CURTAIN.

ACT II

ACT II

The next day after dinner.  Culver and Parlourmaid.

CULVER (handing Parlourmaid a letter).  That’s for the post.  Is Miss
Starkey here?

PARLOURMAID.  Yes, sir.  She is waiting.

CULVER.  Ask her to be good enough to keep on waiting.  She may come in when I ring twice.

PARLOURMAID.  Yes, sir.

Enter Mrs. Culver, back.

MRS. CULVER (to Parlourmaid, stopping her as she goes out, dramatically).  Give me that letter. (She snatches the letter from the Parlourmaid.) You can go. (Culver rises.) (Exit Parlourmaid.)

MRS. CULVER.  I am determined to make a stand this time.

CULVER (soothingly).  So I see, darling.

MRS. CULVER.  I have given way to you all my life.  But I won’t give way now.  This letter shall not go.

CULVER.  As you like, darling.

MRS. CULVER.  No. (She tears the envelope open, without having looked at it, and throws the letter into the fire.  In doing so she lets fall a cheque.)

CULVER (rising and picking up the cheque).  I’ll keep the cheque as a memento.

MRS. CULVER.  Cheque?  What cheque?

CULVER.  Darling, once in the old, happy days—­I think it was last week—­you and I were walking down Bond Street, almost hand in hand, but not quite, and you saw a brooch in a shop window.  You simply had to have that brooch.  I offered it to you for a Christmas present.  You are wearing it now, and very well it suits you.  This (indicating the cheque) was to pay the bill.

MRS. CULVER.  Arthur!

CULVER.  Moral:  Look before you burn.  Miss Starkey will now have to write a fresh letter.

MRS. CULVER.  Arthur!  You must forgive me.  I’m in a horrid state of nerves, and you said you were positively going to write to Lord Woking to-night to refuse the title.

CULVER.  I did say so.

MRS. CULVER (hopefully).  But you haven’t written?

CULVER.  I haven’t.

MRS. CULVER.  You don’t know how relieved I am!

CULVER (sitting down, drawing her to him, and setting her on his knee).  Infant!  Cherub!  Angel!  Dove!...  Devil! (Caressing her.) Are we friends?

MRS. CULVER.  It kills me to quarrel with you. (They kiss.)

CULVER.  Darling, we are absurd.

MRS. CULVER.  I don’t care.

CULVER.  Supposing that anyone came in and caught us!

MRS. CULVER.  Well, we’re married.

CULVER.—­But it’s so long since.  Hildegarde’s twenty-one!  John, seventeen!

MRS. CULVER.  It seems to me like yesterday.

CULVER.  Yes, you’re incurably a girl.

MRS. CULVER.  I’m not.