhaps. And one's blood is always sluggish at dawn. It's at early morning that people sink and die. Lori. Lauren's kissing her brow.

Dearest. I am afraid I have lost some of my courage. I'm frightened. I'm afraid. Frightened? That you're going away. That you're leaving me. Why, you were full of courage a little while ago. Yes. And then I dropped off to sleep, nestling closer to him, and became chilled. Iris. What? Listen, Iris. Now listen. I am listening. Of course I am listening. Listening. Dearest, why should we not change our plans, even at the eleventh hour? Abandon the idea of separating. Separating until I am prepared to receive you. Prepared to receive you? What? What a stupid, formal sound the Frey's has. Iris, my love, my wife, follow me to London tomorrow. I will book your passage in the ship by telegram immediately I get to town.

We will be married as quickly as possible after our arrival at Montreal, there or at Victoria. We will go out together. What do you say? Ah, ah, ah. Yes, go out together. Share the struggle from the very beginning. Endure together. Build a prosperity atom by atom together. Iris shaking her head. Ah, if it could be, dear, if it could be. Why can't it be? Oh, what a contempt Fanny would have for me. Fanny. After all my protestations. And Croker. And Maldo. Releasing him and sitting away from him. Yes, and how I should despise myself. Without the smallest reason. Loathe myself. And how you would despise me, by and by, upon reflection. Aye. Recollecting that I had declined to make a sacrifice for you when I was well off, that it was not till I was poor, almost as poor as yourself, that I would marry you.

And that then I promptly hung myself round your neck like a stone, became a dead weight upon you at a time when you most needed freedom from care and responsibility. Whenever you come to me, two, three years hence, you will come as a poor woman. You will come as a precious burden to me. But after I have had my own struggle, my own battle with poverty, singly, alone, After I have proved to you that I can live, patiently, uncomplainingly, without luxury, willingly relinquishing costly pleasures, content with the barest comfort. Rising. Yes, yes, after I have shown you that there are other, and better, and deeper qualities in my nature than you have suspected, than I myself have suspected. He rises and takes her in his arms.

Then, then I'll join you, Laurie. And in the meantime, you mustn't seek to make me falter in my resolutions. Help me to keep them, dear. I could cut my tongue out for having spoken as I did just now. I felt cold. I hadn't lost courage, really. Putting him from her, and standing erect. Look at me. Fanny declares she is proud of me. Sitting in the chair by the writing table. Well, and you? Lawrence kneeling before her and taking her hands in his. Proud. Proud. No man, honoured by the favours of a queen, ever felt deeper pride than I feel in the possession of your love. Iris bending over him, so that her lips almost touch his hair. My love, yes. But this other, loftier, purer side of me, I want you to be proud of that.

It is of that that I am proud. I cannot dissociate your love from your goodness. In my mind they have always been one. You have always been to me the best, the sweetest of women. Iris smiling sadly. Ah, ah. But before you return to claim me, you must forget. You will forget? Forget and remember. Oh, forget, dear, more than you remember. Come to me then as if you had never known me, or known me but a little. Let us then learn each other, as it were, afresh, raise up barriers between us for the delight of breaking them down. Looking into space. Two years, three. They will pass quickly. I pray they will, and yet, for shame's sake, not too quickly, so that, when you come to marry me, you may marry—yes.

One who is a stranger to you. The church bells strike the half-hour. They listen with strained ears. After a pause, he rises slowly. What is that? Lawrence walking away from her, his head bowed. Half past four, I think. Other bells are heard. I have lived here how many weeks, and have scarcely noticed those bells. She goes to him, and they stand side by side without speaking, their hands tightly locked.

Lawrence after the silence, with an assumption of cheerfulness. Have a little of an hour. That's ample. I paid my score last night, and the portal already has my big baggage. Only to make my toilet and throw a few things into a kit bag. Rubbing his chin. No time for a shave, though. I wonder whether the wait at Como will be long enough to enable me to visit a barber. Iris passing her hand over his chin. Untidy fellow. Untidy. Oh, up on the ranch. You won't wear a beard? Not a beard. It shall be removed in any event before...before we... Yes, don't you dare ever to venture into my presence. They laugh together pitifully, and in the end, their laughter dying out, she cries unrestrainedly upon his shoulder.

Then, with an effort, she leaves his side and throws open the further window. The heavy sky is now streaked with an ugly yellow bar. There are some raindrops. Has the weather broken at last? He goes mechanically to the settee on the left and fetches his hat. Iris coming to him and turning up the collar of his coat. Run directly you get onto the road. They walk to the open window. Lauren's looking out. Yes, Rain. I'm afraid you'll be horribly dull. Shut the jalousies so that the servants may find them closed. Go now. They embrace finally. He kisses her hands, her eyes, her lips.

Iris in his ear. I have loved you. I shall love you always. I shall love you always. He goes out on to the balcony, where he pauses. Looking at her. Close the jalousies. Shut them. He closes the jalousies, she the window, and the room is once more in darkness. With a low wail, she totters to the settee in the centre, and throws herself upon it, burying her face in the pillows, and sobbing violently. The curtain descends, rising again almost immediately. It is now day. But the rain is falling heavily, and the lake and the hills beyond are obscured as if by a grey veil. Iris, dressed as before, is sitting in a chair by the further window, absorbed in contemplating the dreary prospect. Her hat, cape and gloves are on the table on the right, and on the chair which remains at the head of the settee, in the centre, is her dressing bag open.

The wooden case has disappeared, but the birdcage, with its cover raised, is still upon the cabinet. The manservant enters at the door. "'I beg your pardon, ma'am.' Iris turning. "'Eh?' "'At what hour do you desire the fly, the carriage?' Iris rising. "'I am expecting Mr. Maldonado. Directly he has left me.' The man is going. Put a bird upon the front seat. Be careful. He takes up the cage which contains a solitary canary, and is again about to depart. Wait. The man returns, placing the cage upon the table. She goes to her dressing-bag and searches for, and finds, a small velvet sack. From this she produces quite heedlessly a handful of gold pieces. Iris throwing the little sack back into the dressing bag.

I shall be much obliged to you if you will distribute this among the servants, including yourself. Giving him the money and moving away towards the writing table. I thank you all for the attention I have received here. Manservant staring at the money, which he holds in two hands. I... I really beg pardon, ma'am. Iris turning. What? I, er, that is, we, er, we've heard, that is, we've been given to understand. Eh? Ah, yes, but this is the last time I may have the privilege. Busying herself in collecting certain little personal objects, her diary, date case, address book, a stamp box. Etc., etc., which are upon the writing table. I thank you once more. We... we are exceedingly grateful, ma'am. Removing the cover from the birdcage, he pours the money into it, and carrying the cage in one hand, and the improvised money bag in the other, withdraws.

She takes up Lawrence's portrait and studies it fondly. Then... After pressing it to her lips, she proceeds to find a place for it in her dressing bag. The manservant reappears. Mr. Maldonado. Maldonado, wet and mud-splashed, enters briskly and comes to her. Iris giving him her hand. I have been waiting for you. I went as far as Sala in the boat. Giving his hat to the servant. There I landed, and have tramped back. Maldow, you are drenched.

