Candida

nice new one, with an ivory back inlaid with mother-of-pearl? Marchbanks Softly and musically, but sadly and longingly. No, not a scrubbing brush, but a boat⁠—a tiny shallop to sail away in, far from the world, where the marble floors are washed by the rain and dried by the sun, where the south wind dusts the beautiful green and purple carpets. Or a chariot⁠—to carry us up into the sky, where the lamps are stars, and don’t need to be filled with paraffin oil every day. Morell Harshly. And where there is nothing to do but to be idle, selfish and useless. Candida Jarred. Oh, James, how could you spoil it all! Marchbanks Firing up. Yes, to be idle, selfish and useless: that is to be beautiful and free and happy: hasn’t every man desired that with all his soul for the woman he loves? That’s my ideal: what’s yours, and that of all the dreadful people who live in these hideous rows of houses? Sermons and scrubbing brushes! With you to preach the sermon and your wife to scrub. Candida Quaintly. He cleans the boots, Eugene. You will have to clean them tomorrow for saying that about him. Marchbanks Oh! don’t talk about boots. Your feet should be beautiful on the mountains. Candida My feet would not be beautiful on the Hackney Road without boots. Burgess Scandalized. Come, Candy, don’t be vulgar. Mr. Morchbanks ain’t accustomed to it. You’re givin’ him the ’orrors again. I mean the poetic ones. Morell is silent. Apparently he is busy with his letters: really he is puzzling with misgiving over his new and alarming experience that the surer he is of his moral thrusts, the more swiftly and effectively Eugene parries them. To find himself beginning to fear a man whom he does not respect affects him bitterly. Miss Garnett comes in with a telegram. Proserpine Handing the telegram to Morell. Reply paid. The boy’s waiting. To Candida, coming back to her machine and sitting down. Maria is ready for you now in the kitchen, Mrs. Morell. Candida rises. The onions have come. Marchbanks Convulsively. Onions! Candida Yes, onions. Not even Spanish ones⁠—nasty little red onions. You shall help me to slice them. Come along. She catches him by the wrist and runs out, pulling him after her. Burgess rises in consternation, and stands aghast on the hearthrug, staring after them. Burgess Candy didn’t oughter ’andle a peer’s nevvy like that. It’s goin’ too fur with it. Lookee ’ere, James: do ’e often git taken queer like that? Morell Shortly, writing a telegram. I don’t know. Burgess Sentimentally. He talks very pretty. I allus had a turn for a bit of potery. Candy takes arter me that-a-way: huse ter make me tell her fairy stories when she was on’y a little kiddy not that ’igh Indicating a stature of two feet or thereabouts. Morell Preoccupied. Ah, indeed. He blots the telegram, and goes out. Proserpine Used you to make the fairy stories up out of your own head? Burgess, not deigning to reply, strikes an attitude of the haughtiest disdain on the hearthrug. Proserpine Calmly. I should never have supposed you had it in you. By the way, I’d better warn you, since you’ve taken such a fancy to Mr. Marchbanks. He’s mad. Burgess Mad! Wot! ’Im too!! Proserpine Mad as a March hare. He did frighten me, I can tell you just before you came in that time. Haven’t you noticed the queer things he says? Burgess So that’s wot the poetic ’orrors means. Blame me if it didn’t come into my head once or twyst that he must be off his chump! He crosses the room to the door, lifting up his voice as he goes. Well, this is a pretty sort of asylum for a man to be in, with no one but you to take care of him! Proserpine As he passes her. Yes, what a dreadful thing it would be if anything happened to you! Burgess Loftily. Don’t you address no remarks to me. Tell your hemployer that I’ve gone into the garden for a smoke. Proserpine Mocking. Oh! Before Burgess can retort, Morell comes back. Burgess Sentimentally. Goin’ for a turn in the garden to smoke, James. Morell Brusquely. Oh, all right, all right. Burgess goes out pathetically in the character of the weary old man. Morell stands at the table, turning over his papers, and adding, across to Proserpine, half humorously, half absently: Well, Miss Prossy, why have you been calling my father-in-law names? Proserpine Blushing fiery red, and looking quickly up at him, half scared, half reproachful. I⁠—She bursts into tears. Morell With tender gaiety, leaning across the table towards her, and consoling her. Oh, come, come, come! Never mind, Pross: he is a silly old fathead, isn’t he? With an explosive sob, she makes a dash at the door, and vanishes, banging it. Morell, shaking his head resignedly, sighs, and goes wearily to his chair, where he sits down and sets to work, looking old and careworn. Candida comes in. She has finished her household work and taken of the apron. She at once notices his dejected appearance, and posts herself quietly at the spare chair, looking down at him attentively; but she says nothing. Morell Looking up, but with his pen raised ready to resume his work. Well? Where is Eugene? Candida Washing his hands in the scullery⁠—under the tap. He will make an excellent cook if he can only get over his dread of Maria. Morell Shortly. Ha! No doubt. He begins writing again. Candida Going nearer, and putting her hand down softly on his to stop him, as she says. Come here, dear. Let me look at you. He drops his pen and yields himself at her disposal. She makes him rise and brings him a little away from the table, looking at him critically all