Tales of two people

Mr M. That’s rather an odd remedy, Miss Grainger. But, in some form or other, celibacy – public and avowed celibacy – is our only chance. (He throws himself down in the chair.)

Miss G. (Low.) Unless there was somebody who —

Mr M. Didn’t know who you were? Not to be done in these days, with the illustrated press! And – you’ll excuse my referring to it? – but your fond father put you on the wrappings of the soap. And owing to the large sale of the article —

Miss G. Yes, I know. But I meant – if there was somebody who didn’t – didn’t care about the money?

Mr M. (Half under his breath.) Said he didn’t!

Miss G. And who – who really did care just for – for oneself alone? Oh, I must sound romantic and absurd; but you – you know what I mean, Mr Marchesson? There are such men, aren’t there?

Mr M. Well, admitting there was one – and it’s a handsome admission, which I limit entirely to the male sex – in the first place you wouldn’t believe in him half the time, and in the second he wouldn’t believe in himself half the time, and in the third none of your friends would believe in him any of the time.

Miss G. That would be horrid – especially the friends, I mean.

Mr M. Female friends!

Miss G. Of course.

Mr M. Another disgusting aspect of the business! Do you – do I – ever get legitimate credit for our personal attractions? Never! Never!

Miss G. (With conviction.) That’s awfully true.

Mr M. So even your paragon, if you found him, wouldn’t meet the case. And as for my paragon, nobody but Diogenes would take on the job of finding her.

Miss G. (Musing.) Is nobody indifferent to money?

Mr M. Only if they’ve got more than they want. (He gives a glance at her, unperceived by her, rises, puts his hands in his pockets, and looks at her.) Only the unhappy rich.

Miss G. (Roused from abstraction.) I beg pardon, what?

Mr M. Imagine a man surfeited, cloyed, smothered in it; a man who has to pay six other men to look after it; a man who can’t live because of the income-tax, and daren’t die because of the death duties; a man overwhelmed with houses he can’t live in, yachts he can’t sail, horses he can’t ride; a man in whom the milk of human kindness is soured by impostors, and for whom even “deserving cases” have lost their charm; a man who’s been round the d – d world – I beg your pardon, really I beg your pardon – who’s been round the wretched world twice, and shot every beast on it at least once; who is sick of playing, and daren’t work for fear of making a profit —

Miss G. It almost sounds as if you were describing yourself.

Mr M. Oh no, no! No! At least – er – if at all, quite accidentally. I’ll describe you now, if you like.

Miss G. I get absolutely no thrill out of a new frock!

Mr M. There it is – in a nutshell, by Jingo! Miss Grainger, we have found the people we want, the people who are indifferent to money, and would – that is, might – marry us for love alone.

Miss G. (Laughing.) You mean – one another? That’s really rather an amusing end to our philosophising, isn’t it? (She rises, laughing still, and holds out her hand.) Good-night.

Mr M. (Indignantly.) Good-night be – ! Why, our talk’s just got to the most interesting point!

Miss G. Well, you ought to know – you’ve been doing most of it yourself.

Mr M. Oh, but don’t go! I – I’ll do it better – and perhaps quicker too – if you’ll stay a bit.

Miss G. (Sitting again, with a laugh.) I’ll give you just five minutes to wind up the argument.

Mr M. The conclusion’s obvious in logic. I ought to offer you my hand in marriage, and you ought to accept.

Miss G. (Laughing.) Logic is logic, of course, Mr Marchesson – but we’ve never even been introduced! I don’t think you need feel absolutely compelled to go through the ceremony you suggest. We’ll be illogical, and say good-night.

Mr M. You admit the logic? You see the force of it?

Miss G. Women don’t act by logic, though.

Mr M. It’s always at least a good excuse.

Miss G. If you want one, yes. (She is about to rise again.)

Mr M. I do want one.

(She shakes her head, laughing.)

I’m serious.

Miss G. You don’t really want me to think that? The very first time we meet? The lady in there (pointing to the conservatory on the right) must have frightened you terribly indeed!

Mr M. Until the logic of the thing struck me – which happened only to-night – I thought it no good to try to know you.

Miss G. I don’t suppose you ever thought about it at all.

Mr M. I had nothing to give you – and you had nothing to give me! So it seemed in the days of illogicality. Now it’s all different. So I insist on – the ceremony.

Miss G. (Laughing, but a little agitated.) Go on, then. But your logic doesn’t bind me, you know.

(He comes and sits on the couch by her.)

Yes, that’s quite right – but don’t put too much feeling into it. It – it’s only logic! No, I – I don’t think I want you to go on. I – I don’t think it’s a good joke.

Mr M. It’s not a joke. I’ve never been introduced to you, you say. I’ve never spoken to you before to-night, I know. But you’re not a stranger to me. There have been very few days in the last three months when I haven’t managed to see you —

Miss G. (Low.) Managed to see me —managed?

Mr M. Yes – though I must say you go to some places which but for your presence would be very dull. I stuck at none of them, Miss Grainger. I swallowed every one! Did you ever notice me?

Miss G. Of course not.

(He looks at her.)

Of course I’ve seen you, but I never noticed you.

(He continues to look at her.)

Not specially, at anyrate.