He slips out of the cloak he is wearing, and hands that also to the servant, who finally retires. You have been true to your promise. Aha! Rising betimes upon such a morning. I was on my balcony at four o'clock, watching the dawn. Iris turning away and sitting in the chair by the writing table. The dawn? Maldonado pulling off his wet gloves. I was restless, I suppose because I knew I had your business on hand. Before five, I was outside the Britannia, throwing stones at Laurie's window. We had coffee together, he and I, and then, arm in arm, made for the pier. Poor boy. Was he very downcast? His heart was heavy enough, doubtless, but... With a shrug. At eight and twenty, a new world ahead of you?

Naturally. Phew! Seating himself upon the settee in the centre. Never heeding the rain, we paced the deck of the little steamer unceasingly. How time flies! When there is a common point of interest between two men, our theme, need I say we talked of you, of nothing but you, my dear Iris, our friend, our mistress, our goddess. Hush. Ha, ha, ha, no. Now I reflect upon it, I believe I appropriate it rather more than my fair share of the conversation. On certain topics, when once I am set going, ha! I am sure you cheered and amused him. Ultimately, I was put ashore, and the boat went off without me, went off hooting into the wet fog, and I was left staring at the particular patch of cloud that had engulfed her.

Upon my soul, I think I was the more eat-up of the two. No. That's exaggeration, of course, but the mental picture of the lonely lady of this villa at her bedroom window, eh? Her eyes trying to pierce the mist, the mist of her eyes and of the beastly, sodden air. He rises abruptly and goes to the further window and looks out. She wipes her tears away with her handkerchief. After a moment or two, He comes to her and lays a hand upon her shoulder, consolingly. The last word he spoke. Tell me. Unfortunately, at Sala, there was some confusion over his luggage, and he was called from my side, so he had no opportunity, dear chap, of sending a final message. Ah. But it's not difficult to surmise what its purport would have been.

Looking at his watch. Not difficult, at any rate, for a poor devil, who is also compelled to wrench himself away from you. You, Maldow? I, too, make my plunge into the mist this morning. I'm driving to Poletze to pick up the afternoon train at Lugano. Iris rising. You go to London? To Brussels and Paris. I have received some upbraiding telegrams from our houses there. Ah, you have wasted so much of your time with us. Wasted? Bestowed so much of your time upon us, I will say. Maldonado stroking his beard. I was determined, at all costs, to see the end of poor Lawrence. Iris with a pathetic pucker of her mouth. And Fanny and Croker tomorrow. And I... I had a little pension at Tremezzo. Picturesque, dirty Tremezzo, with its thousand odours.

That reminds me, before I wish you goodbye. Running his hand over the outside of his pockets. Tsh, have I left it at the hotel? No, here it is. He produces from his breast pocket an unused checkbook. And carelessly turns its leaves. What is that? Before I say goodbye, let me explain why I leave this in your keeping. Iris instinctively shrinking a little. A chequebook? My reason is this. I have presumed—ah, don't be too indignant with me—to pay into my bank to your account, to the account of Iris Bellamy. No, no! I am humbly conscious that I appear to be opposing your wishes in doing what I have done. Deliberately opposing them, Maldo? What a terribly censorious expression. Well, if the amount were anything very considerable, there would be perhaps some justification for it.

I have already explained. But a few hundred pounds, a thousand or so. Oh, Maldo. As a small reserve. In the event of your being pressed by a debt, a debt overlooked in the general settlement. Please. Or you're feeling unhappy at Tremezzo or elsewhere. Iris touching his arm appealingly. Maldow. Poverty abounds in unpleasant surprises. Maldow. Maldow. Eh? Don't think me horribly ungracious. Indeed, indeed, I am full of gratitude to you, my dear friend. But upon the question of accepting help, money, I am firm. I am as hard as adamant. You must not, therefore, consider me unkind. If you don't honour me by drawing a single cheque—my dear, I assure you, I shall never trouble to inquire whether you had recourse to this paltry little fund.

At my bank or not. So, in this instance, you'll be less cruel to me than to yourself. You are hurt. I'm always paining you. It seems to be my special misfortune. Pish! Throw the thing into your writing case and forget it. He passes her and throws the cheque book upon the writing table. I would prefer that a book were not even left with me, Maldo. Oh. Pray, won't you at least do me the favour of burning it? May I not beg that indulgence of you? Certainly. I'll destroy it. My most profound acknowledgments. Iris taking his hand. Ah, don't. Don't. In a day or two I will write you a letter. A letter. For small mercies. Oh, why be angry with me? What have I done? Maldonado, Maldonado, looking into her eyes.

It's impossible to be cross with you for more than a moment. There. I forgive you.

This, and the rest. Adieu. Adieu. He kisses her hands rather too warmly. She goes to the door and pulls the bell rope. Let me see. You transfer yourself to Verese? Next month, I think. Maldonado. Lightly, but with intention. Is Verese pleasant in November, I wonder? Very, they tell me. Tsh! I fear I mustn't indulge myself in another holiday yet a while. No? You rich men work like slaves, Maldonado. Ha! What else is there in life? He pauses a little longer, waiting for some further response from her. Receiving none, he looks at his watch again hurriedly. I must off. Goodbye. Iris raising her head. Goodbye, Maldo. He goes out. At the same moment, Aurea appears outside the further window, and after looking into the room, raps upon the window pane.

Iris turning. Ah! Opening the window. Aurea. Good morning. Here's a day. Come in. Aurea, who carries an umbrella, enters brightly and eagerly. Iris closing the window. What brings you out into the rain? Patting her cheeks. To water the roses. As we go tomorrow, I thought I might not have another opportunity of seeing you alone. You have always been so sweet to me. Iris kissing her.

Aunt Fanny says I am to be most careful to avoid sad subjects when I meet you, and to be bright and cheerful. She's right. So I've come to talk solely about myself. I want you to be the first, the very first, to hear my news. News? It's a dead secret. I shan't breathe a word of it to aunt until the business is absolutely settled. Business? I'm waiting. Aurea laughing gleefully. Let me get rid of my umbrella. Resting her umbrella against the table on the right, and returning to Iris with an air of importance. Now then, what do you think, dear Mrs. Bellamy? I have a prospect of being able to make myself independent of my relations. Really? Yes, positively. You know, while Aunt Fanny could afford to have me with her, my position was just endurable.

But now, well, I can't expect to find the world full of Aunt Fanny's, can I? Tell me. It's all through Miss Pinsent. Kate Pinsent? Aurea nodding. "'Whom I met at your house at Kensington. You remember your lovely dinner party?' Iris looking away. "'Perfectly.' "'We struck up a great friendship that night, Miss Pinsent and I. I wrote to her when we first heard of Aunt's Reverse, mentioning how I was situated. She's a dear.' Iris turning from Aurea. "'Yes. I'm afraid I didn't treat her very considerately.' I'm certain you did. You do everybody. She adores you. So does everybody. In an outburst. We are going into business. You and Kate. That is, she is going into business, if she can overcome initial difficulties, and I am to be allowed to join her.

