Candida

few letters and newspapers which have come by the midday post. Candida Oh, James, dear, he was going to give the cabman ten shillings⁠—ten shillings for a three minutes’ drive⁠—oh, dear! Morell At the table, glancing through the letters. Never mind her, Marchbanks. The overpaying instinct is a generous one: better than the underpaying instinct, and not so common. Marchbanks Relapsing into dejection. No: cowardice, incompetence. Mrs. Morell’s quite right. Candida Of course she is. She takes up her handbag. And now I must leave you to James for the present. I suppose you are too much of a poet to know the state a woman finds her house in when she’s been away for three weeks. Give me my rug. Eugene takes the strapped rug from the couch, and gives it to her. She takes it in her left hand, having the bag in her right. Now hang my cloak across my arm. He obeys. Now my hat. He puts it into the hand which has the bag. Now open the door for me. He hurries up before her and opens the door. Thanks. She goes out; and Marchbanks shuts the door. Morell Still busy at the table. You’ll stay to lunch, Marchbanks, of course. Marchbanks Scared. I mustn’t. He glances quickly at Morell, but at once avoids his frank look, and adds, with obvious disingenuousness: I can’t. Morell Over his shoulder. You mean you won’t. Marchbanks Earnestly. No: I should like to, indeed. Thank you very much. But⁠—but⁠— Morell Breezily, finishing with the letters and coming close to him. But⁠—but⁠—but⁠—but⁠—bosh! If you’d like to stay, stay. You don’t mean to persuade me you have anything else to do. If you’re shy, go and take a turn in the park and write poetry until half past one; and then come in and have a good feed. Marchbanks Thank you, I should like that very much. But I really mustn’t. The truth is, Mrs. Morell told me not to. She said she didn’t think you’d ask me to stay to lunch, but that I was to remember, if you did, that you didn’t really want me to. Plaintively. She said I’d understand; but I don’t. Please don’t tell her I told you. Morell Drolly. Oh, is that all? Won’t my suggestion that you should take a turn in the park meet the difficulty? Marchbanks How? Morell Exploding good-humoredly. Why, you duffer⁠—But this boisterousness jars himself as well as Eugene. He checks himself, and resumes, with affectionate seriousness: No: I won’t put it in that way. My dear lad: in a happy marriage like ours, there is something very sacred in the return of the wife to her home. Marchbanks looks quickly at him, half anticipating his meaning. An old friend or a truly noble and sympathetic soul is not in the way on such occasions; but a chance visitor is. The hunted, horror-stricken expression comes out with sudden vividness in Eugene’s face as he understands. Morell, occupied with his own thought, goes on without noticing it. Candida thought I would rather not have you here; but she was wrong. I’m very fond of you, my boy, and I should like you to see for yourself what a happy thing it is to be married as I am. Marchbanks Happy!⁠—your marriage! You think that! You believe that! Morell Buoyantly. I know it, my lad. La Rochefoucauld said that there are convenient marriages, but no delightful ones. You don’t know the comfort of seeing through and through a thundering liar and rotten cynic like that fellow. Ha, ha! Now off with you to the park, and write your poem. Half past one, sharp, mind: we never wait for anybody. Marchbanks Wildly. No: stop: you shan’t. I’ll force it into the light. Morell Puzzled. Eh? Force what? Marchbanks I must speak to you. There is something that must be settled between us. Morell With a whimsical glance at the clock. Now? Marchbanks Passionately. Now. Before you leave this room. He retreats a few steps, and stands as if to bar Morell’s way to the door. Morell Without moving, and gravely, perceiving now that there is something serious the matter. I’m not going to leave it, my dear boy: I thought you were. Eugene, baffled by his firm tone, turns his back on him, writhing with anger. Morell goes to him and puts his hand on his shoulder strongly and kindly, disregarding his attempt to shake it off. Come: sit down quietly; and tell me what it is. And remember; we are friends, and need not fear that either of us will be anything but patient and kind to the other, whatever we may have to say. Marchbanks Twisting himself round on him. Oh, I am not forgetting myself: I am only covering his face desperately with his hands full of horror. Then, dropping his hands, and thrusting his face forward fiercely at Morell, he goes on threateningly. You shall see whether this is a time for patience and kindness. Morell, firm as a rock, looks indulgently at him. Don’t look at me in that self-complacent way. You think yourself stronger than I am; but I shall stagger you if you have a heart in your breast. Morell Powerfully confident. Stagger me, my boy. Out with it. Marchbanks First⁠— Morell First? Marchbanks I love your wife. Morell recoils, and, after staring at him for a moment in utter amazement, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Eugene is taken aback, but not disconcerted; and he soon becomes indignant and contemptuous. Morell Sitting down to have his laugh out. Why, my dear child, of course you do. Everybody loves her: they can’t help it. I like it. But looking up whimsically at him I say, Eugene: do you think yours is a case to be talked about? You’re under twenty: she’s over thirty. Doesn’t it look