GILBEY.  Dont talk foolishness, girl.  How could you and he be a pair,
you being what you are, and he brought up as he has been, with the
example of a religious woman like Mrs Knox before his eyes?  I cant
understand how he could bring himself to be seen in the street with
you.  [Pitying himself]  I havnt deserved this.  Ive done my duty as
a father.  Ive kept him sheltered.  [Angry with her]  Creatures like
you that take advantage of a child's innocence ought to be whipped
through the streets.

DORA.  Well, whatever I may be, I'm too much the lady to lose my
temper; and I dont think Bobby would like me to tell you what I think
of you; for when I start giving people a bit of my mind I sometimes
use language thats beneath me.  But I tell you once for all I must
have the money to get Bobby out; and if you wont fork out, I'll hunt
up Holy Joe.  He might get it off his brother, the Monsignor.

GILBEY.  You mind your own concerns.  My solicitor will do what is
right.  I'll not have you paying my son's fine as if you were anything
to him.

DORA.  Thats right.  Youll get him out today, wont you?

GILBEY.  It's likely I'd leave my boy in prison, isnt it?

DORA.  I'd like to know when theyll let him out.

GILBEY.  You would, would you?  Youre going to meet him at the prison
door.

DORA.  Well, dont you think any woman would that had the feelings of a
lady?

GILBEY.  [bitterly]  Oh yes:  I know.  Here!  I must buy the lad's
salvation, I suppose.  How much will you take to clear out and let him
go?

DORA.  [pitying him:  quite nice about it]  What good would that do,
old dear?  There are others, you know.

GILBEY.  Thats true.  I must send the boy himself away.

DORA.  Where to?

GILBEY.  Anywhere, so long as hes out of the reach of you and your
like.

DORA.  Then I'm afraid youll have to send him out of the world, old
dear.  I'm sorry for you:  I really am, though you mightnt believe it;
and I think your feelings do you real credit.  But I cant give him up
just to let him fall into the hands of people I couldnt trust, can I?

GILBEY.  [beside himself, rising]  Wheres the police?  Wheres the
Government?  Wheres the Church?  Wheres respectability and right
reason?  Whats the good of them if I have to stand here and see you
put my son in your pocket as if he was a chattel slave, and you hardly
out of gaol as a common drunk and disorderly?  Whats the world coming
to?

DORA.  It is a lottery, isnt it, old dear?

_Mr Gilbey rushes from the room, distracted._

MRS GILBEY.  [unruffled]  Where did you buy that white lace?  I want
some to match a collaret of my own; and I cant get it at Perry and
John's.

DORA.  Knagg and Pantle's:  one and fourpence.  It's machine
hand-made.

MRS GILBEY.  I never give more than one and tuppence.  But I suppose
youre extravagant by nature.  My sister Martha was just like that.
Pay anything she was asked.

DORA.  Whats tuppence to you, Mrs Bobby, after all?

MRS GILBEY.  [correcting her]  Mrs Gilbey.

DORA.  Of course, Mrs Gilbey.  I am silly.

MRS GILBEY.  Bobby must have looked funny in your hat.  Why did you
change hats with him?

DORA.  I dont know.  One does, you know.

MRS GILBEY.  I never did.  The things people do!  I cant understand
them.  Bobby never told me he was keeping company with you.  His own
mother!

DORA.  [overcome]  Excuse me:  I cant help smiling.

_Juggins enters._

JUGGINS.  Mr Gilbey has gone to Wormwood Scrubbs, madam.

MRS GILBEY.  Have you ever been in a police court, Juggins?

JUGGINS.  Yes, madam.

MRS GILBEY [rather shocked]  I hope you had not been exceeding,
Juggins.

JUGGINS.  Yes, madam, I had.  I exceeded the legal limit.

MRS GILBEY.  Oh, that!  Why do they give a woman a fortnight for
wearing a man's hat, and a man a month for wearing hers?

JUGGINS.  I didnt know that they did, madam.

MRS GILBEY.  It doesnt seem justice, does it, Juggins?

JUGGINS.  No, madam.

MRS GILBEY [to Dora, rising]  Well, good-bye.  [Shaking her hand]
So pleased to have made your acquaintance.

DORA.  [standing up]  Dont mention it.  I'm sure it's most kind of
you to receive me at all.

MRS GILBEY.  I must go off now and order lunch.  [She trots to the
door].  What was it you called the concertina?

DORA.  A squiffer, dear.

MRS GILBEY.  [thoughtfully]  A squiffer, of course.  How funny!
[She goes out].

DORA.  [exploding into ecstasies of mirth]  Oh my! isnt she an old
love?  How do you keep your face straight?

JUGGINS.  It is what I am paid for.

DORA.  [confidentially]  Listen here, dear boy.  Your name isnt
Juggins.  Nobody's name is Juggins.

JUGGINS.  My orders are, Miss Delaney, that you are not to be here
when Mr Gilbey returns from Wormwood Scrubbs.

DORA.  That means telling me to mind my own business, doesnt it?
Well, I'm off.  Tootle Loo, Charlie Darling.  [She kisses her hand to
him and goes].



ACT II

_On the afternoon of the same day, Mrs Knox is writing notes in her
drawing-room, at a writing-table which stands against the wall.
Anyone placed so as to see Mrs Knox's left profile, will have the door
on the right and the window an the left, both further away than Mrs
Knox, whose back is presented to an obsolete upright piano at the
opposite side of the room.  The sofa is near the piano.  There is a
small table in the middle of the room, with some gilt-edged books and
albums on it, and chairs near it._

_Mr Knox comes in almost furtively, a troubled man of fifty, thinner,
harder, and uglier than his partner, Gilbey, Gilbey being a soft
stoutish man with white hair and thin smooth skin, whilst Knox has
coarse black hair, and blue jaws which no diligence in shaving can
whiten.  Mrs Knox is a plain woman, dressed without regard to fashion,
with thoughtful eyes and thoughtful ways that make an atmosphere of
peace and some solemnity.  She is surprised to see her husband at home
during business hours._

MRS KNOX.  What brings you home at this hour?  Have you heard
anything?