Dropping upon the settee in the centre. Isn't it exciting? You enterprising little woman. Advancing to her. Difficulties? What difficulties? She has to find three or four hundred pounds to decorate and fit up the rooms. The rooms! Four rooms! Two on the first floor, and two on the second, where the girls will work. Iris standing facing Aurea, and looking down upon her. But Kate has money. Aurea shaking her head. No. And her mother to maintain. Isn't it rough? She saved money. She saved it with me, in my service. I know it. Oh yes, but that went... Went? Mr. Kane had it. Iris sitting beside Aurea. Kane. Poor girl. She used to talk to him when he came to your house. Of course. And one day she asked him to invest her savings for her.

Gone. Aurea nodding. Dreadfully hard lines. But she's awfully dogged, and if she can only induce somebody to stand by her over this undertaking. Poor Kate. Fancy the avalanche crushing her too. A nice creature. I'm certain she'll manage it somehow. She swears she'll move heaven and earth before she owns beat. Iris thoughtfully with knit brows. That's all very well. If she doesn't, if she can't... Oh, don't suggest that, Mrs. Bellamy. Don't, don't suggest that. Iris rises and slowly walks towards the writing table, while Aurea, not following her movements, rattles on emphatically. Surely... Surely there are plenty of generous, wealthy people who will lend a helping hand to a woman. Kate has tried for another situation as companion, such as she held with you, and has failed.

The salaries offered are impossible. There's but one Mrs. Bellamy on earth, she says. All the rest are in heaven. Oh, it would be too cruel if this chance escaped her. Cruel on her and on me. Me. I believe I shall break my heart if it falls through. I think of nothing else, dream of nothing else, talk of nothing else, you'll say. Iris is now seated quite composedly, before the writing table, drawing a cheque in Maldonado's chequebook. Hush, hush, I'm writing. Aurea rising. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bellamy. Iris carefully extracts the cheque from the book and blots it, and taking an envelope from the table, rises and comes to Aurea. Iris folding the cheque. Aurea, this little gift will put an end to those initial difficulties you speak of.

Send it to your friend at once with my good wishes. Aurea staring at the cheque as Iris encloses it in the envelope. Oh! Iris giving the envelope to Aurea. Say that I am sincerely sorry I dismissed her so unkindly, so abruptly. Mrs. Bellamy! Dear Mrs. Bellamy! You mustn't attempt to do this for us. It delights me to render this service, the last perhaps I shall ever render anybody. But how… how can you? Iris looking down. I have unexpectedly come into possession of a trifling...

Not a word, please, to your aunt. N-no. Aunt Aurea, mind, you must put Kate Pinsent upon her honour, her word of honour, never to let a soul know. The manservant enters at the door. The carriage is here, ma'am. Iris to Aurea. Shall I give you a lift as far as de Bellevue? Aunt might wonder and put awkward questions. Iris with a glance of assent. I am to see you both at Tremezzo this afternoon? Yes. Iris to the servant. Come back for my bag when you have let Miss Weiss out. Yes, ma'am. Aurea, throwing her arms around Iris's neck.

Oh! Oh! She snatches up her umbrella and runs away. The servant goes after her. With a troubled half-guilty look, Iris attires herself in her hat and cape, after which, carrying her gloves, she returns to her dressing bag. Glancing round the room to assure herself that she has collected all her small personal belongings, her eyes rest on the checkbook, which lies open on the writing table. She contemplates it for a time. A gradually increasing fear showing itself in her face. Ultimately, she walks slowly to the table and picks up the book. She is fingering it in an uncertain, frightened way when the servant returns. Manservant standing over the bag. Is there anything more, ma'am? She hesitates helplessly, then, becoming conscious that she is being stared at, She advances, drops the book into the bag, and passes out.

The man shuts the bag, and is following her as the curtain falls.

End of Act Three

4 04 - Act 4 36:03

The Fourth Act. The scene represents a room in a flat at the West End of London. The decorations are in delicate tints of pink and green, touched with silver, and the furniture is correspondingly light and dainty. The fireplace, where a fire is burning, is in the centre of the wall furthest from the spectator. On one side of the fireplace, the left, is a door admitting to a bedroom. On the other side, a door opening from the hall. A silken portiere hangs over the bedroom door. In the wall on the right there is a deep recess in which is fitted a luxurious divan, and beyond this recess is a third door leading to another apartment. On the left-hand side of the room, a bow window, provided with cushioned seats, gives a view of the houses on the opposite side of the street.

A writing-table chair and waste paper basket stand near the window. On either side of the fireplace is an armchair, and in the centre of the room there is a circular table on which breakfast is laid tastefully for one person. On the left of the breakfast table is a chair, and on the right a settee with a little table behind it. Other articles of furniture All pretty and fragile are arranged about the room. The light is that of a clear morning in winter. Iris, dressed in a handsome morning robe, is seated at the table in the centre, a book propped up before her, neglecting her breakfast. Her beauty has matured, become severer, more majestic, and her face has somewhat hardened. A grey lock, however, upon her brow, from which the hair is now taken back, gives a softening note.

The door on the right of the fireplace, the door admitting from the hall, opens, and Maldonado enters with the air of a man who is thoroughly at home. He is without his hat, but is still gloved. He comes to the right of the table, and looks down upon her.

She barely raises her eyes from her book. With a shrug, he seats himself in the chair on the right of the fireplace and pulls off his gloves. A pause. Iris mechanically stirring her tea. Having taken a cigarette from his case, he searches for matches upon the mantelpiece. Not finding them, he goes to the writing table. There he comes upon a match stand and lights his cigarette. Maldonado at the writing table. The matches are never in the same place, two days running. Frederick. Eh? I wish you would make it a practice to send your name in, instead of using a latch-key. Why? It would appear a little more respectful to me in the eyes of the servants, would it not? It's of no consequence. After some hesitation, he produces a bunch of keys, and removes from it a latch-key.

Weighing the key in his hand meditatively, he walks towards the settee. Then he turns and tosses the key upon the table. Thanks. Maldonado sitting upon the settee. Anything to satisfy you, my dear? She picks up the key and, rising, drops it into a vase, which stands upon the mantelpiece. The key strikes the bottom of the vase with a sharp sound. Having done this, she resumes her seat and sips her tea. Maldonado examining his nails. I particularly hoped to find you in an agreeable humour this morning. I wonder whether I can put you in one. Don't read. She lays her book aside. Iris. Will. I was turning matters over in my mind last week in Paris. Honestly, I am no more content with the present condition of affairs than you are.

Then I am? I am not aware that I have expressed any special discontent. Huh! Upon my soul, you have the knack of freezing a man. What is it you have to propose, Frederick? Maldonado leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. Iris, I want to invite you to come round the corner, to Mount Street. To Mount Street? To my house, in a settled position. Oh? Do you remember our talk of two years ago, last summer, on the occasion of that dinner party at your place, when you declared your willingness to do your duty as my wife, as mistress of my establishment, squarely and faithfully? You sold me, then, a subject we won't enlarge on. Well, there hangs the old Velasquith still, and the Raphael, and the Murillo.

