Title: The convolvulus - a comedy in three acts
Author: Norton, Allen
Language: English
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THE CONVOLVULUS

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS


BY

ALLEN NORTON


NEW YORK
CLAIRE MARIE
MCMXIV

COPYRIGHT, 1914
BY CLAIRE MARIE
DRAMATIC RIGHTS RETAINED BY THE AUTHOR


PRINTED SEPTEMBER, 1914



TO

CARL VAN VECTEN



THOSE CONCERNED

    JANE GIBBS
    GLORIA, HER SISTER
    KATHRYN
    DILL
    JACK HARGRAVE
    PETER HARGRAVE
    COL. CHRISTOPHER CRAPSEY


SCENES OF THE PLAY

Act 1. Jane's house on Gramercy Park

Act 2. Peter Hargrave's Apartment

Act 3. Reverting to Act 1


TIME

An Afternoon



THE CONVOLVULUS



ACT I


_Scene_--JANE'S _house on Gramercy Park. A living room with doors R.
and L. Entrance U. R. Curtains U. C., showing an alcove which looks out
on the Park._ DILL, _in velvet knickerbockers and jacket, is arranging
service for tea_. JACK, _a young man of twenty, has entered. He wears
green kid gloves and a green Alpine hat to match._

JACK. So you're getting married, Dill?

DILL. I am, sir. Have you any objections to offer?

JACK. None whatever, Dill. But why tea at this hour? It's only just
past lunch.

DILL. It's the very latest thing, sir; all Americans are doing it now.
It's to keep up with the London time, sir, and there it's tea-time
already. (_Examines a crumpled manuscript with his back to_ JACK.)

JACK (_indifferently_). What is that, Dill?

DILL. It's a will, sir.

JACK (_observing_. DILL'S _progress about the room_). Never admit that
you have a will, Dill. Where there's a will there's a conscience, you
know. One must get over such things.

DILL. I'll try to, sir. (_Puts manuscript back in pocket._)

JACK (_with an air of importance_). I've some melancholy news, Dill.

DILL. Melancholy for whom, sir?

JACK. For you, Dill, and for my father. I hope you won't take it too
seriously when I say you're the living picture of my father.

DILL. Oh, I just adore pictures, sir.

JACK. My father does not adore you, Dill. He took you for his brother.

DILL (_with dignity_). Really, sir! Who do you say that I am, sir?

JACK (_facing about_). I say you're the butler, Dill.

DILL. Quite right, sir. (_Attentively._) Are you a gentleman?

JACK. By no means.

DILL. Your father?

JACK. Nor he either. (_Enter_ JANE.)

DILL. My brother was a gentleman. (_Exit haughtily with tray._)

JANE _is forty, a young woman of forty. If failure is the worst
deformity, she must be open to that accusation, for she has compromised
with life. But_ JANE _will always be something a little better than a
woman_.

JANE. What is it all about, Jack? Yourself? Kathryn? Or merely me?

JACK. None of us, Jane. Dill said that he was getting married.

JANE. Oh, Dill's always getting married. He never does, though.

JACK. And then Dill was telling me about a brother of his, and I was
telling him about a brother of my father's. I have never told you,
Jane, but father really came here looking for a brother. Sort of a
business journey on his part. That is--none of his business whatever. I
tell him fathers should begin at home and stay there. But father feels
differently. Have you got a husband, Jane? I know that nothing short of
marriage will ever stop him.

JANE. I haven't, Jack. But I almost had an English one once.

JACK. No need to explain, Jane. They don't exist. Our men were all
killed in the Wars of the Wives. Father says it was they who started
that horrible Rebellion in this country, and that it's going on still.
Father doesn't believe in matrimony. That's because you're the first
person I've had the heart to broach the subject to. (_Aside._) I don't
think I shall ever marry. It's a fine opportunity for a young man.

JANE. To become your mother, Jack, I might think of it. But a minister
can support anything but a wife or a sense of humor.

JACK. Ah! but if father comes into the estate--

JANE. The estate?

JACK. Yes, you see when my grandfather died he left his entire fortune
to his second son, at the same time disinheriting us. Said that when
father became a minister he handled enough tainted money without
hoarding any of his.

JANE. That's too bad, Jack. Not a penny?

JACK. No, just died and damned us.

JANE. He might have left that to his father, mightn't he?

JACK. So he might. It doesn't make much difference now though. By the
terms of the will he had to be found, or to find himself, within one
year, or the estate reverted to us. (_Pulls out watch._) His time's
almost up I fear.

JANE. You don't think he's dead, do you?

JACK. That or strayed I guess. (_Sighs._) He was always the black sheep
of the family.

JANE. It was certainly very good of your father to come to America to
find his brother. Where did he think he was, do you suppose, in
Australia?

JACK. Well--his brother always had an antipathy for Americans. He
married an American! (_Enter_ GLORIA.)

GLORIA. _is the ordinary middle-aged mortal. In face, figure and
deportment she is like any other middle-class American woman. All
American women belong to the middle class. They are not all_ GLORIAS,
_however_.

GLORIA (_flouncing into a chair_). Have you seen Kathryn--anyone?
(_Puts the finishing look to a letter; seals it; then resumes without
noticing either one of them._) I have a very important letter for her.

JACK. I didn't know anything was of importance to Kathryn, now that
she's in love with me.

GLORIA (_quietly_). Kathryn in love with you? Mr. Hargrave, you must be
mistaken.

JACK. No--she proposed to me yesterday.

JANE. And did you accept?

JACK. No, I wanted to surprise Kathryn by refusing, and then to startle
her by proposing myself. This afternoon I have chosen for my surprise.
Three o'clock I think would be the appropriate hour.

JANE. The surprise, Jack, may be yours, but the romance remains with
Kathryn. Eve will out, you know, and Kathryn has proposed again.

JACK. Again! May I ask who it is who has been so bold as to be proposed
to?

JANE. Oh, it's still in the family.

JACK. The family?

JANE. Yes, Kathryn has proposed to your father. She said her love for
you was of no import, that her love for your father was based upon
degrees of reverential confidence which marriage alone could be trusted
to dispel.

JACK (_rising_). I presume, Jane, that you refer to somebody else's
father.

JANE. Your very own.

JACK. Impossible!

JANE. She recognized him at once.

JACK. How so?

JANE. By his resemblance to you.

JACK. Improbable.

JANE. Why so?

JACK (_seating himself_). I have no father.

JANE. Of course if you have no father, that settles it. You have often
spoken to us of one, just the same.

JACK. So I have. But he's not a real father.

GLORIA. What sort of a father is it that's not a real father?

JACK. Oh, mine's adopted.

JANE. You mean that you're an orphan, an adopted son, or something of
the sort?

JACK. Yes; father found me; on a Friday.

JANE. Found you? On a Friday?

GLORIA (_rising_). I don't see anything peculiar in the day at all,
Jane. It is one of the seven, and to be found in all the best
calendars. (_Brusquely._) Have you found Kathryn, Jack? (_Enter_ DILL.)

JACK. I think I have. I think she's in the next room. (_Edges off C._)

DILL. Pardon the contradiction, sir, but Miss Kathryn is in the Park.
Picking convolvulus I think. Convolvulus very sweet today, sir.

JACK. Was she alone, Dill?

DILL (_gaily_). No, sir; no, sir. I think she's with your father, sir.
(_Retreats before_ JACK'S _glance_.)

JACK (_wheeling about_). Foolish father! foolish father! Really I
cannot begin to account for such conduct on my parent's part. The sense
of family obligation in the old is appallingly on the wane. But perhaps
he's forgotten his glasses. Father's been wearing glasses for twenty
years and performs the most revolting capers whenever he's without
them. He becomes a boy all over again. (_Stands in curtain way._) Have
you got a book on fathers, Jane? Or perhaps I'll see him from the
window. (_Stretches himself out in inner room where he may be observed
throughout remainder of scene._)

GLORIA (_matter-of-factly_). I think a book on daughters is what you
really need, Jane. (_Fans herself._) I need not say that Kathryn has
never been a daughter to you. (_They sit facing each other._)

JANE. Of course not, Gloria. How could she have been? But Kathryn is my
adopted daughter.

GLORIA (_very determinedly_). Kathryn is not your daughter at all!
Kathryn is my daughter.

JANE. How unexpected, Gloria! Since when did you discover this?

GLORIA. I have never discovered it at all, of course. I have known it
from the first.

JANE. Then that Friday, that biblical Friday, twenty years ago, when
you came to me with tears in your eyes--and a basket and a baby--

GLORIA. I did it for your sake, Jane. I thought it would add to your
character.

JANE. Why didn't you adopt Kathryn yourself, Gloria? You might have
done that for your daughter.

GLORIA. For reasons of my own, and my husband's, I thought it best to
allow you to.

JANE. Your child is quite your treasure, Gloria, you hide it so
cleverly. As for your husband, I think you must have buried him.

GLORIA. We were married on our trip to London--yours and mine. My
husband's father did not approve of the match and our marriage was
annulled. Events which have since transpired allow us to be reunited.

JANE. It seems very strange this, your marrying your own husband.

GLORIA (_radiantly_). It is strange, beautifully, idealistically
strange. Oh, you never could believe me, never!

JANE. I believed you once, Gloria.

GLORIA (_turning quickly_). In the exact spot where I said I had found
the basket--

JANE. And with which Kathryn picks posies now--

GLORIA. It was there that I found the will!

JANE. What will, Gloria?

GLORIA. The will leaving everything to my husband--on condition that we
were married--that is, left it to us as man and wife.

JANE. So you think the will won't hold?

GLORIA. Not unless we are married, and immediately.

JANE. It is a great temptation, Gloria, I admit.

GLORIA. More than that; my husband takes a title.

JANE. Oh, I detest titles--American titles at any rate. In America a
title is the conventional crown to which the rich and poor alike must
bow. Every professional man, every silly doctor and scientist holds
some title by the hand with which he is clubbing us on the head. Once
we assert ourselves, feel instinctively that which he never could
comprehend, down comes the cudgel.

GLORIA. You don't think my husband is going to beat me?

JANE. I don't know, I can't say.

GLORIA (_proudly_). My husband is a baronet.

JANE. Then probably he will.

GLORIA. I tell you frankly that my husband is not going to beat me. The
English haven't beaten anybody in years, and I'm not going to be the
first. (_Going closer to her._) Jane, why do you insist upon calling
yourself Jane Gibbs? Would not your husband's name, or even Mrs. Gibbs,
be better? You must think of Kathryn and your husband.

JANE. My husband?

GLORIA. Your husband! (_Drawing still closer, her curiosity lending a
tone of affection._) Who is your husband, Jane? I have always been most
curious.

JANE (_shrugging her shoulders_). Indeed I am sorry, Gloria. I know
that curiosity never should be allowed to go unanswered, but I have no
husband.