KNOX.  No.  Have you?

MRS KNOX.  No.  Whats the matter?

KNOX.  [sitting down on the sofa]  I believe Gilbey has found out.

MRS KNOX.  What makes you think that?

KNOX.  Well, I dont know:  I didnt like to tell you:  you have enough
to worry you without that; but Gilbey's been very queer ever since it
happened.  I cant keep my mind on business as I ought; and I was
depending on him.  But hes worse than me.  Hes not looking after
anything; and he keeps out of my way.  His manner's not natural.  He
hasnt asked us to dinner; and hes never said a word about our not
asking him to dinner, after all these years when weve dined every week
as regular as clockwork.  It looks to me as if Gilbey's trying to drop
me socially.  Well, why should he do that if he hasnt heard?

MRS KNOX.  I wonder!  Bobby hasnt been near us either:  thats what I
cant make out.

KNOX.  Oh, thats nothing.  I told him Margaret was down in Cornwall
with her aunt.

MRS KNOX.  [reproachfully]  Jo!  [She takes her handkerchief from
the writing-table and cries a little].

KNOX.  Well, I got to tell lies, aint I?  You wont.  Somebody's got to
tell em.

MRS KNOX.  [putting away her handkerchief]  It only ends in our not
knowing what to believe.  Mrs Gilbey told me Bobby was in Brighton for
the sea air.  Theres something queer about that.  Gilbey would never
let the boy loose by himself among the temptations of a gay place like
Brighton without his tutor; and I saw the tutor in Kensington High
Street the very day she told me.

KNOX.  If the Gilbeys have found out, it's all over between Bobby and
Margaret, and all over between us and them.

MRS KNOX.  It's all over between us and everybody.  When a girl runs
away from home like that, people know what to think of her and her
parents.

KNOX.  She had a happy, respectable home--everything--

MRS KNOX.  [interrupting him]  Theres no use going over it all
again, Jo.  If a girl hasnt happiness in herself, she wont be happy
anywhere.  Youd better go back to the shop and try to keep your mind
off it.

KNOX.  [rising restlessly]  I cant.  I keep fancying everybody knows
it and is sniggering about it.  I'm at peace nowhere but here.  It's a
comfort to be with you.  It's a torment to be with other people.

MRS KNOX.  [going to him and drawing her arm through his]  There,
Jo, there!  I'm sure I'd have you here always if I could.  But it cant
be.  God's work must go on from day to day, no matter what comes.  We
must face our trouble and bear it.

KNOX.  [wandering to the window arm in arm with her]  Just look at
the people in the street, going up and down as if nothing had
happened.  It seems unnatural, as if they all knew and didnt care.

MRS KNOX.  If they knew, Jo, thered be a crowd round the house looking
up at us.  You shouldnt keep thinking about it.

KNOX.  I know I shouldnt.  You have your religion, Amelia; and I'm
sure I'm glad it comforts you.  But it doesnt come to me that way.
Ive worked hard to get a position and be respectable.  Ive turned many
a girl out of the shop for being half an hour late at night; and heres
my own daughter gone for a fortnight without word or sign, except a
telegram to say shes not dead and that we're not to worry about her.

MRS KNOX.  [suddenly pointing to the street]  Jo, look!

KNOX.  Margaret!  With a man!

MRS KNOX.  Run down, Jo, quick.  Catch her:  save her.

KNOX.  [lingering]  Shes shaking bands with him:  shes coming across
to the door.

MRS KNOX.  [energetically]  Do as I tell you.  Catch the man before
hes out of sight.

_Knox rushes from the room.  Mrs Knox looks anxiously and excitedly
from the window.  Then she throws up the sash and leans out.  Margaret
Knox comes in, flustered and annoyed.  She is a strong, springy girl
of eighteen, with large nostrils, an audacious chin, and a gaily
resolute manner, even peremptory on occasions like the present, when
she is annoyed._

MARGARET.  Mother.  Mother.

_Mrs Knox draws in her head and confronts her daughter._

MRS KNOX.  [sternly]  Well, miss?

MARGARET.  Oh, mother, do go out and stop father making a scene in the
street.  He rushed at him and said "Youre the man who took away my
daughter" loud enough for all the people to hear.  Everybody stopped.
We shall have a crowd round the house.  Do do something to stop him.

_Knox returns with a good-looking young marine officer._

MARGARET.  Oh, Monsieur Duvallet, I'm so sorry--so ashamed.  Mother:
this is Monsieur Duvallet, who has been extremely kind to me.
Monsieur Duvallet:  my mother.  [Duvallet bows].

KNOX.  A Frenchman!  It only needed this.

MARGARET.  [much annoyed]  Father:  do please be commonly civil to a
gentleman who has been of the greatest service to me.  What will he
think of us?

DUVALLET.  [debonair]  But it's very natural.  I understand Mr
Knox's feelings perfectly.  [He speaks English better than Knox,
having learnt it on both sides of the Atlantic].

KNOX.  If Ive made any mistake I'm ready to apologize.  But I want to
know where my daughter has been for the last fortnight.

DUVALLET.  She has been, I assure you, in a particularly safe place.

KNOX.  Will you tell me what place?  I can judge for myself how safe
it was.

MARGARET.  Holloway Gaol.  Was that safe enough?

KNOX AND MRS KNOX.  Holloway Gaol!

KNOX.  Youve joined the Suffragets!

MARGARET.  No.  I wish I had.  I could have had the same experience in
better company.  Please sit down, Monsieur Duvallet.  [She sits
between the table and the sofa.  Mrs Knox, overwhelmed, sits at the
other side of the table.  Knox remains standing in the middle of the
room].

DUVALLET.  [sitting down on the sofa]  It was nothing.  An
adventure.  Nothing.

MARGARET.  [obdurately]  Drunk and assaulting the police!  Forty
shillings or a month!

MRS KNOX.  Margaret!  Who accused you of such a thing?

MARGARET.  The policeman I assaulted.