And once more, I offer to frame you gorgeously and to place you along with them, making you permanently—what was my phrase—mine to gaze at, mine to keep from others. What do you say?" Iris after a pause. Why now? Why now? Yes, why now? I—I've— Treated you a bit roughly, you mean? She rises with an eloquent gesture and goes to the chair on the left of the fireplace, where she sits. Oh, I own up. I intended to have my revenge, if I could get, and I've had it. Yes, I meant it. Oh? I repeat, I own up. I make a clean breast of it, you see? As an inducement to you to wipe the slate. It was deliberate then, from the very first. Cruelly deliberate? Maldonado with a nod. I'll even beg pardon, if it would please you.

Your arrival at Cadernabia from X. I'd heard you were travelling with that pup dog at your heels. Of whom are you speaking? Sorry, Trenwith. And I wanted to be sure I couldn't credit it. You, to throw me over when I'd won you honorably, shove me aside after my long waiting, at the moment of my success, for a lover? It kept me awake. I wasn't sleeping. That brought me to Cadena'bia." I've often wondered. Huh. I believe I came by the same train that carried the newspapers. Containing the account of canes bolting. There was an opening at once. To play the friend, the consoling friend. Ah. Maldonado, after a pause. Anything more? What would you have done if events had not shaped themselves in your favour?

If Mr. Trenwith and I had not parted? I don't know, frankly. It gives me the shivers sometimes, the mere conjecture. There were days at X when I felt mad. Ah. Eh? I wish you had been merciful and had taken me out onto the lake and drowned me. Ugh. That checkbook. You were sure I'd avail myself of it? I was pretty certain you couldn't drag on for long, upon a few pounds a week. You couldn't. How mad you were! And as your careering about abroad with a young gentleman in attendance had alienated the friends who could have aided you, I calculated the chances were all my way. The chances of your being able to destroy me utterly? The chances of crying quits with Chenwith. Iris clenching her hands. Oh, don't.

Don't! Maldonado after another pause. Anything more? She is silent. He rises and goes to the fireplace, where he stands his back to the fire, contemplating her. You're not over-keen about my suggestion, apparently. I? I fancied you'd be glad. Upon my soul, I imagine you'd be rather gratified. Iris rising and standing beside him, composedly. I am sorry if you are disappointed. I'm afraid I have no longer the capacity for being gratified at anything. I haven't it. It's gone. It's odd that, somehow, whenever the question of marriage has arisen between us, you've always contrived to make me look an ass in my own eyes. Need you regard it in that way? Look here, Iris. You must at least see that I desire to make it up to you, desire to make amends.

Surely that flatters you, if ever so slightly. You used the word respect a minute ago. Does this look as if I entertained no respect for you? Between his teeth. I am... I mean, I can't understand you. Amends? What amends can you make me? Isn't marriage amends? Iris trifling with the flowers on the breakfast table. It's too late, I tell you. I'm down, beyond recovery. I've lost heart. I no longer care. I'm shunned like poison. Maldonado behind her shoulder. People cut you? You mustn't blame me wholly for that. I don't. I'm not unfair. And it isn't that which hurts me most even now. Closing her eyes. But to shun oneself, to cut oneself. No, no, it's all over with me. Everything's over. Marriage, a farce.

She passes him and walks away to the head of the settee. He follows her. At any rate, in talking in this fashion, You take only one point of view. There's another. Yours? Oh yes, there's your point of view. But why on earth should you wish to marry me? Is it a novel wish on my part? No, but bruised fruit. Maldonado seizing her hands. Can't you be less bitter? Listen to me. Listen to me. Iris freeing herself and leaning against the head of the settee, facing him. I am doing so. You'll laugh at me. No, that's not your way. You'll stab me with those steel-grey eyes of yours, tighten your lips till the sight of their thin red lines stings me like whipcord. All the same, you've got to hear it. I love you.

I love you more than ever, my dear. What's in you? You're extraordinary. By the common rule of life, I ought to be chafing to be rid of you. The fizz should have gone entirely out of what remains of the liquor by this time, but it's not so. I say it's wonderful, considering what's behind us, that we should stand here as we do. I again entreating you to be my wife, still entreating you as I did two years back, for a soft word, a spark of warmth, just a little tenderness. Gripping her shoulders and looking into her face so closely that she shrinks back. I shall never be able to do without you, Iris. You grow on a man. Never be able to spare you. The idea of your wanting to break away from me one day is insupportable.

What did I ask you to call me that night in Kensington, beloved? Fool. And yet, this morning, notwithstanding all that has passed since then, I'd give half of everything I have in the world If you'd speak that word, I will give it. I lay it at your feet. Iris. Drawing her to him. Iris, you devil in marble. There is a silence between them for a moment or two, neither stirring. Then she gently disengages herself and moves away to the writing table, Maldonado following her with his eyes. Well? I... I will think about it. Maldonado passing his hand across his brow. Think about it. Think about it. Going towards her. Oh, yes. You haven't heard from that fellow lately, have you? Mr. Trenwith? Mr. Trenwith.

No. Nor written to him? She shakes her head. When did you last write? It doesn't matter. When? Four months ago, or five. Sitting in the chair by the writing table. I forget exactly. And he? He continued his letters for a time, reproaching me for forgetting him. They have ceased. Seized. You are sure? Sure? Quite sure. She breaks down and cries. He watches her for a while, then turns from her and sits at the breakfast table. Maldonado digging a fork into the tablecloth viciously. Will you come to theatre tonight? Iris wiping her eyes. If you wish it. Dine somewhere beforehand? As you please. Where? Anywhere. What theatre? A pause. What theatre? There are some unopened newspapers upon the little table behind the settee.

She crosses over to the table and picks up one of them. She is unfolding it when he comes to her. Maldonado at her side. How long will it take you to make up your mind? About the theatre? No. No. About our marriage. A week. Let me have a week. Sitting upon the settee. There can be no necessity for haste. A week? Pish! Leaning against the breakfast table. However, we'll say a week. Iris gazing listlessly before her, the paper falling to the floor. If we do, Mary, you must promise not to insist upon my continuing to live in England. Why? There would be a revival of interest in me as your wife. Heaps of those who have dropped me, half-forgotten me, who wouldn't touch me as I am, with gloves on, would rally round me because of your wealth.

I couldn't suffer that. I shouldn't ask you to. What? You and I alone, then, in that great house in Mount Street? No, no, not England, if we marry. All right, so be it. We can easily take down the Velasquez and hang him elsewhere. After all, England is a paradise only for the Puritan and the hypocrite. His spirit's rising.

Farewell, England, the land of lean women and smug men, and of the drooping eyelid and the sanctimonious drawl. Land of money worship, of cant and pharisaism, of false sentiment and namby-pamby ideals in every department of life, the suburb of the universe. Ha! Ha! Ha! England, farewell. Advancing to her. Paris. The women there are so terrible. The women who would claim equality with me. One must live somewhere. That's it. That's it. And yet, why reside anywhere? Who so at home everywhere has the homeless rich? We'll be cosmopolitans of the First Order, shall we? Bending over her. Why, I'd carry Velasquith and his companions on my back, from city to city, if you'd walk beside me. With your hand in mine.