GLORIA (_at the point of tears_). Jane, this is terrible! I sanctioned
Kathryn's adoption believing you at least had that. What of her? What
of your son? I thought that constant association with my daughter might
arouse some affection for him whom you have evidently disowned. Have
you never thought that he might want to visit this country, that he
might feel the neglect of the only mother he can call his own? What of
your son!

JANE. My son?

GLORIA. Your son!

JANE. I have no son.

GLORIA. Ever since your return from London I have been told that you
had a husband, and you have told me that you had a son. You said his
name was John.

JANE. Suit yourself, Gloria. I have a son.

GLORIA. And John is now?

JANE (_hesitating--then with real enthusiasm_). At a School for
Socialism in Canterbury.

GLORIA. A School for Socialism!

JANE. Yes, and until John's twentieth year there is completed he must
remain in socialistic hands.

GLORIA. You are not for socialism, Jane?

JANE. I am not enough interested in myself, Gloria, to be interested in
others. However, I am for socialism till the advent of socialism, then
I shall be for something else.

GLORIA. And this school--had it a founder?

JANE. Yes, a Col. Christopher Crapsey. A really lovable man. The idea
was wholly his, and wholly original too. The school has prospered and
is now one of the largest in England. From all that I hear John is its
prize pupil.

GLORIA. But are you sure, Jane, that Crapsey is quite, quite reliable?

JANE. I am never sure of anything, Gloria. But Crapsey is in this
country now and you may judge for yourself. He wrote me yesterday to
say that he was coming to see me on a matter of importance, of the very
first importance. I suppose he had reference to John.

GLORIA. I should never trust any man, Jane. They give us children and
suffering and that is all. Pain has ever been the path of woman.

JANE. They talk a lot about the pain of women, Gloria, but it's not so.
Slender waists are still the style.

GLORIA. Nevertheless I should investigate for myself.

JANE. And Kathryn--what would you do about her?

GLORIA (_holding up letter_). Kathryn will understand when she has read
this. It is from her father and explains everything.

JANE. I am glad that Kathryn's father is a man of letters. Few
Englishmen can boast of that. But is Kathryn to become your daughter,
or will she remain with me?

GLORIA. For twenty years Kathryn has been your daughter. She has been
your daughter and nobody else's. Kathryn thinks she is your daughter.
She acts like your daughter. (_Rises._) And now--when I had expected
some vast upheaval of your nature, some evidence of more than a petty
affection, you cast her off for a son whom you have scarcely seen. You
have no maternal instinct whatever.

JANE. I am sorry, Gloria. But when one puts money into a thing one
expects some return--even if it is a son. And I have spent a great deal
of dollars on John's education.

GLORIA. How mercenary you are! And here Kathryn has barely a stitch on
her back. (_Enter_ DILL.)

JANE. That's due to the new fashions, Gloria. (_Clock strikes. Reënter_
JACK.)

DILL (_to_ GLORIA). There's a bit of Convolvulus in the air, my lady.
(KATHRYN _steals in unnoticed_.)

JANE. A bit of what, Dill? I've heard that name before. Have you ever
heard of the Convolvulus, Jack? It sounds as round as a race-track.

JACK (_watch in hand_). I don't know, Jane. I haven't followed the
flowers for years.

GLORIA. Oh, it's only an ordinary flower that grows in the Park. I
don't think it even has a smell, but Dill says I'm named after it.

JACK. That's not true, Gloria. There's only one Convolvulus, and that's
Kathryn. I named her that yesterday. Besides, who ever heard of a
Convolvulus Gloria or a Gloria Convolvulus? It's absurd.

KATHRYN (_emptying flowers over Jack's head_). Well, here are some
anyway. A flower for you, Jack. And mother, a flower for you, too. A
Convolvulus for each of you.

KATHRYN. _is picturesque and pretty. A little too young to be anything
but herself, she is nicely original. Her favorite books are Brieux and
Browning, with a little Tennyson in the summer. She believes in the
soul, and has one._

JACK. You are just in time, Kathryn. I have something of importance to
tell you.

GLORIA. And I have an important letter for you.

KATHRYN. Oh, mother--you know how I have always wanted one. Do you
think it could be from--father?

JANE. I don't know, dear. I'm going to look for a book on mothers and
I'll know more about parents in general when I come back. (_Goes out
C._)

KATHRYN (_to herself_). Of course not; how silly of me. Why it hasn't
even a postage stamp, to say nothing of a foreign one.

GLORIA. I shouldn't read it now, dear, anyhow. (_Prepares to go._)

JACK. I shouldn't read it at all. I think Gloria wrote it herself.

GLORIA. If you have any intention of marrying Mr. Hargrave, Kathryn, I
should advise you to teach his son better manners. (_Exit._)

KATHRYN. I'm afraid you're too young, Jack, for me to ever teach you
anything. (_Turns her back on him._)

JACK (_with his back to her_). I'm old enough to be thoroughly
cross--and rebellious, Kathryn.

KATHRYN (_facing about_). Jack, you're not, and such remarks are
thoroughly disrespectful. One of the first lessons in life a young man
must learn is never to rebel against a woman.

JACK. I distinctly rebel against your proposing to my father. I was
with father most of the morning and took especial pains that he should
meet no one. Where did you find him?

KATHRYN. I discovered him in the Park, Jack. He was wandering about as
aimlessly as a child, and I am sure had no earthly idea of where he was
going.

JACK. Yes, father moves very much like a planet at times, doesn't he?
But then I'm not responsible for his defects. (_Nestles beside her._)

KATHRYN. I don't think your father has any defects.

JACK (_continuing_). And then father's a terrible failure. But one
expects that. The old are all failures. It is only from a very young
man that one demands immediate, impossible success.

KATHRYN. Before you talk so much about others, Jack, you might educate
yourself a little.

JACK. Oh, I don't believe in education, Kathryn. What has education
done for this country? One-hundred-million Philistines?

KATHRYN. What a silly thing to say, Jack. (_Strokes his hair._)

JACK. It makes no difference what one says, Kathryn, so long as one
says something.

KATHRYN. You're very irreverent, Jack. (_Pushes him aside._)

JACK. Please don't call me Jack! I'd so much prefer a number.

KATHRYN. A number?

JACK. Yes, a number. I know Shakespeare was thinking of me when he said
there was nothing in a name.

KATHRYN. You're always comparing yourself to Shakespeare, Jack, and I
don't like it. Shakespeare was a great poet, and you're not even a poet
at all. (_Moves away._)

JACK (_with mock gallantry_). The earth should not always be told it
cannot rival the sun.

KATHRYN. That's better.

JACK. But seriously, I do wish I had a number.

KATHRYN. You're not a futurist, Jack?

JACK. I'm far too futile for that. But I believe in numbers in place of
names.

KATHRYN. That's just nonsense, Jack.

JACK. It's not nonsense. Numbers are necessary and convenient.
Moreover, I for one am entirely in accord with the socialistic idea of
the separation of parent and child. (_Rises._) A School for Socialism
is the one thing most needed today--some place a child may be put and
not molested by its parents, adopted or otherwise. Each child should
have a number, a perfectly reliable number, one that was all his own
and inherited from no one.

KATHRYN. I don't think your father would like to hear you talk that
way, Jack.

JACK. No, but then you must remember that father is a back number.

KATHRYN. I don't care.

JACK. No woman ever does. Lack of care is their distinction.

KATHRYN. And lack of character a man's.

JACK. Then you are no longer my Convolvulus?

KATHRYN. It's too late. You had your chance and didn't take it. Never
overlook an opportunity with a woman, you might change your mind.

JACK. Gloria said she was named after that flower, and I of course
denied it. I said that you were my Convolvulus--my white Convolvulus.

KATHRYN. I am your father's Convolvulus now, Jack. What's more, he's
coming to tea. (_Reënter_ JANE.)

JACK. Well, of all that's outrageous! Tea? At this hour? It's
three-fifteen, and they're deep in their dinners in London by now.

JANE. The clock may be set back, Jack. (_A pause._)

KATHRYN. Jack's father was telling me about his poor lost brother.

JACK. Oh, I'm not so sure that he's poor, or lost either--at least not
till tomorrow.

JANE. Why what do you mean, Jack? You said he was dead, to me these few
minutes ago.

KATHRYN. And your father isn't even looking for him any longer.

JACK. Looking for him? I should say not! When people look for things
they find them. When they look for children they are successful. And
the same rule applies to brothers. Parents are harder to locate and it
is their redeeming feature. But father has found his brother! He found
him this morning in the Park--found him with his own eyes, or rather
his glasses. Father can see anywhere with his glasses, and nowhere with
his eyes. If it were not for his glasses he'd be like other people.

KATHRYN. I don't believe this imputation against your father. You think
you can win my love by foully maligning his character and making him
appear as wicked as yourself. But you cannot. I don't believe one word
you have spoken, not one! (_Throws herself on sofa._) Your father
doesn't wear glasses! You have tried to deceive me. (_Enter_ GLORIA.)

GLORIA. He has deceived me too. But my charge is of a more serious
nature. Jane herself could not have been guilty of such conduct. You
have tampered with the dearest thing it is a woman's privilege to
possess. You have mocked that which was only mine to give and yours to
take. You have sullied a woman's name. (JACK _looks appealing to_ JANE
_and_ KATHRYN. _Both scorn him._)

JACK (_on bended knees_). Gloria! (_His hands are uplifted in prayer._)

GLORIA (_holding flower_). When I said I was named after that flower
you denied it. But my name is Gloria and the Convolvulus is mine by
baptism. (_Bell rings._ DILL _goes out_.)

JANE. He has been guilty of the grossest deception.

KATHRYN. Of the very grossest deception. We could never trust him now.
(_They lock arms and saunter across the stage together._)

GLORIA. He has! The Convolvulus is nothing but a Morning Glory, and I
was named after it. If I were not so very stationary I should pick some
now. I should pick a whole bundle of them.

KATHRYN (_most severely_). Your father does not wear glasses. You must
promise never to say such a thing again.

JACK. And to think that of all days father should have chosen this one
to forget his glasses.

JANE. Love is blind, Jack. (_Enter_ DILL _out of breath_.) Perhaps that
explains it.

DILL. Mr. Hargrave, Miss Kathryn.

_A white flower peeps clumsily from Hargrave's buttonhole. He wears the
usual vest and has the unusual voice of a member of the clergy. His
hair is long, and as he has apparently forgotten his glasses, he stands
in the doorway quite, quite confused._

KATHRYN (_running up to him_). Oh, you dear, dear man! (_Takes his
hand._) Of course you don't wear them, do you? (_Calling._) Jack, let
me introduce you to your father. Mr. Hargrave, let me introduce you to
your son.

HARGRAVE (_groping about and wiping his forehead uneasily_). My son?

KATHRYN. Jack--your father!

JACK. I am not his son, and he is not my father. I consider his
presence an intrusion, a disgrace. You shall be unfrocked, sir, at the
first opportunity.