KNOX.  You mean to say that you did it!

MARGARET.  I did.  I had that satisfaction at all events.  I knocked
two of his teeth out.

KNOX.  And you sit there coolly and tell me this!

MARGARET.  Well, where do you want me to sit?  Whats the use of saying
things like that?

KNOX.  My daughter in Holloway Gaol!

MARGARET.  All the women in Holloway are somebody's daughters.
Really, father, you must make up your mind to it.  If you had sat in
that cell for fourteen days making up your mind to it, you would
understand that I'm not in the humor to be gaped at while youre trying
to persuade yourself that it cant be real.  These things really do
happen to real people every day; and you read about them in the papers
and think it's all right.  Well, theyve happened to me:  thats all.

KNOX.  [feeble-forcible]  But they shouldnt have happened to you.
Dont you know that?

MARGARET.  They shouldnt happen to anybody, I suppose.  But they do.
[Rising impatiently]  And really I'd rather go out and assault
another policeman and go back to Holloway than keep talking round and
round it like this.  If youre going to turn me out of the house, turn
me out:  the sooner I go the better.

DUVALLET.  [rising quickly]  That is impossible, mademoiselle.  Your
father has his position to consider.  To turn his daughter out of
doors would ruin him socially.

KNOX.  Oh, youve put her up to that, have you?  And where did you come
in, may I ask?

DUVALLET.  I came in at your invitation--at your amiable insistence,
in fact, not at my own.  But you need have no anxiety on my account.
I was concerned in the regrettable incident which led to your
daughter's incarceration.  I got a fortnight without the option of a
fine on the ridiculous ground that I ought to have struck the
policeman with my fist.  I should have done so with pleasure had I
known; but, as it was, I struck him on the ear with my boot--a
magnificent _moulinet_, I must say--and was informed that I had been
guilty of an act of cowardice, but that for the sake of the _entente
cordiale_ I should be dealt with leniently.  Yet Miss Knox, who used
her fist, got a month, but with the option of a fine.  I did not know
this until I was released, when my first act was to pay the fine.  And
here we are.

MRS KNOX.  You ought to pay the gentleman the fine, Jo.

KNOX.  [reddening]  Oh, certainly.  [He takes out some money].

DUVALLET.  Oh please! it does not matter.  [Knox hands him two
sovereigns].  If you insist--  [he pockets them]  Thank you.

MARGARET.  I'm ever so much obliged to you, Monsieur Duvallet.

DUVALLET.  Can I be of any further assistance, mademoiselle?

MARGARET.  I think you had better leave us to fight it out, if you
dont mind.

DUVALLET.  Perfectly.  Madame [bow]--Mademoiselle [bow]--Monsieur
[bow]--[He goes out].

MRS KNOX.  Dont ring, Jo.  See the gentleman out yourself.

_Knox hastily sees Duvallet out.  Mother and daughter sit looking
forlornly at one another without saying a word.  Mrs Knox slowly sits
down.  Margaret follows her example.  They look at one another again.
Mr Knox returns._

KNOX.  [shortly and sternly]  Amelia:  this is your job.  [To
Margaret]  I leave you to your mother.  I shall have my own say in
the matter when I hear what you have to say to her.  [He goes out,
solemn and offended].

MARGARET.  [with a bitter little laugh]  Just what the Suffraget
said to me in Holloway.  He throws the job on you.

MRS KNOX.  [reproachfully]  Margaret!

MARGARET.  You know it's true.

MRS KNOX.  Margaret:  if youre going to be hardened about it, theres
no use my saying anything.

MARGARET.  I'm not hardened, mother.  But I cant talk nonsense about
it.  You see, it's all real to me.  Ive suffered it.  Ive been shoved
and bullied.  Ive had my arms twisted.  Ive been made scream with pain
in other ways.  Ive been flung into a filthy cell with a lot of other
poor wretches as if I were a sack of coals being emptied into a
cellar.  And the only difference between me and the others was that I
hit back.  Yes I did.  And I did worse.  I wasnt ladylike.  I cursed.
I called names.  I heard words that I didnt even know that I knew,
coming out of my mouth just as if somebody else had spoken them.  The
policeman repeated them in court.  The magistrate said he could hardly
believe it.  The policeman held out his hand with his two teeth in it
that I knocked out.  I said it was all right; that I had heard myself
using those words quite distinctly; and that I had taken the good
conduct prize for three years running at school.  The poor old
gentleman put me back for the missionary to find out who I was, and to
ascertain the state of my mind.  I wouldnt tell, of course, for your
sakes at home here; and I wouldnt say I was sorry, or apologize to the
policeman, or compensate him or anything of that sort.  I wasnt sorry.
The one thing that gave me any satisfaction was getting in that smack
on his mouth; and I said so.  So the missionary reported that I seemed
hardened and that no doubt I would tell who I was after a day in
prison.  Then I was sentenced.  So now you see I'm not a bit the sort
of girl you thought me.  I'm not a bit the sort of girl I thought
myself.  And I dont know what sort of person you really are, or what
sort of person father really is.  I wonder what he would say or do if
he had an angry brute of a policeman twisting his arm with one hand
and rushing him along by the nape of his neck with the other.  He
couldnt whirl his leg like a windmill and knock a policeman down by a
glorious kick on the helmet.  Oh, if theyd all fought as we two fought
we'd have beaten them.

MRS KNOX.  But how did it all begin?

MARGARET.  Oh, I dont know.  It was boat-race night, they said.

MRS KNOX.  Boat-race night!  But what had you to do with the boat
race?  You went to the great Salvation Festival at the Albert Hall
with your aunt.  She put you into the bus that passes the door.  What
made you get out of the bus?

MARGARET.  I dont know.  The meeting got on my nerves, somehow.  It
was the singing, I suppose:  you know I love singing a good swinging
hymn; and I felt it was ridiculous to go home in the bus after we had
been singing so wonderfully about climbing up the golden stairs to
heaven.  I wanted more music--more happiness--more life.  I wanted
some comrade who felt as I did.  I felt exalted:  it seemed mean to be
afraid of anything:  after all, what could anyone do to me against my
will?  I suppose I was a little mad:  at all events, I got out of the
bus at Piccadilly Circus, because there was a lot of light and
excitement there.  I walked to Leicester Square; and went into a great
theatre.