Holding out his hand. Ah, sweetest. Iris looking up at him, with an expressionless face, and laying her hand in his. You are not all bad, Maldo. There is a knock at the door, and Iris rises. They separate. She goes to the writing table, he to the fireplace. Come. A woman servant enters from the hall. Mr. Harrington. Iris, seated at the writing table. I'll see him. The servant withdraws, closing the door. Maldonado with a wry face. You don't mind being bored. He's become too sour and grumpy for words, this chap. You know they've kicked him out of the secretary ship of that club. How the devil he lives. The servant returns, showing in Croker Harrington. Croker has lost his smartness, is almost shabby, and has aged out of proportion to the time that has elapsed.

He stands regarding Maldonado, with an expression approaching a scowl. The servant retires. Maldonado with a nod. Good morning. Good morning. He comes to Iris and shakes hands with her silently. Maldonado leaving the fire. You were at the wedding yesterday, I suppose, my dear Croker? Yes. And you come fully charged with all the delightful details, eh? I hope so. Miss Sylvain, a tolerably mature bride. I sent her a wedding present, which she had the impudence to return. To Iris, as he moved towards the door on the right. May I write two or three letters here while you chat to our friend? Why do you ask me? Maldonado at the door. Do decide about that theatre. He goes, leaving the door ajar. Iris crosses over to the door and peeps into the adjoining room.

Iris closing the door softly. He has gone into the further room. We can talk freely. She motions Croker to sit upon the settee. He obeys her. Then she brings the chair from the left of the breakfast table, and sits facing him eagerly. How did she look? Well. Sweet? Croker nodding. Hmm. The bridesmaids? Were there many? Four. Four? Evelyn Littledale? Of course. Margot Cowley? She. Her niece? Aurelia? Oh, yes, the girl I was rather fond of. And a sister of the bridegroom? Was the church well filled? The Winnings, were they present? The Chadwicks? The Saddingtons? The Vaines? The Glensmiths? He nods in response to each inquiry. Oh, I knew them all. She weeps again, then recovers herself and dries her eyes.

Well, exit Fanny. I passed her the other day in Davies Street. I saw her first in the distance and put back my veil so that she should notice my white lock. Sorrow and remorse have their egotism, as ease and joy have, and I am proud of my grey hair. But she purposely kept her eyes down. Perhaps in time— Never with a husband. That hope's gone. You're the last. And you've altered towards me. Altered? What do you expect? Iris, with her habitual pathetic little twist of her mouth. No, I must have disappointed you, sadly. Do you recollect describing to me once in the Kensington days your ideal of woman? It was at that time you were... Perfectly. You said you asked nothing more of a woman. What? Then that she should be beautiful to the eye and gentle to the ear?

That her face should brighten when I entered, her hand linger in mine when I departed? That she should never allow me to hear her speak slightingly of any honest man, thereby assuring me she indulged in no contemptuous criticism of me when I was out of her company? That she should be bountiful to the poor? Unafraid of the sick and unsightly, fond of dumb animals and strange children, and tearful in the presence of fine pictures and at the sound of rich music. And I inspired that. You did. How vain I felt. And yet, by chance, I suppose, never anticipating, you left out something, something essential, that goes to the making of a perfect woman. To the making of a good woman, yes. Iris, wincing.

Shhh! Shhh! Bending forward, she lays her head upon his knees. So she remains for a few moments, both silent, he looking down upon her.

Iris. She sobs. There is one other item of news I have to give you. Not connected with Fanny's wedding? Yes. You will have no difficulty in guessing it, I fancy. Eh? The inevitable has happened. I've always warned you. She raises her head slowly and stares at him. Reading his news in his face, she rises. Bag? He answers her with his eyes. She sways and he catches her by the arm. and assists her to the settee. It occurred late last night. I turned into a little restaurant in Soho, an old resort of his, it appears, for my supper. He came in. We stared at one another for a moment. Then he rushed at me. His ship had docked at Liverpool earlier in the day, and he had just driven from Euston. I pretended that I had finished eating, and, after a brief talk, got away.

Iris, her eyes closed. How does he bear it? He's mystified, believes someone has come between you and him, and is here to find out the facts. She opens her eyes and looks at him dully. Then she suddenly sits upright. He... he doesn't know, then? No. She struggles to her feet. And I was careful that he should extract nothing from me. He has not heard. Not heard. She moves about the room in an agitated, aimless way, sitting in one place only to rise immediately and transfer herself to another. An uttering brief, half-articulate comments as Croker proceeds. I allowed him to understand that your friendship for me had somewhat cooled. Cooled? In order that he shouldn't be puzzled by my unusual ignorance concerning you.

Ah, yes. That's it, Harrington," he said. She is being drawn away from her friends. By whom? Ah. He wanted information, naturally, as to your whereabouts. You had returned to London, I told him, but how stupid of me. I couldn't recall the name of the street in which you are lodging. Ah. Well? He has gone to an hotel in Villers Street. I have undertaken to hunt up your address, and to let him have it during the morning. And will you? Not without your authority to do so. My object was simply to stop him for a few hours. From busying himself and making inquiries. Iris nodding faintly. Inquiries. Thinking you might wish to be before others with your story. Iris coming to him and grasping his hands.

Ah! Ah! Ah! In the meantime, he is occupied feverishly at his tailors and haberdashers, I expect. What shall I do, Croaker? What course shall I adopt? Quick! We shall be interrupted directly. Oh, help me, please. Excuse me. The rest is with you. I regret I don't feel able to advise you. He turns from her and walks away to the fireplace, where he stands looking into the fire. Ah, that's unkind. Unkind. She drops into the chair before the writing table and sits for a time, her elbows on the table, tightly holding her brows. Then she seizes a pen and writes rapidly upon a sheet of notepaper. Iris, while she writes, Croker, Croker. He returns to her slowly. When she has finished her note, she scrawls a name upon an envelope and rises.

Croker is at her side. She holds the note before him. Croker as he reads it. You will see him tonight at nine o'clock? Yes. If he can come to you with pity in his heart. Iris folding the note with trembling hands. You will take this to him? Croker between his teeth. Aye. Oh, yes. Iris enclosing the note. At once, at once. Oh, certainly, at once. Iris looking at him in surprise. Croker. Having lied for you, plentifully, to one. With a glance in Maldonado's direction. I am now employed to deceive the other. Have you any further degradation for me? How much lower is my insane devotion to bring me? Tell me that. Tell me that. Dear friend. Degradation, yes. A hanger-on. A complacent hanger-on. And today, the common go-between.

Ugh. You have crushed the life, the spirit, the manhood out of me. Oh. Croker holding out his hand for the letter. But give it to me. Iris after a pause. No. I'll not. Come, I dare say I'm brutal, and perhaps a little jealous. Jealous, there. What an admission. What a depth for a man to touch. Still holding out his hand. Come, give it to me. This is the first time I've protested, at any rate. You are right. I ought not to have asked you. Tearing up the note. I... I beg your pardon. She throws the pieces into the waste-paper basket, and, passing Croker, seats herself upon the settee. He sinks into the chair by the writing-table, burying his head in his hands. Iris staring at the carpet. Besides, it would be a dreadful confession to make to him personally.

