Alick.  Best he shouldn’t know.  Men are nervous of remarkable women.

James.  She’s a long time in coming back.

David [not quite comfortable].  It’s a good sign.  H’sh.  What sort of a night is it, Maggie?

Maggie.  It’s a little blowy.

[She gets a large dustcloth which is lying folded on a shelf, and proceeds to spread it over the fine chair.  The men exchange self-conscious glances.]

David [stretching himself].  Yes—­well, well, oh yes.  It’s getting late.  What is it with you, father?

Alick.  I’m ten forty-two.

James.  I’m ten-forty.

David.  Ten forty-two.

[They wind up their watches.]

Maggie.  It’s high time we were bedded. [She puts her hands on their shoulders lovingly, which is the very thing they have been trying to avoid.] You’re very kind to me.

David.  Havers.

Alick.  Havers.

James [but this does not matter].  Havers.

Maggie [a little dolefully].  I’m a sort of sorry for the young man,
David.

David.  Not at all.  You’ll be the making of him. [She lifts the two volumes.] Are you taking the books to your bed, Maggie?

Maggie.  Yes.  I don’t want him to know things I don’t know myself.

[She departs with the books; and Alick and David, the villains, now want to get away from each other.]

Alick.  Yes—­yes.  Oh yes—­ay, man—­it is so—­umpha.  You’ll lift the big coals off, David.

[He wanders away to his spring mattress.  David removes the coals.]

James [who would like to sit down and have an argy-bargy].  It’s a most romantical affair. [But he gets no answer.] I wonder how it’ll turn out? [No answer.] She’s queer, Maggie.  I wonder how some clever writers has never noticed how queer women are.  It’s my belief you could write a whole book about them. [David remains obdurate.] It was very noble of her to tell him she’s twenty-six. [Muttering as he too wanders away.] But I thought she was twenty-seven.

[David turns out the light.]

ACT II

[Six years have elapsed and John Shand’s great hour has come.  Perhaps his great hour really lies ahead of him, perhaps he had it six years ago; it often passes us by in the night with such a faint call that we don’t even turn in our beds.  But according to the trumpets this is John’s great hour; it is the hour for which he has long been working with his coat off; and now the coat is on again (broadcloth but ill-fitting), for there is no more to do but await results.  He is standing for Parliament, and this is election night.