MRS KNOX.  [horrified]  A theatre!

MARGARET.  Yes.  Lots of other women were going in alone.  I had to
pay five shillings.

MRS KNOX.  [aghast]  Five shillings!

MARGARET.  [apologetically]  It was a lot.  It was very stuffy; and
I didnt like the people much, because they didnt seem to be enjoying
themselves; but the stage was splendid and the music lovely.  I saw
that Frenchman, Monsieur Duvallet, standing against a barrier, smoking
a cigarette.  He seemed quite happy; and he was nice and sailorlike.
I went and stood beside him, hoping he would speak to me.

MRS KNOX.  [gasps]  Margaret!

MARGARET.  [continuing]  He did, just as if he had known me for
years.  We got on together like old friends.  He asked me would I have
some champagne; and I said it would cost too much, but that I would
give anything for a dance.  I longed to join the people on the stage
and dance with them:  one of them was the most beautiful dancer I ever
saw.  He told me he had come there to see her, and that when it was
over we could go somewhere where there was dancing.  So we went to a
place where there was a band in a gallery and the floor cleared for
dancing.  Very few people danced:  the women only wanted to shew off
their dresses; but we danced and danced until a lot of them joined in.
We got quite reckless; and we had champagne after all.  I never
enjoyed anything so much.  But at last it got spoilt by the Oxford and
Cambridge students up for the boat race.  They got drunk; and they
began to smash things; and the police came in.  Then it was quite
horrible.  The students fought with the police; and the police
suddenly got quite brutal, and began to throw everybody downstairs.
They attacked the women, who were not doing anything, and treated them
just as roughly as they had treated the students.  Duvallet got
indignant and remonstrated with a policeman, who was shoving a woman
though she was going quietly as fast as she could.  The policeman
flung the woman through the door and then turned on Duvallet.  It was
then that Duvallet swung his leg like a windmill and knocked the
policeman down.  And then three policemen rushed at him and carried
him out by the arms and legs face downwards.  Two more attacked me and
gave me a shove to the door.  That quite maddened me.  I just got in
one good bang on the mouth of one of them.  All the rest was dreadful.
I was rushed through the streets to the police station.  They kicked
me with their knees; they twisted my arms; they taunted and insulted
me; they called me vile names; and I told them what I thought of them,
and provoked them to do their worst.  Theres one good thing about
being hard hurt:  it makes you sleep.  I slept in that filthy cell
with all the other drunks sounder than I should have slept at home.  I
cant describe how I felt next morning:  it was hideous; but the police
were quite jolly; and everybody said it was a bit of English fun, and
talked about last year's boat-race night when it had been a great deal
worse.  I was black and blue and sick and wretched.  But the strange
thing was that I wasnt sorry; and I'm not sorry.  And I dont feel that
I did anything wrong, really.  [She rises and stretches her arms with
a large liberating breath]  Now that it's all over I'm rather proud
of it; though I know now that I'm not a lady; but whether thats
because we're only shopkeepers, or because nobody's really a lady
except when theyre treated like ladies, I dont know.  [She throws
herself into a corner of the sofa].

MRS KNOX.  [lost in wonder]  But how could you bring yourself to do
it, Margaret?  I'm not blaming you:  I only want to know.  How could
you bring yourself to do it?

MARGARET.  I cant tell you.  I dont understand it myself.  The prayer
meeting set me free, somehow.  I should never have done it if it were
not for the prayer meeting.

MRS KNOX.  [deeply horrified]  Oh, dont say such a thing as that.  I
know that prayer can set us free; though you could never understand me
when I told you so; but it sets us free for good, not for evil.

MARGARET.  Then I suppose what I did was not evil; or else I was set
free for evil as well as good.  As father says, you cant have anything
both ways at once.  When I was at home and at school I was what you
call good; but I wasnt free.  And when I got free I was what most
people would call not good.  But I see no harm in what I did; though I
see plenty in what other people did to me.

MRS KNOX.  I hope you dont think yourself a heroine of romance.

MARGARET.  Oh no.  [She sits down again at the table].  I'm a
heroine of reality, if you can call me a heroine at all.  And reality
is pretty brutal, pretty filthy, when you come to grips with it.  Yet
it's glorious all the same.  It's so real and satisfactory.

MRS KNOX.  I dont like this spirit in you, Margaret.  I dont like your
talking to me in that tone.

MARGARET.  It's no use, mother.  I dont care for you and Papa any the
less; but I shall never get back to the old way of talking again.  Ive
made a sort of descent into hell--

MRS KNOX.  Margaret!  Such a word!

MARGARET.  You should have heard all the words that were flying round
that night.  You should mix a little with people who dont know any
other words.  But when I said that about a descent into hell I was not
swearing.  I was in earnest, like a preacher.

MRS KNOX.  A preacher utters them in a reverent tone of voice.

MARGARET.  I know:  the tone that shews they dont mean anything real
to him.  They usent to mean anything real to me.  Now hell is as real
to me as a turnip; and I suppose I shall always speak of it like that.
Anyhow, Ive been there; and it seems to me now that nothing is worth
doing but redeeming people from it.

MRS KNOX.  They are redeemed already if they choose to believe it.

MARGARET.  Whats the use of that if they dont choose to believe it?
You dont believe it yourself, or you wouldnt pay policemen to twist
their arms.  Whats the good of pretending?  Thats all our
respectability is, pretending, pretending, pretending.  Thank heaven
Ive had it knocked out of me once for all!