With a look under her brows round the room. Here, too. You haven't told me the name of the hotel. In Villiers Street, did you say? I'll do what you urged me to do at first. I'll endeavour to put it all on paper. To put everything on paper. A door slams in the distance. Croker raising his head. Maldonado. She collects herself and picks up the newspaper. Croker rising and going over to her quickly. Iris. Forget my boorishness. He shall be with you tonight at nine. She grasps at his arm as he leaves her. He is at the door leading to the hall, when Maldonado returns carrying some freshly written letters. Maldonado to Croker. Hello. You going? Yes. Ta-ta. Croker disappears, closing the door behind him.

Maldonado at the fireplace. Where is he off to in such a hurry? The workhouse? There's a man who knew half London. Now he hasn't a friend in the world, excepting yourself. Except myself. Eh? Advancing to her. Still hunting for that theatre? Theatre? The theatre. Tonight? Iris with a catch in her breath. Tonight? Didn't we arrange? Aren't you well, my dear? Iris rising. Maldonado, the week that I am to be allowed, the week... Week? The week in which to consider your proposal. Oh, yes. I wish you would leave me entirely alone in the meanwhile, not see me, not come near me. Maldonado, his eyes blazing. Have you been consulting Harrington? No. No, no. Haven't you? I have not mentioned the matter to him, not given him a hint.

Maldonado after a pause. What? Are you afraid that my fascinating presence would unduly influence your decision? She is silent, her hands twitching at the newspaper. There is a further pause. Oh, very well. You shall have a perfectly quiet time, if you desire it. I shall go down, then, this afternoon to Rubenstein's, at Bream Park, for a few days. Thanks. Thanks. She walks away to the divan, and throws herself upon it, settling herself in its cushions, with her back towards him, and making a show of reading the newspaper. Have you any postage stamps? Iris, as she arranges herself upon the divan. You will find them in my stamp box. He seats himself at the writing table, discovers the stamp box, and proceeds to affix stamps to his letters.

While he is thus occupied, his eye is attracted by the writing upon certain scraps of paper lying near the waste paper basket. They are fragments of Iris's note, some of which have fallen into the basket, others upon the floor. He picks up two or three of these pieces and examines them. Then he turns his head sharply and looks at Iris. Seeing that she is not observing him, he hurriedly collects the pieces remaining upon the floor, and also those in the basket. Humming an air to disguise his proceedings, He hastily fits the scraps together upon the table, after which he sweeps them into a heap and thrusts them into his waistcoat pocket. Maldonado rising. Papers are dull this morning. Very. Resuming his humming, he puts his letters away in the tail of his coat and moves stealthily towards the mantelpiece.

There he takes down a vase. Shakes it against his ear and replaces it. He repeats the process with another vase, this time with success. Whereupon, first pulling up his coat, sleeve and shirt cuff, he inserts his hand and arm into the vase and regains possession of his latch-key. Pocketing the key, he breaks off from his singing, and with an evil look upon his face comes to Iris. This day, week? Iris. Giving him a hand without turning. Yes. He leaves her as the curtain falls. End of the Fourth Act

5 05 - Act 5 31:35

The fifth act. The scene is unchanged. It is night-time. The electric light, softened by shades of rose-coloured silk, diffuses a warm glow over the room. The room is empty. There is a knock at the door on the right of the fireplace. The knock is repeated. Then the door is opened, and the woman-servant enters. Finding nobody, she goes to the door on the left, and, drawing the portire aside, knocks at that door gently. Having knocked, she drops the portire, and, retreating a few steps, waits. Presently, a hand is seen holding the portire, And Iris's voice is heard. Yes? The gentleman, ma'am. The curtain is disturbed, and the hand vanishes. Servant approaching the curtain. I beg your pardon, ma'am.

Ask him in. The servant goes out at the door, at which she entered, and returns almost immediately with Lawrence. Lawrence is in evening dress, but in place of his town heir, He has the bronzed face and slightly stiffened gait of a man accustomed to life in the open. He is wearing an overcoat and carries a felt hat. The servant withdraws, leaving him gazing about him in some bewilderment. Slowly surveying the apartment, he puts his hat upon the little table behind the settee and is taking off his gloves. When the portire again moves, an iris appears. She remains in the doorway, her back towards him, clutching the curtain. "'Iris.' She turns and faces him. She is clad entirely in black and wears no jewellery or embellishment of any description.

"'Iris.' "'Iris.' He stretches out his arms. For a moment she wavers. Then, with a swift movement, she sweeps across the room and falls upon his breast. Lauren's kissing her passionately. My dearest, my dearest. Iris, you are unaltered towards me. Iris, tell me you are quite unchanged. Iris murmuring his name as she clings to him. Laurie, Laurie, Laurie. Kiss me. You don't kiss me. With a cry, she takes his head between her hands and kisses him. "'Ah! Nothing has occurred to cause you to withdraw your love from me. I only want you to assure me of that.' Iris, her arms twined about his neck. "'I love you. I love you. I love you.' "'Thank God. Your silence has driven me almost distracted. How could you be so cruel to me?' Iris hiding her face against his shoulder.

"'Cruel. Cruel, yes.' What have I done to deserve it? I can't understand your motive. Hush, wait. Not yet, not yet. Kiss me again. Lawrence obeying her. Ah, ah, let me look at you. Holding her at arm's length. I am dying to look at you. Iris, her eyes closed. Ah.

You are more beautiful than ever.

Your face. It was always divine, but it has become still more spiritual. Saint-like.

Lawrence passing his hand over her brow. I see. You've dressed your hair away from your forehead. That is it. You resemble the pictures of angels one was familiar with in childhood. A dark angel. Lawrence observing her dress for the first time. Why, yes, I didn't notice. Dearest, are you in mourning? Iris supporting herself upon his arm as she looks into his face. Mourning? This is not mourning. It is merely black. Nothing but the loss of you would make it mourning. Ha! It was my fancy to receive you in this gown. She turns from him and walks away. A little unsteadily to the fireplace. Lawrence following her. How long may I remain with you? You're not going to send me away quickly. That depends upon yourself.

I... I am free for the rest of the evening. Depends upon me. Taking off his overcoat and throwing it over the back of the chair on the left of the fireplace. Well, a month would hardly suffice for me to say all I have to say to you. Returning to her. And seizing her hands, which he presses again and again to his lips. Dearest, why, why did you cease writing to me? The torch of waiting for the infernal post. What could have been your reason? What did you imagine it was? Did you think I was ill? At first, I cabled home to Miss Sylvain, asking her if it was so. To Fanny Sylvan? And received a laconic reply. "'Best of health. There my pride stepped in. Oh, the soil of a lonely ranch is favourable to the cultivation of a certain sort of sullen pride.

For the agony of it. Iris, the theories I formed, all of them incorrect, doubtless. Now at last you can blow them away with a breath." Iris plucking at his sleeve. "'Lawrence, have you seen Croker?' Lawrence nodding. "'Last night?' Yes, but today? No. He merely left a note in my hotel giving me your message. Message? That I was to be here at your lodgings at nine. Nothing further? Lauren shaking his head. Nothing further. And you've met no one else of our acquaintance? Nobody. Smiling. I've been frantically busy trying to make myself presentable for this visit. Those theories of yours, what were they? One of them. Looking about the room, a trace of apprehension in his voice. Don't tell me there was ever any grounds for it.