HARGRAVE (_marching up to Jane_). How dare you, sir! How dare you speak
so disrespectfully of your father!

JANE. Mr. Hargrave, I am not your son--although you certainly do look
familiar. (HARGRAVE _has floundered to the other end of the room and is
being cared for by_ DILL, _who mops his face with a big handkerchief_.)

JACK. I know, father, there's great suffering among the rich in this
hot weather. Do you think you'd still care to marry him, Jane?

JANE. I'm not sure, Jack. Your father looks very much like someone I
almost married before.

JACK. Ah, in that case you'd hardly care to repeat the experiment.
(_Waves to them._) Goodbye, Kathryn. Come soon and find his glasses.

KATHRYN. No, I'd rather read my letter.

JANE. I'm not a bad looker, Jack. And I have a new high hat which
reaches to Heaven.

JACK. No more than mine, Jane. It's from the Alps. (_Takes his arm._)
This way, father. You don't drink tea anyway. (_They go out._ JANE
_strolls off_.)

KATHRYN (_to_ DILL). Do you think, Dill, do you think that a man could
ever be a success in life, I mean a real success like you have, who
wore glasses?

DILL. In my capacity, Miss Kathryn, I have often wished I wore them.
There are so many things it's best not to see too clearly.

KATHRYN (_with a relieved sigh_). Oh, that's all right then. (_She
disappears._ GLORIA _and_ DILL _are left quite, quite alone_.)

DILL (_after a pause_). Your debut--and that about the Convolvulus--was
very sweet, my dear.

GLORIA. Thank you, Dill.

DILL. On the contrary, Mr. Hargrave's entrance failed to come up to
expectations.

GLORIA (_sternly_). No, Dill. But men never do, and Mr. Hargrave can
render us a distinct service later. You forget that we must be married.

DILL. Is it really to come true, love?

GLORIA. Of course, Dill. And now are you quite ready?

DILL. Quite, my love.

GLORIA. Are your hands clean?

DILL (_taking hers in his_). No man's could be cleaner.

GLORIA (_smoothing his hair_). I don't think you brushed your hair,
Dill.

DILL. It's a pleasure to hear you say that, dear. I have always noticed
that when men and women tire of each other they become very careless of
each other's appearance.

GLORIA. Then you do love me, Dill?

DILL. Oh, my love. (_Embraces her passionately._)

CURTAIN.



ACT II

_Scene_--PETER HARGRAVE'S _apartment. Door R. Exit L. Narrow hall U. R.
with door L. An old-fashioned bell rope overhead; double desk, two
chairs, and a Venus on the wall. Enter_ JACK _escorting_ HARGRAVE _by
the arm_.


JACK. If it were my own father, he could not have acted in a more
gentlemanly manner. Your every movement marks you the gentleman. You
have a gentleman's happy faculty for doing the wrong thing at the right
time. I have always feared that some day I should meet a gentleman, but
never, never suspected you. (_They come down stage together._) Dill
said his brother was a gentleman, but no one believes Dill, no one but
myself. (HARGRAVE _is doing his best to overlook_ JACK'S _frivolity_.)

HARGRAVE. I must confess that I am glad my brother has been found out.
What did you say his social standing was?

JACK (_using Venus as a mirror_). A butler, father. The standing is on
a par with petty theft.

HARGRAVE. A butler! A thief!

JACK. Yes, a menial, father, a form of man. It owes its origin to
menus.

HARGRAVE (_rubbing his hands_). I haven't told you before, my boy, and
an announcement of this kind should really proceed from the young lady
in question, but I believe that I am engaged.

JACK. Of course, you are, father. I'm attending to that.

HARGRAVE. Then Kathryn has told you?

JACK. Kathryn? This is the last straw, father. (_Pulls quill pen from
hat._) You shall be unfrocked, sir. (_Sits down at desk._) I'll write a
brief to the Archbishop to that effect. (_Does not write._) I had long
seen the advisability of such action, and had you been my real father
would have attended to it long ago. (HARGRAVE _glares at him_.) When
would you be unfrocked, father? In the morning? I'll respect any
preference you see fit to name. Well, some morning! Most any morning
will do. Letters have to travel like other people. They would not be
well read otherwise.

HARGRAVE (_at other end of the desk_). You shall go to jail, sir.
(_Writes furiously._) Or maybe there are many charitable organizations
only too glad to take you off my hands.

JACK. That remark was cowardly, Mr. Kent. You know very well that I am
not rich enough to go to jail, and that both influence and position are
required today for a jail career. (_Snatches pen away._) For the past
fortnight a jail has been my prime ambition. I have a genius for jails,
and I need not tell you, Mr. Kent, that I need rest and affection.

HARGRAVE. Hargrave, Jack, Hargrave! And until tonight I must be known
by no other name.

JACK. Please don't call me Jack, father. It sounds so unartificial. And
to think that I who have always perceived the immense superiority of a
number, should have been endowed with a monosyllable like that.

HARGRAVE. You had a number once, Jack.

JACK. A number! Is it true, father, or do my ears deceive me?

HARGRAVE (_piously_). I shall endeavor to spare your feelings as far as
possible. A young man tasting too soon of the bitter fruits of life is
apt to form a very wrong impression of this world of ours, and the
inhabitants above it.

JACK. Oh, people are above everything in this world, father, and in the
next too, I guess. But have I got a number?

HARGRAVE. How little you understand! You think that I refer to some
social distinction, some news of your misguided parents. I refer to
your real parents, Jack. An immoral longing I have never had.

JACK. Oh, everyone's as moral and immoral as he knows how to be,
father.

HARGRAVE (_expostulating_). Jack! Jack!

JACK. How often must I tell you not to call me that, sir. Even John
were better.

HARGRAVE (_devoutly_). It was no desire of mine to dig up the past, to
unearth that which belonged rightly to the dead. Your conduct, however,
has made the telling inevitable.

JACK. A telling speech, father. But tell me, have I got a number?

HARGRAVE (_bitterly_). You have, sir! You have! Allow me to tell you,
sir, that you once were, and I have no doubt still are, undutifully
registered at Crapsey Hall, Canterbury, under the charge of an
abominable brute by that name, as John--plain John, Disciple No. 1, in
an evil establishment known as a School for Socialism.

JACK (_embracing him wildly_). Father! I forgive you! Everything!
(_Kissing him._) Turn the other cheek, father. Oh, such luck, such
luck! I'll return at once. My fortune and future are assured now.
(_Tosses his cap into the air._) And to think that of all numbers, I
should have been No. 1.

HARGRAVE (_kindly_). You are surely an odd number, Jack.

JACK. Dear Crapsey! I wonder how he came to give me that particular
number, or if he knew that I thought of no one but myself?

HARGRAVE. I stole you from that heathen Hell--

JACK. Yes, yes, father.

HARGRAVE. And you were the first, last, and only little devil ever
entered there.

JACK (_crushed_). Oh!

HARGRAVE. So come, let's to more serious things. You said my brother
was getting married?

JACK. It's a man's malady, father.

HARGRAVE (_suddenly_). Jack! I have a thought! (_Steps forward._) Could
it be possible?

JACK. You slight yourself, father.

HARGRAVE (_meditating_). He is not marrying out of love. No! My brother
would never do that. He must be marrying out of his--

JACK. Out of his senses, father. All men do that.

HARGRAVE (_gyrating in circles_). The will! the will! Oh, he must know,
he must! The estate was left to him on condition that he was married,
and that's why he's marrying now. (_Pulls large pair of colored glasses
from his pocket._) The will! Show me the will!

JACK. I knew you hadn't lost them. The old rarely lose anything. They
have nothing to lose.

HARGRAVE (_teeming with excitement_). The will! the will!

JACK (_reaching in hip pocket, coat pocket, hip pocket_). Yes, father.
(_Repeats the experiment._) No, father. (_Subsides into chair._)

HARGRAVE. Oh, Jack! He has found it--we are lost.

JACK (_springing to his feet_). No, it's not lost. I remember, you
remember, it is under the tree. I left it in the Park this morning.

HARGRAVE. No!

JACK. Yes. (_Makes for door--returns deliberately._) You agree to
behave in my absence, father? I am very popular these days, and if Jane
or Kathryn should happen in--

HARGRAVE. Jane! Did you say Jane! I have a particular aversion to that
name, Jack. I trust that no woman named Jane bears any relationship to
Kathryn?

JACK. Only her mother.

HARGRAVE. Her mother? Her name, please! Even now I trace a resemblance,
a terrible resemblance. Tell me her name!

JACK. Her name's the same as Kathryn's, of course. I only ask you to
leave the whole family alone hereafter. They did not even know you
existed until this afternoon. You were a creation of my fancy and had
form, color and expression. And now you have ruined it all. All,
father, because you will not wear your glasses.

HARGRAVE. I don't know Kathryn's name. She never told me and I never
asked.

JACK. Kathryn's name is Kathryn Gibbs, her aunt's name is Gloria Gibbs,
and her mother's name is Jane Gibbs. Jane's a jewel, Gloria's an idiot,
and Kathryn's mine. Have you learned all that you want now, or must I
tell you more?

HARGRAVE (_in a most melancholy voice_). Jack, this is terrible. I had
never expected that. Jane Gibbs!

JACK. The name's no worse than Jack, father. Too bad Jane's not a
socialist, and could exchange for a number.

HARGRAVE. She is a socialist, Jack. Oh, a horrible, horrible socialist!
Did I never tell you of a woman? whose views of life--

JACK. Are not so antiquated as your own, sir? (_There comes a tinkle of
the bell, a second and a third._) But come, father, one should always
give in to the inevitable, and I have chosen Jane as your most likely
spouse.

HARGRAVE. I will not marry that woman! I will not! (JACK _throws open
the door and_ JANE _enters. She has on a gown of many colors and a hat
of many heights._)

JACK. Ah, Jane! So glad to see you! I've just been speaking to father
about that matter we discussed and he's quite interested already. Fact
is, father's always interested, though interesting he is not. I've
taken him to task about that blunder, though. Father's a bull for
blunders. In the morning I've suggested that he be unfrocked. You'll be
there of course? Great sight. (_Facing about._) Why don't you say
something, father! Or should fathers be seen and not heard? But perhaps
you desire an introduction. Jane--my father. My father--Jane Gibbs.
(_Each are about to shake hands, but_ JACK'S _body intervenes and he
rambles on_.) The family problem is the most important product of this
age, and ranks even higher than the servant question. Of course,
fathers were fashionable at one time, or I never should have had one.
It's a great fault, though, I admit.

JANE (_loosening wrap_). My faults are my fortune, Jack. Some people
are even famous for them.

JACK. Ravishing, Jane, ravishing! (_Plays with dress, avoiding_
HARGRAVE.) But perhaps I should go.

JANE. Probably you should go, Jack.

