Soldiers Three

MRS. G. I think I can guess. You’re selfish?

CAPT. G. Yes.

MRS. G. Foolish?

CAPT. G. Very.

MRS. G. And a dear?

CAPT. G. That is as my lady pleases.

MRS. G. Then your lady is pleased. (A pause.) D’you know that we’re two solemn, serious, grown-up people —

CAPT. G. (Tilting her straw hat over her eyes.) You grown-up! Pooh! You’re a baby.

MRS. G. And we’re talking nonsense.

CAPT. G. Then let’s go on talking nonsense. I rather like it. Pussy, I’ll tell you a secret. Promise not to repeat?

MRS. G. Ye – es. Only to you.

CAPT. G. I love you.

MRS. G. Re-ally! For how long?

CAPT. G. For ever and ever.

MRS. G. That’s a long time.

CAPT. G. ‘Think so? It’s the shortest I can do with.

MRS. G. You’re getting quite clever.

CAPT. G. I’m talking to you.

MRS. G. Prettily turned. Hold up your stupid old head and I’ll pay you for it!

CAPT. G. (Affecting supreme contempt.) Take it yourself if you want it.

MRS. G. I’ve a great mind to – and I will! (Takes it and is repaid with interest.)

CAPT. G. Little Featherweight, it’s my opinion that we are a couple of idiots.

MRS. G. We’re the only two sensible people in the world! Ask the eagle. He’s coming by.

CAPT. G. Ah! I dare say he’s seen a good many sensible people at Mahasu. They say that those birds live for ever so long.

MRS. G. How long?

CAPT. G. A hundred and twenty years.

MRS. G. A hundred and twenty years! O-oh! And in a hundred and twenty years where will these two sensible people be?

CAPT. G. What does it matter so long as we are together now?

MRS. G. (Looking round the horizon.) Yes. Only you and I – I and you – in the whole wide, wide world until the end. (Sees the line of the Snows.) How big and quiet the hills look! D’you think they care for us?

CAPT. G. ‘Can’t say I’ve consulted ‘em particularly. I care, and that’s enough for me.

MRS. G. (Drawing nearer to him.) Yes, now – but afterwards. What’s that little black blur on the Snows?

CAPT. G. A snowstorm, forty miles away. You’ll see it move, as the wind carries it across the face of that spur, and then it will be all gone.

MRS. G. And then it will be all gone. (Shivers.)

CAPT. G. (Anxiously.) ‘Not chilled, pet, are you? ‘Better let me get your cloak.

MRS. G. No. Don’t leave me, Phil. Stay here. I believe I am afraid. Oh, why are the hills so horrid! Phil, promise me, promise me that you’ll always love me.

CAPT. G. What’s the trouble, darling? I can’t promise any more than I have; but I’ll promise that again and again if you like.

MRS. G. (Her head on his shoulder.) Say it, then – say it! N-no – don’t! The – the – eagles would laugh. (Recovering.) My husband, you’ve married a little goose.

CAPT. G. (Very tenderly.) Have I? I am content whatever she is, so long as she is mine.

MRS. G. (Quickly.) Because she is yours or because she is me mineself?

CAPT. G. Because she is both. (Piteously.) I’m not clever, dear, and I don’t think I can make myself understood properly.

MRS. G. I understand. Pip, will you tell me something?

CAPT. G. Anything you like. (Aside.) I wonder what’s coming now.

MRS. G. (Haltingly, her eyes lowered.) You told me once in the old days – centuries and centuries ago – that you had been engaged before. I didn’t say anything —then.

CAPT. G. (Innocently.) Why not?

MRS. G. (Raising her eyes to his.) Because – because I was afraid of losing you, my heart. But now – tell about it —please.

CAPT. G. There’s nothing to tell. I was awf’ly old then – nearly two and twenty – and she was quite that.

MRS. G. That means she was older than you. I shouldn’t like her to have been younger. Well?

CAPT. G. Well, I fancied myself in love and raved about a bit, and – oh, yes, by Jove! I made up poetry. Ha! Ha!

MRS. G. You never wrote any for me! What happened?

CAPT. G. I came out here, and the whole thing went phut. She wrote to say that there had been a mistake, and then she married.