One of them? Was that your friends had come to your assistance, on condition that you broke faith with a struggling, hard-working fellow in British Columbia. Embracing her. Forgive me. The chair in which Iris was seated at breakfast. in the preceding act is now on the further side of the table, with its back to the fireplace. She releases herself from Lawrence's embrace and sits in this chair, a desperate look in her eyes, stealing herself for her task. Lawrence leaning over her shoulder. Dearest, can you blame me? As I have said, the distorted ideas solitude gives rise to. Surveying the room once more. And even now I can't help feeling puzzled. What a charming place you have here. Huh? Did your new lawyer manage to recover for you more than he expected?

Struck by a new thought. Iris, surely you have not been angry with yourself for not fulfilling a promise to starve during my absence? Iris, her elbows on the table, digging her fingers into her hair. You... you are nearing the truth. Lawrence, furrantly his lips close to her ear. Oh, my love, my dear love, in whatever way these comforts have come to you, how could you doubt that I shall be the first to rejoice that you have not after all been waiting for me in privation and anxiety? Iris, in a hard level voice, gently pushing him from her. Lawrence, it is about... The way in which these comforts have come to me, that I want to talk to you. She points to the settee, and he seats himself there, a growing fear expressed in his face.

Iris sitting upright, her body stiff, her eyes averted, with the little twist of her mouth. Lori, this charming place is not mine. No. That is... It is not maintained by myself. By your friends, as I supposed. By a friend. A pause. A friend. A further pause. Yes, there is something in your theory. Oh? You mean the condition does exist? The condition obliging you to be untrue to me? Iris? With an effort she turns her head and meets his gaze. It is a man-friend. He allows the words to soak into his brain. Then he rises and advances to her. She rises with him and they stand, facing each other, on opposite sides of the table. A man-friend? Mr. Maldonado. Maldonado. He is master here. Master? I...

you must speak plainer. He... intended to take his revenge. Revenge? He never rested. Never rested until... Until... He was able... to cry quits with you. Lawrence recoils. Opening her eyes widely, she gives him a final look of guilt and abasement. Then she collapses suddenly. Dropping into her chair and laying her head and outstretched arms upon the table. He continues staring at her for a time. Ultimately, covering his face with his hands, he sinks upon the settee. Iris lifting her head. No, he never left me alone. There is no palliation in that, perhaps, no excuse, but he never left me alone. Bursting into tears. No, I'm meant to be poor. I'm meant to be poor. She rises and goes to the fireplace, upon which she leans, weeping.

He placed some money at my disposal before he quitted Candanabia, opened an account for me without my leave at his bank in London. That was the beginning of it, the beginning of the path leading down to this awful abyss. I remained at Tremezzo barely a fortnight. I went there, as you know, because it was at Tremezzo we had passed such delicious hours, and I believed your spirit would linger about those quiet spots where we had been constantly together, you with your sketchbook on your knees, I close to you, both silent and happy. And so it was. Only— Your presence became a reproach to me instead of a solace, a haunting reproach, for almost from the very moment of my receiving it my hand accustomed itself to scrawling checks for one object and another in the checkbook he had considerately furnished me with.

Therefore, finding my conscience wouldn't let me sit with your spirit in those dear retreats, I packed my trunks and slunk away to Varice. He has not stirred. She looks at his stricken figure woefully and wanders towards the writing table. Varis. At Varis I found him waiting for me. Unfortunately I had written to him informing him of my arrangements, and there he was, in the courtyard of the little hotel, and he came forward to greet me. I confess I was glad to meet him. It was a familiar face. Advancing to the table in the centre. Varis. How many times have I cursed Varis? He introduced me to some people who were wintering there, people who attached themselves to me, gave me treats, took me upon excursions.

These I returned with interest. I felt myself compelled to have a small salon in which to entertain my new acquaintances. I, who ought to have been weighing every sou. And soon, the afternoon's growing chilly, I must needs send to Milan for a sable paletot to drive in. You see, step by step, he looked on. And throughout all this I was allowing you to believe I was fighting the battle of poverty with you." He stirs slightly. She essays to put a hand upon his shoulder. But falters and draws back. After I had spent a couple of months at Varys, somebody proposed that we should move to Rome. And to Rome we went, the whole party. Pressing her hands to her brow. Rome. Rome. It was at Rome shortly after we arrived there that I discovered I had overdrawn my account at his bank.

Strangely enough, he was advised of the circumstance by the same mail. Of course, it was the crisis he had been waiting for, and he came to me promptly with his pocketbook in his hand. Then it was that my eyes were opened. Early next day I sold my sables for a third of their value and made off, got out of the city, fled, literally fled, and there commenced my long term of penury. Lawrence, if you ever forgive me, if I am ever to be forgiven in this world or hereafter, it will be because of my sufferings during the months that followed my flight from Rome. Finding myself hopelessly embarrassed, I set myself to hunt up my old friends in England. Friends! Ha! The scandal of our travelling abroad together.

You and I furnished them with a ready excuse to deliberately turn their backs upon a woman who had lost fortune and position. Only Fanny and Croker were left. Fanny living on relations at Stranrier, Croker upon his meagre salary as secretary of a club. Mainly to spare poor Croker the sight of me, I hid myself in cheap seaside resorts out of their season. At the approach of their season crept inland to a stuffy town, all the while sinking further, further into debt and difficulty. At last every device for keeping my head above water was exhausted. I had even contrived to pledge the tiny income remaining from the wreck of my affairs, and I was without a shilling, absolutely without a shilling, my clothes nearly falling off me, my shoes in holes.

I was in London again by that time. It was as if I had come home for the finish. The horror of it. The back room in the narrow, grimy street. The regular, shameful visit to the pawnbrokers. The listless, mechanical stroll out in the dusk for air and exercise. I, I, your Iris. At the head of the settee. And one evening? He was continually tracing me and dogging my steps. One evening I met him and let him walk beside me, and he handed me the key of this flat. Oh! Turning away and throwing herself upon the divan. They were waiting for me, these pretty rooms. They had been kept prepared for me for months. That was my deepest disgrace. That he seemed to be so certain I should find my way here. She lies upon the divan, sobbing and moaning.

Lawrence removes his hands from his face and looks about him vacantly. Then he rises and walks stiffly and heavily to the fireplace. Lawrence staring into the fire, speaking in a toneless, expressionless voice. I...

I am intensely sorry for you, Iris. Iris raising her head, faint and exhausted. Eh? I... I am sincerely sorry for you. Iris putting her disordered hair back from her brow. Sorry for me?

I... I knew you would be. I... I was sure. She leaves the divan and goes a little way towards him. Then... Seeing that he does not turn to her, she checks herself. Iris by the settee feebly.