MRS KNOX.  [greatly agitated]  Margaret:  dont talk like that.  I
cant bear to hear you talking wickedly.  I can bear to hear the
children of this world talking vainly and foolishly in the language of
this world.  But when I hear you justifying your wickedness in the
words of grace, it's too horrible:  it sounds like the devil making
fun of religion.  Ive tried to bring you up to learn the happiness of
religion.  Ive waited for you to find out that happiness is within
ourselves and doesnt come from outward pleasures.  Ive prayed oftener
than you think that you might be enlightened.  But if all my hopes and
all my prayers are to come to this, that you mix up my very words and
thoughts with the promptings of the devil, then I dont know what I
shall do:  I dont indeed:  itll kill me.

MARGARET.  You shouldnt have prayed for me to be enlightened if you
didnt want me to be enlightened.  If the truth were known, I suspect
we all want our prayers to be answered only by halves:  the agreeable
halves.  Your prayer didnt get answered by halves, mother.  Youve got
more than you bargained for in the way of enlightenment.  I shall
never be the same again.  I shall never speak in the old way again.
Ive been set free from this silly little hole of a house and all its
pretences.  I know now that I am stronger than you and Papa.  I havnt
found that happiness of yours that is within yourself; but Ive found
strength.  For good or evil I am set free; and none of the things that
used to hold me can hold me now.

_Knox comes back, unable to bear his suspense._

KNOX.  How long more are you going to keep me waiting, Amelia?  Do you
think I'm made of iron?  Whats the girl done?  What are we going to
do?

MRS KNOX.  Shes beyond my control, Jo, and beyond yours.  I cant even
pray for her now; for I dont know rightly what to pray for.

KNOX.  Dont talk nonsense, woman:  is this a time for praying?  Does
anybody know?  Thats what we have to consider now.  If only we can
keep it dark, I don't care for anything else.

MARGARET.  Dont hope for that, father.  Mind:  I'll tell everybody.
It ought to be told.  It must be told.

KNOX.  Hold your tongue, you young hussy; or go out of my house this
instant.

MARGARET.  I'm quite ready.  [She takes her hat and turns to the
door].

KNOX.  [throwing himself in front of it]  Here! where are you going?

MRS KNOX.  [rising]  You mustnt turn her out, Jo!  I'll go with her
if she goes.

KNOX.  Who wants to turn her out?  But is she going to ruin us?  To
let everybody know of her disgrace and shame?  To tear me down from
the position Ive made for myself and you by forty years hard
struggling?

MARGARET.  Yes:  I'm going to tear it all down.  It stands between us
and everything.  I'll tell everybody.

KNOX.  Magsy, my child:  dont bring down your father's hairs with
sorrow to the grave.  Theres only one thing I care about in the world:
to keep this dark.  I'm your father.  I ask you here on my knees--in
the dust, so to speak--not to let it out.

MARGARET.  I'll tell everybody.

_Knox collapses in despair.  Mrs Knox tries to pray and cannot.
Margaret stands inflexible._




ACT III

_Again in the Gilbeys' dining-room.  Afternoon.  The table is not
laid:  it is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an
exercise-book, and school-books on it.  Bobby Gilbey is in the
arm-chair, crouching over the fire, reading an illustrated paper.  He
is a pretty youth, of very suburban gentility, strong and manly enough
by nature, but untrained and unsatisfactory, his parents having
imagined that domestic restriction is what they call "bringing up."
He has learnt nothing from it except a habit of evading it by deceit._

_He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch.  Juggins
answers the bell._

BOBBY.  Juggins.

JUGGINS.  Sir?

BOBBY.  [morosely sarcastic]  Sir be blowed!

JUGGINS.  [cheerfully]  Not at all, sir.

BOBBY.  I'm a gaol-bird:  youre a respectable man.

JUGGINS.  That doesnt matter, sir.  Your father pays me to call you
sir; and as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain.

BOBBY.  Would you call me sir if you wernt paid to do it?

JUGGINS.  No, sir.

BOBBY.  Ive been talking to Dora about you.

JUGGINS.  Indeed, sir?

BOBBY.  Yes.  Dora says your name cant be Juggins, and that you have
the manners of a gentleman.  I always thought you hadnt any manners.
Anyhow, your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in
my set.

JUGGINS.  They would be, sir.

BOBBY.  You dont feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of
Dora's notion, I suppose.

JUGGINS.  No, sir.

BOBBY.  [throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over
the arm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman]  It was part
of your bargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasnt it?

JUGGINS.  Yes, sir.

BOBBY.  Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an
engagement to a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise
or behaving like a regular cad?

JUGGINS.  No, sir.  You cant get out of an engagement without behaving
like a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it.

BOBBY.  But it wouldnt be for her happiness to marry me when I dont
really care for her.

JUGGINS.  Women dont always marry for happiness, sir.  They often
marry because they wish to be married women and not old maids.

BOBBY.  Then what am I to do?

JUGGINS.  Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad.

BOBBY.  [Jumping up]  Well, I wont marry her:  thats flat.  What
would you do if you were in my place?

JUGGINS.  I should tell the young lady that I found I couldnt fulfil
my engagement.

BOBBY.  But youd have to make some excuse, you know.  I want to give
it a gentlemanly turn:  to say I'm not worthy of her, or something
like that.

JUGGINS.  That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir.  Quite the contrary.

BOBBY.  I dont see that at all.  Do you mean that it's not exactly
true?

JUGGINS.  Not at all, sir.

BOBBY.  I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what shes been.
That would be quite true, because our circumstances have been rather
exceptional; and she'll imagine I mean I'm fonder of her than I can
ever be of anyone else.  You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of
a girl's feelings.

JUGGINS.  If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her.
If you hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get
credit for considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare
them.  She wont like it.  And it will start an argument, of which you
will get the worse.

BOBBY.  But, you know, I'm not really worthy of her.

JUGGINS.  Probably she never supposed you were, sir.

BOBBY.  Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist.

JUGGINS.  [preparing to go]  Anything else, sir?

BOBBY.  [querulously]  You havnt been much use.  [He wanders
disconsolately across the room].  You generally put me up to the
correct way of doing things.

JUGGINS.  I assure you, sir, theres no correct way of jilting.  It's
not correct in itself.

