Short Plays

of the sort: I see that it’s not worth it: I know that it’s wrong: I have never in my life been cooler, more businesslike. Mrs. Juno Opening her arms to him. But you can’t resist me. Gregory I must. I ought Throwing himself into her arms. Oh, my darling, my treasure, we shall be sorry for this. Mrs. Juno We can forgive ourselves. Could we forgive ourselves if we let this moment slip? Gregory I protest to the last. I’m against this. I have been pushed over a precipice. I’m innocent. This wild joy, this exquisite tenderness, this ascent into heaven can thrill me to the uttermost fibre of my heart with a gesture of ecstasy she hides her face on his shoulder; but it can’t subdue my mind or corrupt my conscience, which still shouts to the skies that I’m not a willing party to this outrageous conduct. I repudiate the bliss with which you are filling me. Mrs. Juno Never mind your conscience. Tell me how happy you are. Gregory No, I recall you to your duty. But oh, I will give you my life with both hands if you can tell me that you feel for me one millionth part of what I feel for you now. Mrs. Juno Oh, yes, yes. Be satisfied with that. Ask for no more. Let me go. Gregory I can’t. I have no will. Something stronger than either of us is in command here. Nothing on earth or in heaven can part us now. You know that, don’t you? Mrs. Juno Oh, don’t make me say it. Of course I know. Nothing⁠—not life nor death nor shame nor anything can part us. A Matter-of-Fact Male Voice in the Corridor All right. This must be it. The two recover with a violent start; release one another; and spring back to opposite sides of the lounge. Gregory That did it. Mrs. Juno In a thrilling whisper. Sh‑sh‑sh! That was my husband’s voice. Gregory Impossible: it’s only our guilty fancy. A Woman’s Voice This is the way to the lounge. I know it. Gregory Great Heaven! we’re both mad. That’s my wife’s voice. Mrs. Juno Ridiculous! Oh! we’re dreaming it all. We⁠—The door opens; and Sibthorpe Juno appears in the roseate glow of the corridor (which happens to be papered in pink) with Mrs. Lunn, like Tannhäuser in the hill of Venus. He is a fussily energetic little man, who gives himself an air of gallantry by greasing the points of his moustaches and dressing very carefully. She is a tall, imposing, handsome, languid woman, with flashing dark eyes and long lashes. They make for the chesterfield, not noticing the two palpitating figures blotted against the walls in the gloom on either side. The figures flit away noiselessly through the window and disappear. Juno Officiously. Ah: here we are. He leads the way to the sofa. Sit down: I’m sure you’re tired. She sits. That’s right. He sits beside her on her left. Hullo! He rises this sofa’s quite warm. Mrs. Lunn Bored. Is it? I don’t notice it. I expect the sun’s been on it. Juno I felt it quite distinctly: I’m more thinly clad than you. He sits down again, and proceeds, with a sigh of satisfaction. What a relief to get off the ship and have a private room! That’s the worst of a ship. You’re under observation all the time. Mrs. Lunn But why not? Juno Well, of course there’s no reason: at least I suppose not. But, you know, part of the romance of a journey is that a man keeps imagining that something might happen; and he can’t do that if there are a lot of people about and it simply can’t happen. Mrs. Lunn Mr. Juno: romance is all very well on board ship; but when your foot touches the soil of England there’s an end of it. Juno No: believe me, that’s a foreigner’s mistake: we are the most romantic people in the world, we English. Why, my very presence here is a romance. Mrs. Lunn Faintly ironical. Indeed? Juno Yes. You’ve guessed, of course, that I’m a married man. Mrs. Lunn Oh, that’s all right. I’m a married woman. Juno Thank Heaven for that! To my English mind, passion is not real passion without guilt. I am a red-blooded man, Mrs. Lunn: I can’t help it. The tragedy of my life is that I married, when quite young, a woman whom I couldn’t help being very fond of. I longed for a guilty passion⁠—for the real thing⁠—the wicked thing; and yet I couldn’t care twopence for any other woman when my wife was about. Year after year went by: I felt my youth slipping away without ever having had a romance in my life; for marriage is all very well; but it isn’t romance. There’s nothing wrong in it, you see. Mrs. Lunn Poor man! How you must have suffered! Juno No: that was what was so tame about it. I wanted to suffer. You get so sick of being happily married. It’s always the happy marriages that break up. At last my wife and I agreed that we ought to take a holiday. Mrs. Lunn Hadn’t you holidays every year? Juno Oh, the seaside and so on! That’s not what we meant. We meant a holiday from one another. Mrs. Lunn How very odd! Juno She said it was an excellent idea; that domestic felicity was making us perfectly idiotic; that she wanted a holiday, too. So we agreed to go round the world in opposite directions. I started for Suez on the day she sailed for New York. Mrs. Lunn Suddenly becoming attentive. That’s precisely what Gregory and I did. Now I wonder did he want a holiday from me! What he said was that he wanted the delight of meeting me after a long absence. Juno Could anything be more romantic than that? Would anyone else than an Englishman have thought of it? I daresay my temperament seems tame to your boiling southern blood⁠— Mrs. Lunn My what! Juno Your southern blood.