HARGRAVE. It is not problematical at all. It is obvious, sir. (JACK
_runs around the table_.) My son has a roving nature, Jane; it is
almost poetical. I've just advised an interview with a certain tree, a
rather poetical tree. He is a near poet, you know.

JACK (_bowing_). A minor poet only, not yet being of age.

JANE. Do not make fun of the minor poets, Jack. Leave that to the
newspapers. They foster them.

HARGRAVE (_apologetic_). My son had good intentions.

JACK. Heaven is filled with good intentions, father. (_To_ JANE.)
Chesterton says that poets are a trouble to their families. But then
Chesterton is always wrong. If the families of real poets are anything
like mine, the trouble rests with them.

JANE. Hurry, Jack, the tree may be gone. (_Crosses L. and seats herself
in the armchair._)

JACK. My interview will prove a very short one. (_Pulls out watch._)
Before long, father, I shall expect you to have arranged everything.

HARGRAVE (_in a conciliatory manner_). You said that her sister was an
idiot, did you not?

JACK. I did, father.

HARGRAVE (_writing on cuff_). It may prove of importance. (_Shuts door
on him. A whistling sound is heard as_ JACK _leisurely descends the
stairs_. HARGRAVE _returns to_ JANE. _Her taking the larger chair
upsets him very much. There is a moment's lapse in which they look at
each other._)

JANE. How very still it is here, Peter. I feel almost as if I were in
the country--in the country that we both knew so well before our hearts
had learned to beat.

HARGRAVE (_rising to the sentimentality of the occasion_). My heart is
bigger than its beat, Jane.

JANE. Ah, but you have been in this country many days, and you never
once wrote to tell me. We should have been glad to see you, all of us,
even Dill--that's my butler--but he's almost one of the family.

HARGRAVE (_scowling_). I came to America from a sense of duty, Jane,
and it has completely absorbed my time. I came to find my brother.

JANE. You never told me you had a brother. You left that for your son
to do.

HARGRAVE. Then Jack has told you.

JANE. Yes.

HARGRAVE. The fact is, Jane, that I have never spoken very much of my
brother to anyone. The poor fellow eloped just before I met you, and
our recollection of him has always been a sad one. Sadder still has
been my present duty to investigate and find that he is dead.

JANE (_ironically_). The Peter Kent that I knew had very little sense
of duty. Often I thought that he had none at all. But he was not the
Peter Hargrave that I see now. He was not a minister, and he did not
lie. He was not a hypocrite and he did not masquerade under a false
name to swindle his own brother, his living brother whom he pretended
to think dead.

HARGRAVE (_surprised and sullen_). It is not true.

JANE. It is true! Your son told me.

HARGRAVE. Jack is not my son. He is only mine by adoption.

JANE. He told me that too, but he also told me about your brother. You
met him this very morning in the Park.

HARGRAVE. I admit that. But till this very morning I believed my
brother was dead, as dead as my own father is today. And now how does
he show himself! As a man with whom one would care to associate? (_With
sudden inspiration._) No, as a thief, an unrepentant, petty thief; and
Jack will tell you that also.

JANE (_a little taken aback_). How did you happen to call him Jack,
Peter? I think John were infinitesimally nicer.

HARGRAVE. Jack would hardly have had a name at all if it hadn't been
for me. He might have had nothing but a number.

JANE. A number?

HARGRAVE. Yes, a number! I found him the very morning after you sailed,
Jane, a babe in arms, bound heart and soul to a School for Socialism.

JANE (_eagerly_). A School for Socialism! Where, Peter?

HARGRAVE (_complacently_). At Canterbury, under the direction of--

JANE (_beside herself with excitement_). Of a most eminent man, a
charming gentleman by the name of--

HARGRAVE. Under the direction of a wholly worthless, degraded rascal,
who has dogged my footsteps from that day to this, who has even
threatened my life, and who has been the one and only cause of my
assuming the name of Hargrave.

JANE. His name?

HARGRAVE. His name is Crapsey! And he has even followed me to this
country.

JANE. Oh! (_Sinks into chair._)

HARGRAVE. When I stole him from that pernicious place, his sole mark of
identification was John, plain John, Disciple No. 1, in Crapsey's
School for Socialism. (_Bell rings overhead._)

JANE. You stole him, Peter, and your act was as free to censure as any
committed by your brother.

HARGRAVE. Ssh!

JANE. I won't be still. I want to tell you right now.

HARGRAVE (_terrified_). There's someone at the door.

JANE. I don't care. They can hear too if they want to. (_Gets up._)

HARGRAVE. Consider my position, Jane. I couldn't really ... I couldn't
have a woman in my rooms. There, there, now! (_Takes her arm._) You are
all flushed--and the rouge is beginning to come off. (JANE _instantly
subsides_.) This is my son's room. You may rest here for a while ... or
at least until my visitors have gone. (_Bowing complacently._) Love
lingers in the spring and doubtless they are only some happy couple
tasting for the first time that desire for the fruits of marriage which
is the divine purport of our youth. (_Shuts door securely on her. Sighs
with relief and wipes his glasses carefully. Then after a moment's
conflict with his vanity, returns and places them on the table. This
done he tiptoes to the door and apparently observing but one person,
shouts down the stairs._) Come in, sir! (DILL'S _head appears
immediately through the opening, quite startling_ HARGRAVE _who
retreats before it_. DILL _still wears knickerbockers and a wondrous
black cape falls from his massive shoulders. On second appearance he is
followed by_ GLORIA, _dressed in her very best and carrying a large
colored satchel. She is somewhat out of sorts at the delay and is
coaxed and fondled by_ DILL.)

HARGRAVE (_bowing_). Ah, two strolling minstrels, I perceive.

DILL (_punctiliously_). No, sir. No, sir. We understood that you were a
minister, sir.

HARGRAVE (_his hands clasped behind his back_). My heart and home are
ever at the disposal of my flock.

GLORIA. (_motioning_ DILL _to be still_). You'll excuse the nature of
our visit, sir, but you see my husband (_blushes a little_)--or rather
I should have said the man who is to be my husband--

DILL (_to_ GLORIA). Both, my love, both.

GLORIA (_bluntly_). There was no time to be lost and we must get
married.

HARGRAVE. Ah, love is a tender thing, and her call is always urgent.

DILL. I overheard your son observe that you are to be unfrocked,
sir--and so we just thought we'd take you while there was still time.
(_Aside._) There's only one time for marriage, and that's when the lady
gives her consent.

HARGRAVE (_now scowling and suspicious_). My son?

GLORIA. Dillingham, you are always rendering the most unpleasant
surprises. (_At mention of his brother's name_, HARGRAVE _stands
stupefied, then with a fleeting glance over his shoulder, rushes back
to the table and adjusts his glasses_.) Perhaps Mr. Hargrave does not
care to acknowledge that he has a son, and what you said about being
unfrocked was ungentlemanly. (HARGRAVE _glares at_ DILL _and stations
himself in front of_ JANE'S _door_.)

HARGRAVE (_trembling with emotion_). Do I understand, sir, that you
trespass upon my hearth entertaining visions of matrimony? (DILL _and_
GLORIA _are stupefied by_ HARGRAVE'S _peculiar behavior_.)

DILL (_very sweetly_). That's it, sir.

HARGRAVE. Then I take pleasure to inform you, sir, that it cannot be
done.

DILL. But it must be done, sir. I have made a careful canvass of the
ministry, and I find them all to be extinct at present, sir. They're
like the birds and butterflies, sir, and are forever migrating at this
season of the year. You're the only one that hasn't wings at present,
sir.

GLORIA. Be quiet, Dill. It's love that makes the world go around, Mr.
Hargrave.

HARGRAVE. It's love that makes the world stand still, I say. Besides,
in this country at least marriage is illegal. The Constitution
expressly provides that no man shall be deprived of the right of
health, happiness, and the pursuit of freedom.

GLORIA. That's why we are going to change the Constitution, Mr.
Hargrave.

HARGRAVE. Anyway there's no room here. A correct marriage requires
space for tears and relatives.

DILL (_in the corner_). I think we might try it here, sir.

HARGRAVE (_superciliously_). I am not in favor of trial marriages.
Marriage itself is responsible for the alarming decrease in the
birth-rate so prevalent throughout the world.

GLORIA (_sweetly_). I think Mr. Hargrave is superstitious, dear.

HARGRAVE (_snatching at the straw_). I am. I am.

DILL. I always try to harbor superstitions in the heart, sir, and to
remove them as far from the mind as possible.

HARGRAVE (_advancing with a crafty smile_). Ah, well! So be it then. My
own experience with marriage is limited. However I will say this much
for it. If it weren't for marriage a man could not honorably part with
a woman.

GLORIA (_in a low voice_). I said Mr. Hargrave was the proper person to
apply to, Dill.

HARGRAVE. We will first examine the license.

GLORIA. License?

HARGRAVE (_in the most insulting manner_). All women are not licensed
in this country I am sorry to say. In that the continental custom is
far better. However, before they are married they must be licensed. At
any rate do you think we should have them running around at large?

DILL. Here is the license, sir.

HARGRAVE (_examining it critically_). I don't see your ages here.

DILL. We are both forty. (GLORIA _is about to remonstrate_.)

HARGRAVE. Hm--really, sir, I must object to that. I myself am forty and
should not dream of marrying yet. You are both far too young.

DILL. If you insist, sir, I am a little over forty.

HARGRAVE (_squinting_). And your names are?

GLORIA. Gloria Gibbs.

DILL. Sir John Dillingham Kent.

HARGRAVE. Do I infer that you are a gentleman?

DILL. Oh, yes, sir. Even my brother was that.

HARGRAVE. And your social standing?

GLORIA (_whispering loudly_). Bart, Dill, Bart!

DILL. Br ... butler.

HARGRAVE. That settles it. I cannot marry a butler posing as a
gentleman. (_Acts as if about to show them out._)

GLORIA. There is nothing in the Bible which says anything against
marrying a butler, Mr. Hargrave. Pharaoh's chief adviser was a butler,
as you yourself know. (_There is no Bible to be seen and she stares at_
HARGRAVE _deprecatingly_.)

HARGRAVE (_eyeing_ DILL _as if choking would be a pleasure_). And
Pharaoh hung him by the neck, if I am not mistaken.

DILL. The baker, sir, the baker. Very mixing indeed, sir.

HARGRAVE. As God is my baker--I mean my maker--I swear that I will have
nothing further to do with the case. Under the most favorable
conditions I can imagine my marrying a butler, or even a baker, for
that matter, but with due respect to you, Miss Gibbs, I must (_glances
at cuff_) decline to marry a butler, or even Pharaoh himself, to an
idiot. The laws of hygiene govern that.

DILL. Sir!

HARGRAVE. My son has already informed me, Miss Gibbs, that you are an
idiot, and I for one refuse to perform at any ceremony in which you are
the principal.