BOBBY.  [hopefully]  I'll tell you what.  I'll say I cant hold her
to an engagement with a man whos been in quod.  Thatll do it.  [He
seats himself on the table, relieved and confident].

JUGGINS.  Very dangerous, sir.  No woman will deny herself the
romantic luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the
form of doing something agreeable.  Shes almost sure to say that your
misfortune will draw her closer to you.

BOBBY.  What a nuisance!  I dont know what to do.  You know, Juggins,
your cool simple-minded way of doing it wouldnt go down in Denmark
Hill.

JUGGINS.  I daresay not, sir.  No doubt youd prefer to make it look
like an act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke
her to break the engagement herself.  Both plans have been tried
repeatedly, but never with success, as far as my knowledge goes.

BOBBY.  You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law.  You
know, in my class you have to wrap up things a bit.  Denmark Hill
isn't Camberwell, you know.

JUGGINS.  I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the
higher you go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and
that only tramps and riff-raff are quite sincere.  Thats a mistake.
Tramps are often shameless; but theyre never sincere.  Swells--if I
may use that convenient name for the upper classes--play much more
with their cards on the table.  If you tell the young lady that you
want to jilt her, and she calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction
may leave much to be desired; but itll be less Camberwellian than if
you say youre not worthy.

BOBBY.  Oh, I cant make you understand, Juggins.  The girl isnt a
scullery-maid.  I want to do it delicately.

JUGGINS.  A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist in
that line.--Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell.  [He goes
out].

_Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comes
off the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goes
reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write.  Juggins returns._

JUGGINS.  [announcing]  Miss Knox.

_Margaret comes in.  Juggins withdraws._

MARGARET.  Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination,
Bobby?  Youll never pass.

BOBBY.  [rising]  No:  I was just writing to you.

MARGARET.  What about?

BOBBY.  Oh, nothing.  At least--  How are you?

MARGARET.  [passing round the other end of the table and putting down
on it a copy of Lloyd's Weekly and her purse-bag]  Quite well, thank
you.  How did you enjoy Brighton?

BOBBY.  Brighton!  I wasnt at--  Oh yes, of course.  Oh, pretty well.
Is your aunt all right?

MARGARET.  My aunt!  I suppose so.  I havent seen her for a month.

BOBBY.  I thought you were down staying with her.

MARGARET.  Oh! was that what they told you?

BOBBY.  Yes.  Why?  Werent you really?

MARGARET.  No.  Ive something to tell you.  Sit down and lets be
comfortable.

_She sits on the edge of the table.  He sits beside her, and puts his
arm wearily round her waist._

MARGARET.  You neednt do that if you dont like, Bobby.  Suppose we get
off duty for the day, just to see what it's like.

BOBBY.  Off duty?  What do you mean?

MARGARET.  You know very well what I mean.  Bobby:  did you ever care
one little scrap for me in that sort of way?  Dont funk answering:
_I_ dont care a bit for you--that way.

BOBBY.  [removing his arm rather huffily]  I beg your pardon, I'm
sure.  I thought you did.

MARGARET.  Well, did you?  Come!  Dont be mean.  Ive owned up.  You
can put it all on me if you like; but I dont believe you care any more
than I do.

BOBBY.  You mean weve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars.

MARGARET.  Yes.

BOBBY.  Well, it's not that I dont care for you:  in fact, no girl can
ever be to me exactly what you are; but weve been brought up so much
together that it feels more like brother and sister than--well, than
the other thing, doesnt it?

MARGARET.  Just so.  How did you find out the difference?

BOBBY.  [blushing]  Oh, I say!

MARGARET.  I found out from a Frenchman.

BOBBY.  Oh, I say!  [He comes off the table in his consternation].

MARGARET.  Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman?  You know you must
have learnt it from somebody.

BOBBY.  Not a Frenchwoman.  Shes quite a nice woman.  But shes been
rather unfortunate.  The daughter of a clergyman.

MARGARET.  [startled]  Oh, Bobby!  That sort of woman!

BOBBY.  What sort of woman?

MARGARET.  You dont believe shes really a clergyman's daughter, do
you, you silly boy?  It's a stock joke.

BOBBY.  Do you mean to say you dont believe me?

MARGARET.  No:  I mean to say I dont believe her.

BOBBY.  [curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table
beside her].  What do you know about her?  What do you know about all
this sort of thing?

MARGARET.  What sort of thing, Bobby?

BOBBY.  Well, about life.

MARGARET.  Ive lived a lot since I saw you last.  I wasnt at my
aunt's.  All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean.

BOBBY.  I wasnt at Brighton, Meg.  I'd better tell you:  youre bound
to find out sooner or later.  [He begins his confession humbly,
avoiding her gaze].  Meg:  it's rather awful:  youll think me no end
of a beast.  Ive been in prison.

MARGARET.  You!

BOBBY.  Yes, me.  For being drunk and assaulting the police.

MARGARET.  Do you mean to say that you--oh! this is a let-down for me.
[She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the
end of it furthest from the hearth].

BOBBY.  Of course I couldnt hold you to our engagement after that.  I
was writing to you to break it off.  [He also descends from the table
and makes slowly for the hearth].  You must think me an utter rotter.

MARGARET.  Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and
assaulting the police?  How long were you in?

BOBBY.  A fortnight.

MARGARET.  Thats what I was in for.

BOBBY.  What are you talking about?  In where?

MARGARET.  In quod.

BOBBY.  But I'm serious:  I'm not rotting.  Really and truly--

MARGARET.  What did you do to the copper?

BOBBY.  Nothing, absolutely nothing.  He exaggerated grossly.  I only
laughed at him.

MARGARET.  [jumping up, triumphant]  Ive beaten you hollow.  I
knocked out two of his teeth.  Ive got one of them.  He sold it to me
for ten shillings.

BOBBY.  Now please do stop fooling, Meg.  I tell you I'm not rotting.
[He sits down in the armchair, rather sulkily].

