menu_book Chapter 2

are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. 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 Tremesso.

I wonder I didn't meet her. Alone? No, Miss. With Mr. Trenwith. Oh. Mr. Trenwith is sketching at Tremesso, Miss. Fanny displaying no further interest.

Really? Mrs. Bellamy breakfasts 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 forever, Aunt. The woman's servant withdraws at the door.

Man's servant to Fanny. Mr. Arnton is also waiting for Mrs. Bellamy, miss. I believe you're acquainted with Mr. Arnton. 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, Aria.

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 Croaker.

Aurea, who is now standing by the table on the left. Do you think all this pleases Mrs Bellamy, Aunt? all this her friends 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. 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? Croker shutting his umbrella. 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?

Aria, 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. Trenwith does. Oh, yes. 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 Liddeldale. The Liddeldales 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 behavior.

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 trend with? 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. Puh! 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 croaker, 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. Ha ha ha. 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? 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 Aurea'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 Aria 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 Lawrence 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 at Menaggio, 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? Certainly, 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 Battersbees 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 have 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 Croker 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 Miss Serene...

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. Lauren's 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 onto 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. Lauren's 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 profuse 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 no 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, married, no one in the world to look askance at us Yes, we should have hurried off to church and begged a 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. Laurence 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. Laurence 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 Thrant at Chilkerton

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. Laurie, why are you teasing me?

I'm 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. Laurence with clenched hands. Does that make the situation easier for me?

How if 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 cabthairs 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 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 wolves 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. Erdy 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. Laurie, 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 moral. These are the sights that reconcile unto 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 croaker indicating the chair on her right

croaker to lawrence mr trendwith they sit iris with her back to the further window the others in the positions assigned to them the woman servant who was 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 are 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. Trenworth. 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 intenters 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. Letters drowned a 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. Trenwell? 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 servant returns carrying a dish of mayonnaise of fish which she deposits upon the sideboard the man removes from the table the plates which have 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? Extraordinary?

Leaning towards him. She discovers the item of news which interests him. Croak. The man's 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 Kane! 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 formally issued yesterday by Mr. James Woodrowth,

of the firm of Woodrowth and Kane, of 71 Lincolns Innfields. From this document it transpires that the missing gentleman is Mr. Woodrowth'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 onto 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 Woodruff. 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 Cawthorley 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 Aurea, 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.