Mrs. Warren’s Profession

that would take a prize at a dog show, ain’t he? Who’s he? Praed Sir George Crofts, an old friend of Mrs. Warren’s. I think we had better come in. On their way to the porch they are interrupted by a call from the gate. Turning, they see an elderly clergyman looking over it. The Clergyman Calling. Frank! Frank Hallo! To Praed. The Roman father. To the clergyman. Yes, gov’nor: all right: presently. To Praed. Look here, Praed: you’d better go in to tea. I’ll join you directly. Praed Very good. He raises his hat to the Clergyman, who acknowledges the salute distantly. Praed goes into the cottage. The Clergyman remains stiffly outside the gate, with his hands on the top of it. The Rev. Samuel Gardner, a beneficed clergyman of the Established Church, is over fifty. He is a pretentious, booming, noisy person, hopelessly asserting himself as a father and a clergyman without being able to command respect in either capacity. Rev. S. Well, sir. Who are your friends here, if I may ask? Frank Oh, it’s all right, gov’nor! Come in. Rev. S. No, sir; not until I know whose garden I am entering. Frank It’s all right. It’s Miss Warren’s. Rev. S. I have not seen her at church since she came. Frank Of course not: she’s a third wrangler⁠—ever so intellectual!⁠—took a higher degree than you did; so why should she go to hear you preach? Rev. S. Don’t be disrespectful, sir. Frank Oh, it don’t matter: nobody hears us. Come in. He opens the gate, unceremoniously pulling his father with it into the garden. I want to introduce you to her. She and I get on rattling well together: she’s charming. Do you remember the advice you gave me last July, gov’nor? Rev. S. Severely. Yes. I advised you to conquer your idleness and flippancy, and to work your way into an honorable profession and live on it and not upon me. Frank No: that’s what you thought of afterwards. What you actually said was that since I had neither brains nor money, I’d better turn my good looks to account by marrying someone with both. Well, look here. Miss Warren has brains: you can’t deny that. Rev. S. Brains are not everything. Frank No, of course not: there’s the money⁠— Rev. S. Interrupting him austerely. I was not thinking of money, sir. I was speaking of higher things⁠—social position, for instance. Frank I don’t care a rap about that. Rev. S. But I do, sir. Frank Well, nobody wants you to marry her. Anyhow, she has what amounts to a high Cambridge degree; and she seems to have as much money as she wants. Rev. S. Sinking into a feeble vein of humor. I greatly doubt whether she has as much money as you will want. Frank Oh, come: I haven’t been so very extravagant. I live ever so quietly; I don’t drink; I don’t bet much; and I never go regularly on the razzle-dazzle as you did when you were my age. Rev. S. Booming hollowly. Silence, sir. Frank Well, you told me yourself, when I was making ever such an ass of myself about the barmaid at Redhill, that you once offered a woman fifty pounds for the letters you wrote to her when⁠— Rev. S. Terrified. Sh‑sh‑sh, Frank, for Heaven’s sake! He looks round apprehensively Seeing no one within earshot he plucks up courage to boom again, but more subduedly. You are taking an ungentlemanly advantage of what I confided to you for your own good, to save you from an error you would have repented all your life long. Take warning by your father’s follies, sir; and don’t make them an excuse for your own. Frank Did you ever hear the story of the Duke of Wellington and his letters? Rev. S. No, sir; and I don’t want to hear it. Frank The old Iron Duke didn’t throw away fifty pounds⁠—not he. He just wrote: “My dear Jenny: Publish and be damned! Yours affectionately, Wellington.” That’s what you should have done. Rev. S. Piteously. Frank, my boy: when I wrote those letters I put myself into that woman’s power. When I told you about them I put myself, to some extent, I am sorry to say, in your power. She refused my money with these words, which I shall never forget. “Knowledge is power,” she said; “and I never sell power.” That’’s more than twenty years ago; and she has never made use of her power or caused me a moment’s uneasiness. You are behaving worse to me than she did, Frank. Frank Oh, yes, I dare say! Did you ever preach at her the way you preach at me every day? Rev. S. Wounded almost to tears. I leave you, sir. You are incorrigible. He turns towards the gate. Frank Utterly unmoved. Tell them I shan’t be home to tea, will you, gov’nor, like a good fellow? He moves towards the cottage door and is met by Vivie coming out, followed by Praed, Crofts, and Mrs. Warren. Vivie To Frank. Is that your father, Frank? I do so want to meet him. Frank Certainly. Calling after his father. Gov’nor. The Rev. S. turns at the gate, fumbling nervously at his hat. Praed comes down the garden on the opposite side, beaming in anticipation of civilities. Crofts prowls about near the hammock, poking it with his stick to make it swing. Mrs. Warren halts on the threshold, staring hard at the clergyman. Let me introduce⁠—my father: Miss Warren. Vivie Going to the clergyman and shaking his hand. Very glad to see you here, Mr. Gardner. Let me introduce everybody. Mr. Gardner⁠—Mr. Frank Gardner⁠—Mr. Praed⁠—Sir George Crofts, and⁠—As the men are raising their hats to one another, Vivie is interrupted by an exclamation from her mother, who swoops down