MARGARET.  [taking up the copy of Lloyd's Weekly and going to him]
And I tell you I'm not either.  Look!  Heres a report of it.  The
daily papers are no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid.  [She
sits on the arm of the chair].  See!  [Reading]:  "Hardened at
Eighteen.  A quietly dressed, respectable-looking girl who refuses her
name"--thats me.

BOBBY.  [pausing a moment in his perusal]  Do you mean to say that
you went on the loose out of pure devilment?

MARGARET.  I did no harm.  I went to see a lovely dance.  I picked up
a nice man and went to have a dance myself.  I cant imagine anything
more innocent and more happy.  All the bad part was done by other
people:  they did it out of pure devilment if you like.  Anyhow, here
we are, two gaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever.  Isnt it a relief?

BOBBY.  [rising stiffly]  But you know, it's not the same for a
girl.  A man may do things a woman maynt.  [He stands on the
hearthrug with his back to the fire].

MARGARET.  Are you scandalized, Bobby?

BOBBY.  Well, you cant expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg?  I
never thought you were that sort of girl.

MARGARET.  [rising indignantly]  I'm not.  You mustnt pretend to
think that _I_'m a clergyman's daughter, Bobby.

BOBBY.  I wish you wouldnt chaff about that.  Dont forget the row you
got into for letting out that you admired Juggins [she turns her back
on him quickly]--a footman!  And what about the Frenchman?

MARGARET.  [facing him again]  I know nothing about the Frenchman
except that hes a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like
the hand of a clock and knock a policeman down with it.  He was in
Wormwood Scrubbs with you.  I was in Holloway.

BOBBY.  It's all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bit
thick, you know.

MARGARET.  Do you feel you couldnt marry a woman whos been in prison?

BOBBY.  [hastily]  No.  I never said that.  It might even give a
woman a greater claim on a man.  Any girl, if she were thoughtless and
a bit on, perhaps, might get into a scrape.  Anyone who really
understood her character could see there was no harm in it.  But youre
not the larky sort.  At least you usent to be.

MARGARET.  I'm not; and I never will be.  [She walks straight up to
him].  I didnt do it for a lark, Bob:  I did it out of the very
depths of my nature.  I did it because I'm that sort of person.  I did
it in one of my religious fits.  I'm hardened at eighteen, as they
say.  So what about the match, now?

BOBBY.  Well, I dont think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg.  Of
course it would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or
anything of that sort.  I cant afford to throw stones at anybody; and
I dont pretend to.  I can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as
long as it is understood that it is only a lark or a slip.  But to go
on the loose on principle; to talk about religion in connection with
it; to--to--well, Meg, I do find that a bit thick, I must say.  I hope
youre not in earnest when you talk that way.

MARGARET.  Bobby:  youre no good.  No good to me, anyhow.

BOBBY.  [huffed]  I'm sorry, Miss Knox.

MARGARET.  Goodbye, Mr Gilbey.  [She turns on her heel and goes to
the other end of the table].  I suppose you wont introduce me to the
clergyman's daughter.

BOBBY.  I dont think she'd like it.  There are limits, after all.
[He sits down at the table, as if to to resume work at his books:  a
hint to her to go].

MARGARET.  [on her way to the door]  Ring the bell, Bobby; and tell
Juggins to shew me out.

BOBBY.  [reddening]  I'm not a cad, Meg.

MARGARET.  [coming to the table]  Then do something nice to prevent
us feeling mean about this afterwards.  Youd better kiss me.  You
neednt ever do it again.

BOBBY.  If I'm no good, I dont see what fun it would be for you.

MARGARET.  Oh, it'd be no fun.  If I wanted what you call fun, I
should ask the Frenchman to kiss me--or Juggins.

BOBBY.  [rising and retreating to the hearth]  Oh, dont be
disgusting, Meg.  Dont be low.

MARGARET.  [determinedly, preparing to use force]  Now, I'll make
you kiss me, just to punish you.  [She seizes his wrist; pulls him
off his balance; and gets her arm round his neck].

BOBBY.  No.  Stop.  Leave go, will you.

_Juggins appears at the door._

JUGGINS.  Miss Delaney, Sir.  [Dora comes in.  Juggins goes out.
Margaret hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the
room.]

DORA.  [through the door, to the departing Juggins]  Well, you are a
Juggins to shew me up when theres company.  [To Margaret and Bobby]
It's all right, dear:  all right, old man:  I'll wait in Juggins's
pantry til youre disengaged.

MARGARET.  Dont you know me?

DORA.  [coming to the middle of the room and looking at her very
attentively]  Why, it's never No. 406!

MARGARET.  Yes it is.

DORA.  Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform.  How
did you get out?  You were doing a month, wernt you?

MARGARET.  My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself.

DORA.  A real gentleman!  [Pointing to Bobby, who is staring
open-mouthed]  Look at him.  He cant take it in.

BOBBY.  I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg.  But when
it comes to talking about blokes and all that--well!

MARGARET.  Oh, Ive learnt the language; and I like it.  It's another
barrier broken down.

BOBBY.  It's not so much the language, Meg.  But I think [he looks at
Dora and stops].

MARGARET.  [suddenly dangerous]  What do you think, Bobby?

DORA.  He thinks you oughtnt to be so free with me, dearie.  It does
him credit:  he always was a gentleman, you know.

MARGARET.  Does him credit!  To insult you like that!  Bobby:  say
that that wasnt what you meant.

BOBBY.  I didnt say it was.

MARGARET.  Well, deny that it was.

BOBBY.  No.  I wouldnt have said it in front of Dora; but I do think
it's not quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her.

DORA.  Of course it isnt, old man.  [To Margaret]  I'll just trot
off and come back in half an hour.  You two can make it up together.
I'm really not fit company for you, dearie:  I couldnt live up to you.
[She turns to go].

MARGARET.  Stop.  Do you believe he could live up to me?

DORA.  Well, I'll never say anything to stand between a girl and a
respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself.
I have a conscience; though I maynt be as particular as some.

MARGARET.  You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby's
behaving like a skunk.

BOBBY.  [much ruffled]  Nice language that!

DORA.  Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep
up their respectability.  But you cant blame them for that, can you?
Ive met Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead.
I wont pretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear?