GLORIA (_opening satchel_). Mediocrity may be the foundation of my
family, sir, but idiocy is not. However, I was prepared for that. I
have found your son something of a clever idiot himself, and first
accurate deductions led me to the belief that his father would be also.
(_Pulls out paper._) I have here complete and accurate credentials to
certify that I have never suffered from Christian Science, Mental
Science, Physical Science, Woman Suffrage, Eugenics, or any of the
other seven deadly diseases so prevalent amongst my sex. I have also
fully recorded a memorandum of the character and chief events of my
life, including ventilation, vivisection, vaccination, marriage--

HARGRAVE. Marriage! (_He gazes profoundly at them._)

GLORIA. This is my second marriage, Mr. Hargrave.

DILL (_apologetically_). We have both been married before, sir. You
see, sir--

HARGRAVE. I see. Are you calling attention to my glasses?

DILL. The fact is that we have each been married to each other, sir.

HARGRAVE (_drawing himself haughtily together_). Am I to gather that
that is any evidence of her sanity? I say it's absurd. Any scientist in
the country will tell you that a perfectly sane, healthy,
well-organized marriage must end somewhere. All things do, and
marriages have the habit, good or otherwise, of ending in divorce. It's
their affinity.

DILL. Ah! But our marriage was annulled, sir. (_Looks about him
confident that victory is won._)

HARGRAVE. To you, sir, I owe an apology. When I informed Miss Gibbs of
my decision in this important case, I had entirely overlooked you. Your
marriage was annulled, you say?

DILL. I do, sir.

HARGRAVE. And you are starting proceedings all over again?

DILL (_now dubious of his mastery of the situation_). Yes, sir.

HARGRAVE. In that event I substantially alter my original assertion. I
said she was an idiot, did I not?

GLORIA. And I can prove to the contrary, Mr. Hargrave.

HARGRAVE. Any man or woman, not willing, but eager--as you have both
shown yourselves to be--to repeat so dangerous an experiment, is
clearly removed from that extremity of the body which we call mind. It
is not a question of one idiot--you are both idiots.

DILL. Is not that a bit of an exaggeration, sir?

HARGRAVE. I think not.

DILL. I am sorry that Mr. Hargrave's son is not here, love. I know he
would marry us.

GLORIA. It's no use, Dill. Show Mr. Hargrave the will, and explain why
we must be married. (_Sound of_ JACK _on the stairs_.)

HARGRAVE. Yes, the will! Show me the will! (_Reaches out for it._)

JACK. Father! I cannot find it! The will is lost! (_Bursts upon them._)

GLORIA (_after a painful pause_). What will, Mr. Hargrave? You seem
extremely nervous. Can there be any relation between your will and
ours? (HARGRAVE _looks very faint_.)

DILL. I don't know if there is any relation between the wills, my dear,
but Mr. Jack said that his father took me for his brother. Of course
Mr. Hargrave didn't know that my name was Kent. However, I had an uncle
named Hargrave, and in case my brother is dead, one half of the estate
shall be his.

HARGRAVE (_buoyant at this turn of affairs_). I am Peter Kent, your
brother, your long missing brother! (_Embraces him._)

GLORIA. When a woman does not change her name for love she does so for
money. It is true sometimes of a man. I see now why Mr. Hargrave
changed his name and why he refuses to marry us. He shall not get a
cent. (_To_ DILL.) I think that you knew all the while that Mr.
Hargrave was your brother, and that you chose to be married by a thief.
(HARGRAVE'S _expression has changed_.)

JANE (_stepping out_). Mr. Hargrave changed his name solely for my
sake. We are going to be married, and I preferred Hargrave to Kent.
That may be remedied, however. As for his brother--he did think him
dead for he told me so himself.

JACK. You have done this for my sake?

GLORIA. For whoever's sake you did it, Jane, I am glad you have got a
husband at last--even if you did it for your own. Come, Dill.

DILL. I should like to spend a few moments with my brother, my own.

GLORIA. Well, not more than a very few moments. (_To_ JANE.) The two
dears look absolutely alike, and when you get tired of yours we might
change them around a bit.

JANE. Are you coming, Jack?

JACK. I'm tired of all this moving around, Jane. I haven't sat down for
five minutes.

JANE. Well, just to the door. (_They go out._ DILL _seats himself
comfortably in the big chair_.)

DILL. Charming little artificial nook here. Shaw says--

HARGRAVE. Do not jest about artificial things, sir. Browne avers that
all things are artificial, nature being only the art of God.

DILL. Browne! Browne! No relation to Browning, sir? Pardon me. Of
course; Browning's the diminutive, Browne naturally the father.

HARGRAVE. Of no relationship whatever. I had reference to Sir Thomas
Browne.

DILL. Ah! A man with a title. One of God's favorites, sir, and possibly
some relation of my own. (_Enter_ KATHRYN. _She is very much out of
breath and holds an open letter in her hand._)

KATHRYN (_between gasps_). Of course, I always knew I had a father.
Every young girl has, and it would be considered most unnatural not to.
(_She is shielded by the angle of the room from_ DILL.) And I always
knew he was a horrid, horrid, man, too. Aunt Gloria confessed that.
(DILL, _hearing_ KATHRYN'S _voice, has risen_.) But at least I thought
he was a gentleman (DILL _takes a step toward her_), and I never, never
dreamed it could be Dill. (_They come face to face._) Oh! (_Turns
away._)

HARGRAVE (_turning threateningly_). What is your social standing, Dill,
I forget?

DILL (_abashed and discomforted_). A butler, sir.

HARGRAVE. Don't cry, dear, Dill is only a butler after all, and not at
all responsible for what he does. (KATHRYN _had not thought of
crying--but_ HARGRAVE _thought she should have_.) It is your mother who
is to blame--your mother! That will do, Dill. (_Forcing him back._)
This is the servant's exit.

DILL (_absolutely unhappy_). Miss Kathryn, let me explain!

HARGRAVE. You may explain to Miss Gibbs, Dill; perhaps she will defer
marrying you now. (_Pushes him out._ DILL _carries a wounded look away
with him_.)

DILL (_clattering down the stairs_). My brother was a gentleman. (JANE
_and_ JACK _enter leisurely by the front_.)

JACK (_taking in situation at a glance_). Is this your work, sir? Have
you proposed to her again, or what?

HARGRAVE (_to_ JANE). Kathryn is for the first time aware of her
father. I need not say that neither butler nor baker is considered the
thing in a family way. To find such a man one's brother is indeed an
unpleasant surprise, but to find him one's father must be a tragedy. We
both feel the blow more deeply than you think.

KATHRYN (_very haughtily_). You need not feel the blow at all, Mr.
Hargrave. I am already half resigned to my parent, and by tomorrow I
have no doubt that he will be in good standing again. My only regret
from the first was that you cannot take his place, and that Dill can
now be nothing more than a father to me.

JACK (_taking her arm_). There, there, my dear! All fathers are
terrible, and I know yours could never be as bad as mine. (_He regards
no one but her._) I positively never think of anything he says unless
by accident, nor must you either. And should the very worst come to
pass you must always console yourself by remembering that we are none
of us responsible for the species, either adopted or otherwise. (_They
go out._)

HARGRAVE. Kathryn took her father very nicely. (_Sets himself for a
scene._) I am sorry I do not share her strength.

JANE. One-half of strength is weakness.

HARGRAVE. And the other half?

JANE. That is weakness.

HARGRAVE. It is obvious, Jane, that you are incorrigible. Your daughter
did not bid you good-bye. Can you blame her? This social evil, Jane, is
far more than a harmless pleasure, as you once expressed it.

JANE (_languidly_). Kathryn is not my daughter. She is my adopted
daughter. Gloria is her mother.

HARGRAVE (_beside her_). Jane, forgive me! How could I have guessed?

JANE. You are far too serious, Peter. Perhaps it is something that you
eat.

HARGRAVE. I swallowed a whole tooth yesterday. I don't know just what
the consequences are going to be.

JANE. You may get a tooth-ache, Peter. And again you may go to the
dentist's.

HARGRAVE. I'd rather go to the dogs, Jane. I have already a hundred
holes in my head that were made by those fellows.

JANE (_running her hands through his hair_). Your hair is long, Peter;
far too long for married life. I have a marvellous tonic. It was
recommended to me by no less than three physicians, and is guaranteed
to make your hair fall out so quickly that you will positively never
have to have it cut.

HARGRAVE. I remember it all now, Jane--the fields that we wandered
together--and the Convolvulus, that little white flower that we picked
and loved.

JANE. Recite that about the lilies of the field, and the birds of the
sky, will you, Peter? It was always my favorite.

HARGRAVE. I didn't suppose you knew so much about the Bible, Jane.

JANE. I know something of birds, Peter.

HARGRAVE. You have always been my Convolvulus, Jane. Can you believe
that?

JANE. It's a funny thing, Peter, but in love one never doubts, and the
loved one never tells the truth.

HARGRAVE (_suddenly_). How beautiful you are, Jane! You look just as
you did in the days of old--with your little hands and feet.

JANE (_jumping up and covering them_). Oh, my feet have grown, Peter.

HARGRAVE. I remember, Jane; in the olden days you would do anything but
marry me.

JANE. Now that is the only thing I will do for you. (_Puts chair
between them._)


CURTAIN.



ACT III


_Scene--Reverting to Act I._ DILL _and_ GLORIA _facing each other_.
(_They are surrounded by two diminutive trunks and bags and bundles
innumerable._)

DILL. Let us read the will again, dear.

GLORIA (_pompously_). "Regretting my anger and the annulment of his
marriage--to my second son, John Dillingham Kent, be he found to have
married any woman, good, bad or indifferent, the same wife or any
other--" (_with a toss of her head_)--You wouldn't have married any
other woman, Dill?

DILL. No, no, my love.

GLORIA. "To him I hereby bequeath my honorable title of baronet,
conferred upon me by the crown as a reward for my stand against the
nefarious practise of socialism, particularly that which has broken out
and appeared on the point of flourishing in ye good and ancient city of
Canterbury. Also to himself and wife, do they make known their identity
within one year's time, I hereby release my rights, vested or
otherwise, in all personal property, including three white-tailed
cows"--You may milk the cows, Dill.

DILL. Charmed, my love.

GLORIA. "Seventeen adults of the porcupine variety, commonly known as
pigs, but derived from the German bigge, or big."

DILL. You may ride the pigs, my lady.

GLORIA (_with a severe look at Dill who subsides_). "Forty-three geese,
seven singing birds, nine parrots and two hens."

DILL. The estate has all the enchantment of a zoo, my love.

GLORIA. "To my only other relation, the Rev. Peter Kent, who much to my
displeasure has taken upon himself that right of interpreting the
Lord's intentions on earth, I give nothing. He is an undutiful son, but
should he still possess one spark of parental affection, let him go
forth to America, that land of beautiful women, and by diligent search
for his own beloved brother, prove himself worthy of no title at all,
but the rank of a gentleman." (_Hands_ DILL _the will_.)