Ah, ah, yes. I ought to have spared you from learning it in this abrupt fashion. Sitting upon the settee, her eyes closed, her head resting against the back of the settee. How pitiless women are, especially to those they love and have injured. Poor Laurie. But dear, the first few weeks of my stay here were lived in a kind of stupor, inertia. I couldn't think, I couldn't reason. I didn't realize the dishonor, only that I was well housed again. And afterwards? At one moment I would find myself hoping that the shocking news might reach you from other sources. At the next, that my breaking off with you might keep you from returning to England, and that, by some miracle, you'd never hear the truth.

At any rate, till I had passed away. And so the months went on and on. Lawrence partly turning to her. This man, he wished to marry you once. He wishes it still to do him justice, now that he has... Oh, revenged himself upon us, he finds out that he wishes to tie me to him.

He is in earnest. He means it. In earnest, indeed, yes. And I? I suppose I should have acceded to his wish, ultimately, if this had not happened, if you had not come back. Sitting upright and putting her hands together prayerfully. Lori. Lori. Lawrence averting his eyes. Iris. Iris going down upon her knees beside the table, and bowing her head upon her clasped hands. Lori. Lori. Lori. I... I'm very sorry. He turns to the chair on his right and takes up his overcoat. Looking up, she sees his action.

Struggling to her feet. What are you doing? Lawrence hanging his head. I...

I'm very sorry. She retreats, watching his movements. He goes to the table upon which he has deposited his hat. Oh. He picks up his hat. No. He advances, always avoiding her gaze, and stands before her, looking upon the ground. You... you can't pardon me? Oh, try. She waits for a reply, but he is silent. I had my good resolutions, Laurie. It was through them that we separated, if you remember. That I refused to go with you. The little good in me, then, has proved my downfall. That's hard. I... I'm sorry. You could trust me now, dear, if you would but take me back with you. Oh, it would save me from so much that is hateful. Try.

No. You... you feel you can't? I'm sorry. Iris, supporting herself, by leaning upon the chair by the writing-table. Have you prospered? Would the home have been ready for me? Yes. Iris, dropping her head upon her breast. Oh. Rallying a little, and returning to him. Well, I don't reproach you. If I were a man, I suppose I should do precisely as you are doing. Piteously. Only I thought, as my first wrong step was taken for love of you. Lawrence covering his eyes with his hand. Iris. Iris. Hush. I ought not to have said that to you. That wasn't fair. She cries for a moment softly, then dries her eyes and offers him her hand. He takes it. By and by, in a little while, send me a photograph of that log-house of yours.

Merely slip it into an envelope, will you?" He inclines his head. Thanks. I should dearly like to have one, just to see. She withdraws her hand, and after a brief struggle with himself, he goes to the door. Almost involuntarily, she totters after him for a few steps. But he leaves her without looking back. When he has gone, she drops upon the settee and sits there stunned and motionless. There is a pause, then the door on the right opens quietly, and Maldonado appears. He is still in his morning dress, but his necktie is disarranged, and his eyes are bloodshot and his face livid. He comes to her, And lays his hand upon her shoulder. With a cry of terror, she twists her body round and faces him.

Your visitor has departed, eh? She rises and backs away from him towards the left. He follows her. You rack of a woman! You double-faced trill! You liar! Hush! Maldo! Duh! He seizes her by the arms and hurls her onto the settee. Then he stands over her, his eyes aflame. You! Hush, Maldow, don't hurt me! Maldow! Gripping her wrist, he pulls her up from the settee violently. Maldow, Maldow, don't hurt me! Maldow! He throws her from him again, and she stumbles towards the fireplace, where she falls into the chair by the table. Once more he goes after her, uttering ferocious sounds, his fingers extended like claws. In the end, he forces himself to quit her side, and staggers to the settee. Upon which, his rage partially spent, he drops panting.

There is silence between them for a time. Broken only by her sobs and his heavy breathing.

Oh! Oh! Oh! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho! So, so, so you've lost your second sweetheart, have you? Or am I number two? Which of us do you rank first? You... you know? You have listened, then? Maldonado nodding scowlingly. He cleared out pretty sharply. Your influence is a diminishing quantity, my dear. You must be getting old. How did you learn? The note you wrote to him this morning and tore up. You should have thought better of committing yourself to paper and then have scattered the scraps of your love letter about your writing table. She glances at the waste paper basket. That dog, Harrington, is running your errands, is he? She rises feebly and goes to the mantelpiece, upon which she leans. Ha!

An enjoyable day you've all given me. I've been in this accursed street for hours, waiting for Mr. Lawrence to arrive, or for you to come out. Well, you see, he has left me. Left me for good. Yes. The fellow has more sense than I, after all. A great deal more sense than I. Rising and crossing the room, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. What an escape! What an escape! Escape? Escape. Wiping the sweat from his brow. Phew! You're the sort of woman that sends a hot-blooded man to the gallows, my dear. No, no, no, no. You're not too old for that, still. Yes, today reads me a lesson. Partly to himself. Tush! What a lesson, Freddy. What a lesson. Absorbed in thought, he moves towards the mantelpiece.

She shrinks from him and comes to the settee. Oh, don't be frightened. My fit's over. Sitting staring before him, his fingers drumming upon the table. Only I must be careful in the future. More careful in the future. The risk is too deadly. Iris seated upon the settee, eyeing him wonderingly. Risk? Maldonado again partly to himself. I have no ambition to figure in the dock someday. That's not my game. To her. I come of a race whose qualities are curiously blended, my dear, made up partly of passion, partly of prudence. For some years now, thanks to you, I've been letting the first run away with me.

Drawing a deep breath. I can't afford that. Freddy Maldonado can't afford that. Bringing his fist down upon the table heavily. Tonight ends it. Ends it. Rising and pointing to the door, which admits to the hall. You can go. Go? This place is mine. Maldonado. You'll take your departure. Maldow! You hear? Iris rising. When? When? Now. I desire to be left alone. Tonight? At once. This is your punishment, my dear. Ah! To drift back to the condition in which I found you a few months since. This is your reward. Maldonado. Maldonado ringing the bell. Go. There is a pause during which he continues ringing. Suddenly she stiffens her body, and like one walking in a dream, crosses the room and goes out at the door on the left.

The servant appears. Maldonado to the servant. You'll all leave my service tomorrow, you women. Sir! Wages shall be paid you in lieu of notice, and a present given to you. Thank you, sir. Tell your fellow servants. Yes, sir. Maldonado listening. That'll do. The servant withdraws as Iris returns, wearing a hat and cape, and carrying her gloves, her head still erect. She moves towards the door leading to the hall, Maldonado playing with his beard. You, er... Upon hearing his voice, she halts abruptly in the centre of the room. You can send for your trinkets and clothes in the morning. After that, let me hear no more of you. She remains motionless, as if stricken. I've nothing further to say. A slight shiver runs through her frame, and she resumes her walk.

At the door, she feels blindly for the handle. Finding it, she opens the door narrowly and passes out. Directly, the door closes behind her. Maldonado utters a fierce cry, and with one movement of his arm, sweeps the china and bric-a-brac from the mantelpiece. The fragments are scattered about the room.

He overturns the table with a savage kick. Then, raising a chair high in the air, he dashes it to the floor and breaks it into splinters. The curtain falls finally. End of Act 5. End of Iris by Arthur Wing Pinero

queue_music Chapters 5