Candida

at the annual conference of the Women’s Liberal Federation. Allow me to add that though they didn’t appreciate it, I, a mere man, did. He turns to the bookcase again, hoping that this may leave her crushed. Proserpine Putting her hair straight at the little panel of mirror in the mantelpiece. Well, when you talk to me, give me your own ideas, such as they are, and not his. You never cut a poorer figure than when you are trying to imitate him. Lexy Stung. I try to follow his example, not to imitate him. Proserpine Coming at him again on her way back to her work. Yes, you do: you imitate him. Why do you tuck your umbrella under your left arm instead of carrying it in your hand like anyone else? Why do you walk with your chin stuck out before you, hurrying along with that eager look in your eyes⁠—you, who never get up before half past nine in the morning? Why do you say “knoaledge” in church, though you always say “knolledge” in private conversation! Bah! do you think I don’t know? She goes back to the typewriter. Here, come and set about your work: we’ve wasted enough time for one morning. Here’s a copy of the diary for today. She hands him a memorandum. Lexy Deeply offended. Thank you. He takes it and stands at the table with his back to her, reading it. She begins to transcribe her shorthand notes on the typewriter without troubling herself about his feelings. Mr. Burgess enters unannounced. He is a man of sixty, made coarse and sordid by the compulsory selfishness of petty commerce, and later on softened into sluggish bumptiousness by overfeeding and commercial success. A vulgar, ignorant, guzzling man, offensive and contemptuous to people whose labor is cheap, respectful to wealth and rank, and quite sincere and without rancour or envy in both attitudes. Finding him without talent, the world has offered him no decently paid work except ignoble work, and he has become in consequence, somewhat hoggish. But he has no suspicion of this himself, and honestly regards his commercial prosperity as the inevitable and socially wholesome triumph of the ability, industry, shrewdness and experience in business of a man who in private is easygoing, affectionate and humorously convivial to a fault. Corporeally, he is a podgy man, with a square, clean-shaven face and a square beard under his chin; dust colored, with a patch of grey in the centre, and small watery blue eyes with a plaintively sentimental expression, which he transfers easily to his voice by his habit of pompously intoning his sentences. Burgess Stopping on the threshold, and looking round. They told me Mr. Morell was here. Proserpine Rising. He’s upstairs. I’ll fetch him for you. Burgess Staring boorishly at her. You’re not the same young lady as used to typewrite for him? Proserpine No. Burgess Assenting. No: she was younger. Miss Garnett stolidly stares at him; then goes out with great dignity. He receives this quite obtusely, and crosses to the hearthrug, where he turns and spreads himself with his back to the fire. Startin’ on your rounds, Mr. Mill? Lexy Folding his paper and pocketing it. Yes: I must be off presently. Burgess Momentously. Don’t let me detain you, Mr. Mill. What I come about is private between me and Mr. Morell. Lexy Huffily. I have no intention of intruding, I am sure, Mr. Burgess. Good morning. Burgess Patronizingly. Oh, good morning to you. Morell returns as Lexy is making for the door. Morell To Lexy. Off to work? Lexy Yes, sir. Morell Patting him affectionately on the shoulder. Take my silk handkerchief and wrap your throat up. There’s a cold wind. Away with you. Lexy brightens up, and goes out. Burgess Spoilin’ your curates, as usu’l, James. Good mornin’. When I pay a man, an’ ’is livin’ depen’s on me, I keep him in his place. Morell Rather shortly. I always keep my curates in their places as my helpers and comrades. If you get as much work out of your clerks and warehousemen as I do out of my curates, you must be getting rich pretty fast. Will you take your old chair? He points with curt authority to the arm chair beside the fireplace; then takes the spare chair from the table and sits down in front of Burgess. Burgess Without moving. Just the same as hever, James! Morell When you last called⁠—it was about three years ago, I think⁠—you said the same thing a little more frankly. Your exact words then were: “Just as big a fool as ever, James?” Burgess Soothingly. Well, perhaps I did; but with conciliatory cheerfulness I meant no offence by it. A clergyman is privileged to be a bit of a fool, you know: it’s on’y becomin’ in his profession that he should. Anyhow, I come here, not to rake up hold differences, but to let bygones be bygones. Suddenly becoming very solemn, and approaching Morell. James: three year ago, you done me a hill turn. You done me hout of a contrac’; an’ when I gev you ’arsh words in my nat’ral disappointment, you turned my daughrter again me. Well, I’ve come to act the part of a Cherischin. Offering his hand. I forgive you, James. Morell Starting up. Confound your impudence! Burgess Retreating, with almost lachrymose deprecation of this treatment. Is that becomin’ language for a clergyman, James?⁠—and you so partic’lar, too? Morell Hotly. No, sir, it is not becoming language for a clergyman. I used the wrong word. I should have said damn your impudence: that’s what St. Paul, or any honest priest would have said to you. Do you think I have forgotten that tender of yours for the contract to supply clothing to the workhouse? Burgess In a paroxysm of public spirit. I acted in the interest of the ratepayers, James. It was the