DILL. Am I a gentleman? (_Bows like a courtier._)

GLORIA. Yes, Dill.

DILL. Is he a gentleman?

GLORIA. No, Dill.

DILL (_decisively_). He shall have nothing.

GLORIA. No, Dill.

DILL. Nor the chickens, nor the cows, nor even one of the--what was
that derivation, my dear?

GLORIA. Of the pigs?

DILL. Yes, love.

GLORIA. Do not make fun of the Germans, Dill, I had an aunt born in
Germany and I fear she is living yet.

DILL. Can they neither live nor die in Germany, my sweet?

GLORIA. I think not, Dill.... But would you not even give him one
teeney-weeney pig? (DILL _stands in front of_ GLORIA, _seriously
debating this all-important matter_.)

DILL (_at length_). No, my love.

GLORIA. Not one, Dill? Think of the sorrow we have already caused him!
There are two misfortunes in life. One is to find one's relations
quite, quite dead. The other is, as one generally does, to find them
quite, quite, alive.

DILL (_moodily_). He said I was not a gentleman and shall get nothing.

GLORIA (_rising_). Ah, Dill, you would not be vindictive? I could never
believe my husband guilty of that. Moreover, I have a vast
superabundance of money myself.

DILL (_shocked and hurt_). Oh, my love! You might have told me, even if
you did not give me any.

GLORIA. It was necessary that you, of all people, should know nothing
of it. People would have thought you were marrying me for money.

DILL (_not wholly reconciled_). True, true.

GLORIA. I have something to tell you.

DILL. Concerning me?

GLORIA. No, it is a very sensitive subject. I don't think that either
of us has mentioned it since the day that we were born; and Jane has
aged so rapidly that it would seem absurd on the surface of things--but
she and I are twins.

DILL. One soon becomes reconciled to realities, my dear. (_Sighs and
looks at his jacket._)

GLORIA. It has taken me more than twenty years to become reconciled to
you, Dill. But now for a surprise. (_She goes R._, DILL _following
solemnly behind her. He is like a big St. Bernard dog following his
mistress._ GLORIA _tramps back_, DILL _again several paces in the
rear_.) See! Here it is! (_Opens a small bag of gold._) I was forty
yesterday. Now all this is mine.

DILL (_with a lump in his throat_). Yes, my love.

GLORIA. So you are not yet independent, Dill.

DILL (_swallowing his unhappiness_). No, my love.

GLORIA. It was left me by my father.

DILL. Ah, I see. And Jane?

GLORIA. No. (_Whispering._) I think my sister got nothing. I was always
my father's favorite daughter.

DILL (_discarding his jacket_). I am no longer a butler. No, I will
not. My brother may be a butler if you like.

GLORIA (_sharply_). Dill!

DILL (_forgetting his good resolutions_). Yes, my love.

GLORIA. We have lived here very happily, Dill.

DILL. And now I will build you a castle among the clouds. We will be
like the moon and the stars.

GLORIA. Aeroplaning is out of fashion, Dill.

DILL. As you would have it, my love.

GLORIA. For twenty years you have executed my orders.

DILL (_with revived ardor_). And now a hundred men shall do your
bidding! We will go to the extreme ends of the earth--

GLORIA. I do not approve of extremes of any kind, Dill. The most
important thing in life is that whatever a young man once starts he
should see to the end.

DILL. But I hold a title, my sweet.

GLORIA. No matter. You were not born with it.

DILL. I never heard of a titled butler. (_Shakes his head dubiously._)
My brother has not got a title.

GLORIA (_sharply_). Dill! Do you love me?

DILL. Ah, how could you doubt it?

GLORIA. I have never doubted it. I was only testing you. (_Hands him
bag._) All this is yours, Dill.

DILL. My love, my love. (_Kneels._)

GLORIA. On condition that you continue to serve me as faithfully as you
have in the past.

DILL (_clasping her hands_). Ah, my beloved one! Light of my life!
Blessed of women! (_His head sinks upon her lap. Enter_ KATHRYN _and_
JACK. _Each has an arm about the other's waist. Their eyes are glued on
each other's, and they proceed very, very slowly._)

JACK. My dear, you could hardly expect them both to belong to the same
class. That is never the way. One is always rich, the other poor. One
is always good, the other bad. Ask one of them and see! But if what I
tell you is not convincing, consider the words of Shakespeare,
England's great minor poet, who in a fit of melancholy once
exclaimed--"Some are born with parents, others acquire them. But most
of us just have the genus thrust upon us." (GLORIA _is unsuccessfully
endeavoring to extricate herself from her embarrassing position_.)

KATHRYN. Jack, you really should not speak that way of England's poet.
Your own father told me this morning that no man could hope to
understand Shakespeare until he was forty. And that then he wouldn't
understand him.

JACK. I don't doubt it. But you forget, Kathryn, that I never had a
father, and that hereafter my responsibilities are numbered. (_They
wheel slowly upon them._)

KATHRYN. Oh--father!

JACK. What an extraordinary posture, Dill! Are you aware of your
menial, Miss Gibbs? (_To_ KATHRYN.) He must think it's a circus. He's
trying to stand on his head.

KATHRYN (_looking away_). Perhaps he's praying.

JACK. Arise, sir, in the presence of your superiors! (DILL _gets up
very guiltily_.) And why these bags and bundles, pray? Is your man
about to start a millinery establishment, Miss Gibbs?

GLORIA (_almost in tears_). Mr. Hargrave! This gentleman is not my
servant. This gentleman is soon to be my husband!

JACK. It's the same thing.

KATHRYN (_shocked_). Oh! What would mother say! I don't think I can
ever allow you to become a butler after all, Jack.

JACK (_glibly_). Dill, are you a polygamist, or what? Define yourself!
(_To_ KATHRYN.) I have yet to hear of a menial Mormon.

KATHRYN. I am sure that mother will discharge him now.

GLORIA. Kathryn, I am your mother! If you referred to my sister, I can
only say that she is your mother by adoption, that I suffered your
adoption solely because my time was taken up with my husband and--
(_tearfully_) Oh, you have no maternal instinct whatever! I am sorry I
ever brought you into the world, you have saddened my life so
completely.

DILL (_comforting_. GLORIA _who is in hysteria_). There, there, my
own--

GLORIA. That you whom I have loved as my own child should object to
your father, should be ashamed of him who has waited upon your every
want--oh, it is terrible.

KATHRYN. Mother, you don't understand. I have always liked Dill, and
don't object to him at all. In fact, I think it would be rather nice to
keep him always with us, and always, always ... (DILL _turns pale_) as
a butler. (_To_ JACK.) Men are wont to become oppressive when granted
authority, and I feel sure that Dill could never succeed as well at
anything else.

JACK. You are always right, my dear, but see to it at once. Contracts
have ceased to be binding, and what you want is a verbal understanding
with your mother.

GLORIA (_embracing them_). My children, I forgive you! As for
Dill--that is settled.

DILL (_to_ KATHRYN). My money! (_Hands her bag._)

KATHRYN. Beautiful, ideal money! (_To_ JACK.) I think he shows signs of
submission already.

DILL (_to_ JACK). My will! (_Hands him the will._)

JACK. I warned you about that, Dill. I said a will was a very unsafe
thing to have.

DILL. My broken heart and soul! (_Hands that to_ GLORIA.) Oh, take
everything! (_Falls back into a chair and buries his head in his
hands._)

JACK (_to_ KATHRYN). A man is at least your friend who gives you money.
No other friends get along these days, or amount to anything.

GLORIA. My dears, I agree with both of you. Your father has enough
money as it is, and any more would surely spoil him. (_To_ JACK.) I
don't think husbands should be allowed titles. Mine I know would
squander his. Moreover, in England the women have already gotten their
rights or are about to get them, which is almost as bad. And when we
women get the vote, if there are titles left, they shall certainly
belong to us. You may keep the will, Jack, I assure you it is utterly
worthless, and probably recorded all over the country. (_He and_
KATHRYN _stroll off_. GLORIA _turns upon_ DILL.) I don't mind about
your heart, for if it's broken you couldn't use it, and I don't mind
about the soul part either, for I don't think you have one. But I do
seriously object to your wasting your money. (_Turns her back to him._)
You'll never amount to anything.

DILL. I have been always most saving, my dear.

GLORIA. Less saving than spent, Dill.

KATHRYN (_tossing her latest gift into the air_). Lovely, spiritual
money. We can be married now, and you won't have to work as a stoker in
the ship after all.

JACK. Positively, my dear, I never dreamed of such a thing!

KATHRYN (_pouting_). Of course, I never could have allowed you to. You
might have upset us all, and I'm not going to be drowned for love or
any other nonsense.

JACK. But, my dear, if I upset the ship, it would be your duty to get
drowned. Any old captain will tell you that. They know absolutely
nothing. It's like any other walk of life. A man wears whiskers, or
white hair, or something, and you fancy he's learned. But he's not, and
never will be. Sea-captains dress as they do, and wear peculiar caps,
not that they should look like sea-captains, but that young innocent
persons like yourself should be deceived into thinking them
philosophers, or good men, or bad men, or some kind of men at least.
That explains the old and venerable expression of thinking through your
cap. But it's all wrong. They never think at all.

KATHRYN. I've often gone fishing, Jack, and I've never yet caught a
fish. Do you think there are any fishes in the sea, or is it just a
myth like mermaids and the millennium?

JACK. That is purely a piscatorial problem. My father is doubtless a
proper authority. I know he drinks like a fish, and he eats like a race
horse. (DILL _has been left entirely to his own reflections_.)

GLORIA. What are you two over there saying about running away?

JACK (_advancing solemnly_). Miss Gibbs, I have something to tell you.
(_Sits down and with knees crossed nonchalantly lights cigarette._) I
have no money, of course. Nobody has these days. The philanthropists
have stolen it all.

KATHRYN (_handing him money bag_). Of course not, Jack, how absurd! But
this will surely pay off some of your debts.

JACK. Very few, my dear. You don't know what debts are. Debts are a
man's constant reminder that even when he's very, very rich, one-half
the money in his pocket, and all the money in his bank, belongs
positively to somebody else.

GLORIA. I seriously object to your morals, Jack.

JACK. Surely you would not blame me for that which I never had?

DILL. As the lady's father, I must at least inquire of your habits,
sir.

JACK. I have no habits; even the good ones are bad enough, and the bad
ones are so hard to follow out.

KATHRYN. I quite approve so far, Jack.

JACK. I never vote.

GLORIA. I have yet to know the man who did. That's why they don't want
us to.

JACK. And I am proud to say that I have never done even a single stroke
of work.