MARGARET.  And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him in
countenance.  Well, I shant:  not if my whole family were there.  But
I'll cut him dead if he doesnt treat you properly.  [To Bobby, with a
threatening move in his direction]  I'll educate you, you young
beast.

BOBBY.  [furious, meeting her half way]  Who are you calling a young
beast?

MARGARET.  You.

DORA.  [peacemaking]  Now, dearies!

BOBBY.  If you dont take care, youll get your fat head jolly well
clouted.

MARGARET.  If you dont take care, the policeman's tooth will only be
the beginning of a collection.

DORA.  Now, loveys, be good.

_Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue at
Margaret.  Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended
countenance a box on the cheek.  He hurls himself her.  They wrestle._

BOBBY.  Cat!  I'll teach you.

MARGARET.  Pig!  Beast!  [She forces him backwards on the table].
Now where are you?

DORA.  [calling]  Juggins, Juggins.  Theyll murder one another.

JUGGINS.  [throwing open the door, and announcing]  Monsieur
Duvallet.

_Duvallet enters.  Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence.
The combatants separate by the whole width of the room.  Juggins
withdraws._

DUVALLET.  I fear I derange you.

MARGARET.  Not at all.  Bobby:  you really are a beast:  Monsieur
Duvallet will think I'm always fighting.

DUVALLET.  Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling.
Admirable, Miss Knox.  The athletic young Englishwoman is an example
to all Europe.  [Indicating Bobby]  Your instructor, no doubt.
Monsieur--  [he bows].

BOBBY.  [bowing awkwardly]  How d'y' do?

MARGARET.  [to Bobby]  I'm so sorry, Bobby:  I asked Monsieur
Duvallet to call for me here; and I forgot to tell you.
[Introducing]  Monsieur Duvallet:  Miss Four hundred and seven.  Mr
Bobby Gilbey.  [Duvallet bows].  I really dont know how to explain
our relationships.  Bobby and I are like brother and sister.

DUVALLET.  Perfectly.  I noticed it.

MARGARET.  Bobby and Miss--Miss-

DORA.  Delaney, dear.  [To Duvallet, bewitchingly] Darling Dora, to
real friends.

MARGARET.  Bobby and Dora are--are--well, not brother and sister.

DUVALLET. [with redoubled comprehension]  Perfectly.

MARGARET.  Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison.  You dont
mind, do you?

DUVALLET.  No, naturally.  _I_ have spent the last fortnight in
prison.

_The conversation drops.  Margaret renews it with an effort._

MARGARET.  Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison.

DUVALLET.  Quite so.  I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement.

DORA.  _Trop merci_, as they say in Boulogne.  No call to be stiff
with one another, have we?

_Juggins comes in._

JUGGINS.  Beg pardon, sir.  Mr and Mrs Gilbey are coming up the
street.

DORA.  Let me absquatulate [making for the door].

JUGGINS.  If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better step
into my pantry and leave afterwards.

DORA.  Right oh!  [She bursts into song]
Hide me in the meat safe til the cop goes by.
Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh.
[She goes out on tiptoe].

MARGARET.  I wont stay here if she has to hide.  I'll keep her company
in the pantry.  [She follows Dora].

BOBBY.  Lets all go.  We cant have any fun with the Mar here.  I say,
Juggins:  you can give us tea in the pantry, cant you?

JUGGINS.  Certainly, sir.

BOBBY.  Right.  Say nothing to my mother.  You dont mind, Mr.
Doovalley, do you?

DUVALLET.  I shall be charmed.

BOBBY.  Right you are.  Come along.  [At the door]  Oh, by the way,
Juggins, fetch down that concertina from my room, will you?

JUGGINS.  Yes, sir.  [Bobby goes out.  Duvallet follows him to the
door].  You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutely
_comme il faut_?

DUVALLET.  Perfectly.  But the other?

JUGGINS.  The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately
described in your native idiom as a daughter of joy.

DUVALLET.  It is what I thought.  These English domestic interiors are
very interesting.  [He goes out, followed by Juggins].

_Presently Mr and Mrs Gilbey come in.  They take their accustomed
places:  he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table._

MRS GILBEY.  Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob?

GILBEY.  No, I didnt.  And I dont want to smell it.  Dont you go
looking for trouble, Maria.

MRS GILBEY.  [snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere]  Shes been here.
[Gilbey rings the bell].  What are you ringing for?  Are you going
to ask?

GILBEY.  No, I'm not going to ask.  Juggins said this morning he
wanted to speak to me.  If he likes to tell me, let him; but I'm not
going to ask; and dont you either.  [Juggins appears at the door].
You said you wanted to say something to me.

JUGGINS.  When it would be convenient to you, sir.

GILBEY.  Well, what is it?

MRS GILBEY.  Oh, Juggins, we're expecting Mr and Mrs Knox to tea.

GILBEY.  He knows that.  [He sits down.  Then, to Juggins]  What is
it?

JUGGINS.  [advancing to the middle of the table]  Would it
inconvenience you, sir, if I was to give you a month's notice?

GILBEY.  [taken aback]  What!  Why?  Aint you satisfied?

JUGGINS.  Perfectly, sir.  It is not that I want to better myself, I
assure you.

GILBEY.  Well, what do you want to leave for, then?  Do you want to
worse yourself?

JUGGINS.  No, sir.  Ive been well treated in your most comfortable
establishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs Gilbey
were to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction.

GILBEY.  [paternally]  Now you listen to me, Juggins.  I'm an older
man than you.  Dont you throw out dirty water til you get in fresh.
Dont get too big for your boots.  Youre like all servants nowadays:
you think youve only to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a
dozen jobs.  But you wont be treated everywhere as youre treated here.
In bed every night before eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on
Mrs Gilbey's day once a month; and no other manservant to interfere
with you.  It may be a bit quiet perhaps; but youre past the age of
adventure.  Take my advice:  think over it.  You suit me; and I'm
prepared to make it suit you if youre dissatisfied--in reason, you
know.