KATHRYN. Oh! But you really must take up some useful occupation, Jack,
and go downtown very early in the morning and come back very late every
night. Married life would be impracticable otherwise. One could stand a
husband in the morning and evening, but a whole day added to each night
would be out of the question.

JACK. You don't understand. Business today is done under very bad
principles. The proper way, in truth, the only way that a young man of
my temperament could be induced to begin work, would be to start right
up at the top and go right down to the bottom. It takes so much less
time and trouble than the old way of beginning at the bottom and
stealing one's way up to the top. Besides, one is just that much more
likely to land somewhere.

KATHRYN. I wish that I were a man. Here you stand wasting my time
talking, when in a few weeks you might learn to be a messenger boy, and
grow right up into a millionaire.

JACK. I'm not old enough for a messenger boy, Kathryn. Messenger boys
are never successful until they become at least fifty and have long
white hair. Mine is a very firm yellow. I inherited it from my mother.

GLORIA. I thought you and Kathryn were having an innocent flirtation
only. (_To_ DILL.) Men are so deceiving.

JACK. There's no such thing as an innocent flirtation, Gloria.
Naturally I shall have a great deal of trouble convincing you of my
love for your daughter. I had expected that. When a man arrives at my
age of indiscretion, love is no longer to be thought of.

GLORIA. Mr. Kent and I are no longer young, sir, though we have been
long in love.

KATHRYN (_to herself_). Kathryn Kent! What a pretty name. (_Strolls
off._)

GLORIA (_sharply_). I'm afraid you're thinking, Dill. I am often aware
of a most unpleasant sensation whenever you indulge in that.

DILL. I am, my love, I usually am.

KATHRYN. There's no use going further, Jack. It can't be done.

JACK (_going to her_). What can't be done, my dear? I think that rather
a revolutionary sentiment, your saying a thing can't be done,
especially before trying it.

KATHRYN. The name, Jack, the name! There's no use in losing that.

JACK. What name, dear?

KATHRYN. Why, Kent, of course! I never could marry a man named
Hargrave.

JACK (_taking her hand tenderly_). Poor Kathryn! So busy exchanging
relations, she's completely forgotten my name. I told you my name was
really Kent. It's as really Kent as yours is.

KATHRYN (_still dazed_). Ah, so you did! (_Goes over to sofa._ DILL
_follows--she plays with him with a piece of string_.)

JACK. And I told you that I had a number too. (_To_ GLORIA.) Did I ever
tell you, Gloria, that I had a number? Such a lovely number! Hereafter
I must be known as John, plain John, Disciple No. 1, in Crapsey's
School for Socialism.

GLORIA. Crapsey's School for Socialism?

JACK. In Canterbury, England! And I hold the unique distinction of
being the only pupil that Crapsey ever had.

GLORIA. Jack, this is terrible!

JACK (_romping about_). So you refuse to give your consent! Oh, I am so
glad. It has always been my ambition to marry someone whose parents
absolutely disapproved of me, who thought me utterly unfitted for
family life. (_To_ KATHRYN.) We shall have all the fun of an elopement
now, and when you have finally divorced me, you can always recollect
that your parents advised you not to, and that they--(_pointing to_
GLORIA) after all was said and done, knew absolutely nothing of what
they were talking about. (KATHRYN _does not look up_. DILL, _like a
lazy lion, is lolling about at her feet. Sometimes he paws for the
string._)

GLORIA. I have this much to say, Mr. Hargrave, and that is, that with
or without my consent, you shall never marry any daughter of mine.

JACK (_with provoking mirth_). Kent, if you please! But why not? I am a
socialist, of course, and I know that the world is not yet prepared for
socialism. But we are only children as yet, and this is still the
twentieth century. When we reach the twenty-first and become of age it
will be time to talk about that.

GLORIA. You are Kathryn's first cousin.

JACK. I would be if I weren't adopted, Gloria.

GLORIA. Your mother! (_Enter_ JANE.)

JACK. Gloria was asking of my mother, Jane. It is one of those
impossible questions to answer, and possibly why she asked.

JANE. Have you ever thought of your mother, Jack?

JACK. Oh, I remember my mother. I was adopted almost before I was born
and yet--

JANE. What was she like, dear?

JACK. Like no one else in the world, Jane. It's hard to be sure of
course, but I think she must have been just the one woman who never
could grow fat.

JANE. At least I am not fat, Jack.

JACK. Oh, Jane--my mother!

JANE. My son John! (_Enter_ HARGRAVE. _His hair is short and his
costume more civilized. At sight of him_ DILL _grows instantly shy and
timid. He retreats to the shelter of_ KATHRYN _who, however, refuses to
be taken for a tree, and by a series of short playful jumps takes him
to the centre of the stage_.)

JACK. Father! Where is your hair? Have you swallowed it?

JANE. Your father's hair and I have had a falling out, Jack. We are
decided to cut it upon first sight hereafter.

HARGRAVE. Water!

GLORIA. Come out of there, Dill. Where are your manners I should like
to know? (DILL _holds tray and hands a pitcher to_ HARGRAVE.)

HARGRAVE. Ah! (_Drains a glass._) Ah! (DILL _grows impatient and_
HARGRAVE _grabs the pitcher_.)

JACK. How degrading drink is! It's dangerous too. There are more germs
in water than in anything else except whiskey, as scientists will tell
you.

GLORIA. I will break the news to you first, Jack. Jane is really your
mother, and--I think that he is your father too.

JACK (_to_ KATHRYN). It is apparent that we never can be married now,
dear.

KATHRYN. You feel quite sure that we are safe?

JACK. My dear, cousins could hardly afford to marry, and though I don't
believe a word that Gloria said-- (_Stops abruptly and goes over to_
HARGRAVE.)

KATHRYN (_with a deep sigh of satisfaction_). Well, that's over.
(_Retreats to lounge._)

JACK (_insolently_). Sir! I have already found my mother. (GLORIA
_looks ominously at_ JANE.) And ever since I can remember I have been
told I resembled you.

GLORIA (_to_ KATHRYN). You said that you recognized him at once, dear.
(KATHRYN _makes a little face_.)

JACK (_earnestly_). Are you my father?

HARGRAVE. I am not.

JACK. Who is my father?

HARGRAVE. I don't know.

JACK. Your answers are satisfactory. In the future I don't wish so
distasteful a subject to be broached again. (_Turns away impatiently._)

HARGRAVE. Did you say you had found your mother?

JACK. I did. (_Looks at_ JANE _who shakes her head_.)

HARGRAVE (_eyeing them all a little suspiciously_). May I then ask who
your mother is, sir?

JACK. Ah, my mother is an angel. (_Looks up in the air._)

HARGRAVE. Do not stand there blinking at the stars. I am sorry your
mother is dead, but I have known that for years.

DILL. Perhaps the will would put him in a better humor, sir.

JACK (_handing it to him_). I forgot to tell you, father, but I found
it after all. (_To_ KATHRYN.) It's easy enough to find a thing if
you're not looking for it.

HARGRAVE (_to them all_). I have just this much to say--that even if I
was disinherited by my father I intend to take this matter to the
courts. Fighting, especially fighting for the right, has always been a
point of honor with me.

GLORIA. One pig, Dill?

DILL. One pig, then.

GLORIA (_advancing_). As we do not seem able to be married on land, Mr.
Hargrave, Mr. Kent and I have decided to try the water. We are sailing
this evening.

JACK. You are not sailing in those trunks, Gloria?

GLORIA. Mr. Hargrave, I am a lady. Those are not trunks, those are my
new hats.

DILL. My idea, sir. It's to pass the custom house.

JACK. Would you like a sail across the pond, dear? I know some capital
fish stories, and can show you where they catch the most gigantic fish.
Father caught a whale there or something of the sort.

KATHRYN. A shark, Jack, a shark, I'm sure.

JACK. Well whatever it was we're quite safe. Whenever they strike a
leak or the ship gets too heavy they push all the women off into the
little boats.

HARGRAVE. What boat are you sailing on, may I ask?

GLORIA. The Baltic, Mr. Hargrave.

HARGRAVE (_to_ JANE). I feel a little lonely, my dear. Don't you think
we might try a sail ourselves?

JANE. Yes, the rent's up.

KATHRYN. What idiots we all are.

GLORIA. DILL! Come here! Did you not tell my daughter in that letter
that you were an idiot?

DILL. I did, my dearest, indeed.

KATHRYN. Oh, the letter! And now I've lost it--what a shame. I always
read letters backward and never did read more than the last paragraph
anyway. But it's the only letter from my father that I ever had and I
feel the loss of it already.

DILL. Never fear, Miss Kathryn. I will write you another. (_He thinks
long and earnestly, but fails to write._)

JANE. I have a present for you, Jack. (_Gives him a bag similar to_
GLORIA'S.) It was left me by my father, but with disclosures of a
nature which I could not countenance. (_At R._) I could never own up to
forty, Peter; never, never, never, if I were a hundred.

JACK. You must never own up to thirty, Jane; I shall feel so very old
when you do so. (_To_ KATHRYN.) Don't you think we might get married
after all, dear? It is terrible to have so much money and not know what
to do with it.

KATHRYN. Yes, love is very beautiful, isn't it?

JACK (_pulling other bag from trunk_). I knew I should succeed some
day, Jane; and I cannot thank either you or your sister one-half
enough.

JANE AND GLORIA (_with one voice_). I was always my father's favorite
daughter! (_Each snatches a bag, the two of which are carried off by_
JACK.)

GLORIA. Whatever are you doing, Dill? Are you writing a letter to the
Pope? (_Bell rings._)

JACK. I distinctly heard a noise. (_Bell rings more loudly._) I am
seldom mistaken, Dill, and as you are still the butler (_Bell peals
again_).

GLORIA. Hurry, Dill. It may be some distinguished guest. (_Exit_ DILL
_very slowly_.)

JANE. I have never heard a bell ring that way before. I was sure ours
had been broken for months.

JACK. Belles always are, I believe.

KATHRYN. I have taken a dislike to this one already.

JACK. It sounds painfully reminiscent. You do not ring that way,
Father?

HARGRAVE. Someday I shall wring your neck, sir.

JANE. You must learn to control your temper, Peter. I don't mind your
trying it out on your relatives, but until it gets quite, quite perfect
you must remember never to practise it on me. (_Takes away his glasses
and places them on table._) It was only his glasses, Jack.

KATHRYN. This suspense is killing me. I know I look like a tableau.

GLORIA. My dear, your dress is too low! You must not show your neck
until late in the evening, or at least until the lights are turned on
and everyone is looking.

JANE. I am glad we have chosen so large a boat. I feel as though I
weighed a ton already.

KATHRYN. I will not wait one moment longer. No! not for the Empress of
Egypt, if there is such a thing. (_Goes forward._) Dill can bring the
bundles. (_They follow her to the door, only to recoil in astonishment
as_ COL. CHRISTOPHER CRAPSEY _appears. He is prodding_ DILL _with his
sword which he sheathes gallantly upon beholding_ KATHRYN. _The others
he salutes sternly. In fact he salutes at every opportunity, his chief
occupation being apparently this same salute, preceded each time by
three mighty strides and heels together in approved military fashion.
He has all the vulgar airs of a soldier, of even a retired soldier._)

CRAPSEY (_after saluting everybody and everything in sight_). Col.
Christopher Crapsey--retired Army officer--Socialist--and--(_delves
into pocket for card_).

GLORIA. The tray, Dill--the tray! (_The effect produced by the mention
of the word_ CRAPSEY _stuns everyone, with the exception of_ KATHRYN
_and_ DILL, _who have no knowledge of what a really interesting person
the Colonel is_. JANE, _of course, was expecting him. But_ HARGRAVE
_was not, and, after adjusting his glasses and taking one furtive
glance, he disappears up the chimney_.)

DILL (_bowing deeply_). I must observe for the second time, sir, that
your bearing is most soldierly.

CRAPSEY (_drawing sword_). Silence, sir. (_Empties seven or eight cards
on tray and again repeats the ominous words._) Col. Christopher
Crapsey, retired Army officer!--Socialist--and--

KATHRYN (_to_ JACK). I am so surprised--I thought the men of war were
all at sea, and fighting with their wives, or with themselves.

JACK (_audibly_). I think the man's a fool.

KATHRYN. I'm sure of it.

GLORIA (_admonishingly_). Little do either of you know how much the
Colonel's visit portends. (CRAPSEY _glares at all of them_.)

JACK. This is my last broken ideal. And I so young! What a pity.

CRAPSEY (_looking about him_). Ah, I forgot. Jane Gibbs, I believe.
(_Goes up to Gloria._)

JANE. I am Jane Gibbs. You wanted to see me about my son, did you not?

CRAPSEY. I did.

GLORIA. Pray proceed. We are all prepared for the worst.

CRAPSEY. Ah, it is for the very best.

KATHRYN. How very too bad! Nothing thrills me like a disappointment,
and now even you refuse to marry someone else, Jack.

CRAPSEY (_annoyed at the interruption_). For the very best! I have
decided your son shall remain with me. (_To_ GLORIA.) It is hard to
realize the effect that environment has on the young. It is much more
vital than heredity, and John I feel bound to state is the exact image
of me. He has my eyes, my commanding manner, my masterly stride.

JOHN (_from the other end of the room_). Have you come here to insult
me, sir?

JANE. But I thought John was a scholar, Colonel? You have written
several letters about his French, and you said his Shakespeare was
perfect.

CRAPSEY. He is more than a scholar, madam. Your son is a soldier. He
has the soldier's finer feelings, and some day will surely join the
ranks to become as famous as his guardian was before him.

JACK. I'd rather die than fight for anyone.

CRAPSEY (_trying not to hear_). Yes, for twenty years he has been mine.
He has been a dutiful, affectionate son and a help to me in that
institution which is destined some day to become known throughout the
entire world. But come! (_Consults his watch._) There's little time. I
arrived yesterday on the Burgoyne and I sail tonight on the Baltic.

JACK. The Baltic?

CRAPSEY (_violently_). The Baltic! But it does not concern you in the
least.

JACK (_to_ KATHRYN). I assure you, my dear, that all this has reference
to me.

CRAPSEY (_to_ JANE). Your decision, pray?

JACK. I will not go.

CRAPSEY. Madam?

JACK. I will not go.

CRAPSEY. Madam, your decision!

JACK. It is easily decided, Jane. I refuse to go.

CRAPSEY (_marching up to him_). I did not ask you to go, sir! Your
conduct is an impertinence.

JACK (_to_ JANE). I will not live with a lunatic. Surely the law must
side with me there.

CRAPSEY (_roaring with rage_). Who is this offensive young person, may
I ask, who insults me in this fashion?

JACK (_stepping out_). I am John, plain John, Disciple No. 1, in
Crapsey's School for Socialism. And I hold the dubious distinction of
being the only pupil you ever had. (CRAPSEY'S _feelings are hurt beyond
expression. He wilts perceptibly. At length, with whatever dignity is
still his, he turns his back upon the company and stalks for the door.
There he hesitates for a moment and all draw back in doubt as to
whether he is about to go or charge upon them._)

HARGRAVE (_crawling out_). Is he gone? (_He presents a droll figure,
sooted and covered with dust._)

CRAPSEY (_returning with two or three wondrous strides_). I am not
gone, sir. And who are you?

JACK. This is my adopted father, the Rev. Peter Kent, alias Hargrave.
(CRAPSEY _stares icily, then adjusts an extraordinary pair of glasses
to his nose_.)

CRAPSEY. Aha! (HARGRAVE _shivers_.) So I have not tracked you twenty
years in vain. (_Draws sword._) You changed your name, but I am too
clever to be mislead by a woman's guile. Defend yourself, sir! I
remember--the truth is stronger than the sword! Come on, sir. (HARGRAVE
_retreats to fireplace_.)

JACK. Fighting always was his forte, Crapsey, especially fighting for
the right. If my life was as worthless as yours, father, I'd be
fighting all the time.

CRAPSEY (_turning fiercely on_ JACK). Shall I run you through and
through, sir? (HARGRAVE _glides behind the table_.) This creature stole
you from me years ago. But he is welcome to you--to all of you. I think
it is a den of thieves.

JANE. Curb your emotions, Colonel. This man is soon to be my husband,
and Jack was first of all my son. (HARGRAVE _is fired to action by this
apparent disclosure. Forgetting his fears he stamps jealously up to_
CRAPSEY _who meets him half way. They stand face to face._)

HARGRAVE AND CRAPSEY (_together_). Her son!

GLORIA (_to_ KATHRYN). I told you, my dear, that it was really so.

JANE. Yes, my own adopted son. I found him in one of the fashionable
parks of England's great city ... quite homeless, quite dirty, and
without name or parents. I called him John.

JACK. Thank you, Jane. I knew Gloria could never speak the truth.

JANE. You have been a most extravagant young man, Jack. Every dollar
which I have spent on your education has been squandered.

CRAPSEY. And every dollar has been used in running this man down. You
must admit that I have been successful. (_Smiles at the thought of his
accomplishments and seats himself comfortably._)

HARGRAVE (_well behind the table_). I have no doubt that you will still
land in jail, sir.

CRAPSEY (_bounding to his feet_). Aha! For you, sir, I have something
in the nature of a surprise. (_Fumbles in pockets._) After many
failures I have at last obtained a hearing before the Archbishop; and
he, like the honest, upright man that he is, has decreed that you be
unfrocked. I have the order with me.

JACK. I said you'd be unfrocked, father.

HARGRAVE (_discarding vest_). I am glad of it. For twenty years these
clothes weighed upon my soul, ruined my digestion, dyed my hair, and
made me the man I am.

JACK. Your reformation is complete, Jane.

DILL. In that case, sir, insomuch as my father specifically stated in
the will that he had disinherited you solely because you had entered
the ministry, I turn over one-half the estate to you. (GLORIA _stares
at him reproachfully_.)

HARGRAVE (_kneeling_). My brother! forgive me!

CRAPSEY. The will! What will!

HARGRAVE (_holding Dill's hand and the will in the air_). The will of
the late John Kent of Canterbury, whose elder son I am.

CRAPSEY. Pooh! (_Tears it to pieces._) Absolutely worthless, revoked it
before he died.

CHORUS OF VOICES. Revoked it?

CRAPSEY.. Revoked it! And seeing at the last the error of his ways, by
the merciful will of God left every cent he possessed to a School for
Socialism, to be founded in ye good and ancient city of Canterbury,
whose ruling spirit I am. The new will was discovered just previous to
my departure for this country.

DISCORD OF VOICES. Oh! (_Each seeks a chair_, DILL _alone being left in
the scuffle_.)

DILL (_holding up bag_). At any rate we do not need for money, sir.
(CRAPSEY _tosses the coins contemptuously into the air_.)

CRAPSEY. Bah! American pennies, as worthless as the American dollar.
(_All are visibly annoyed._) But hurry! My time is nearly up. Do I go
alone, or will some of the party accompany me?

KATHRYN. We'll be the young married couple, Jack.

JANE. We'll be the sisters, Gloria.

GLORIA. Yes, and Dill will be the butler. (_All but_ DILL _and_ JANE
_assent_.)

JANE. I think, Peter, that as your brother has been the butler for
twenty years it is only fair that you should now take his place.

KATHRYN. No one can ever take my father's place. It may sound like
affectation, but it's not. Dill will be the butler.

CRAPSEY. That is impossible! In my school the women work and do all the
work. (_All the men and_ DILL _are jubilant_.) One thing still requires
our attention. After what person, or persons, shall the institution be
called?

JACK, HARGRAVE AND DILL (_displaying their now reluctant better
halves_). After my--

CRAPSEY. One name at a time, please.

VOICES THREE. The Convolvulus.

CRAPSEY. Then that is settled. Company fall in. (CRAPSEY _stands
superbly at the head; next_ JANE _and_ GLORIA; _next_ HARGRAVE _and_
DILL. KATHRYN _tries to hold_ JACK _in last place with her, but he
breaks away and goes up to_ HARGRAVE.)

JACK. I told you, father, that I was going to complete my education;
and perhaps some day I shall have the distinction of a number. (CRAPSEY
_hits him a vicious crack with his sword just as_ JACK _takes_ JANE'S
_chattels away from her. These he adds to_ GLORIA'S _already prodigious
pile and joins the ranks_.)

KATHRYN. I feel just as if I were boarding the Ark.

CRAPSEY. The Baltic! Forward march! (_They describe a short circle_,
JACK _whistling the "Marseillaise," "Onward Christian Soldiers," or
some terrible tango tune. Any old tune will not do, however, and care
should be taken in its selection and use._)

JACK (_disappearing_). Dear me! It's five-fifteen, and they're beating
their wives in London now. (_Exeunt all._)


CURTAIN.



LIST IN BELLES-LETTRES

Published by CLAIRE MARIE

Three East Fourteenth St., New York


SONNETS FROM THE PATAGONIAN: THE STREET OF LITTLE HOTELS. By DONALD
EVANS, Author of "Discords." Jade boards. $1.25. (Second printing.)

LITTLE WAX CANDLE--A Farce in One Act by LOUISE NORTON. Burnt orange
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SALOON SONNETS: WITH SUNDAY FLUTINGS--A Volume of Poems by ALLEN
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TENDER BUTTONS: OBJECTS, FOOD, ROOMS--Studies in Description by
GERTRUDE STEIN. Canary boards. $1.00.

SYRINX: PASTELS OF HELLAS. By MITCHELL S. BUCK. Grey boards. $1.25.

THE CONVOLVULUS--A Comedy in Three Acts by ALLEN NORTON. Slate boards.
$1.25.





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