Short Plays

in saying No in that frozen pigheaded way. You must know some Aurora or other somewhere. He You said you were the only Aurora in the world. And lifting his clasped fists with a sudden return of his emotion oh God! you were the only Aurora in the world to me. He turns away from her, hiding his face. She Petting him. Yes, yes, dear: of course. It’s very nice of you; and I appreciate it: indeed I do; but it’s not reasonable just at present. Now just listen to me. I suppose you know all those poems by heart. He Yes, by heart. Raising his head and looking at her, with a sudden suspicion. Don’t you? She Well, I never can remember verses; and besides, I’ve been so busy that I’ve not had time to read them all; though I intend to the very first moment I can get: I promise you that most faithfully, Henry. But now try and remember very particularly. Does the name of Bompas occur in any of the poems? He Indignantly. No. She You’re quite sure? He Of course I am quite sure. How could I use such a name in a poem? She Well, I don’t see why not. It rhymes to rumpus, which seems appropriate enough at present, goodness knows! However, you’re a poet, and you ought to know. He What does it matter⁠—now? She It matters a lot, I can tell you. If there’s nothing about Bompas in the poems, we can say that they were written to some other Aurora, and that you showed them to me because my name was Aurora too. So you’ve got to invent another Aurora for the occasion. He Very coldly. Oh, if you wish me to tell a lie⁠— She Surely, as a man of honor⁠—as a gentleman, you wouldn’t tell the truth, would you? He Very well. You have broken my spirit and desecrated my dreams. I will lie and protest and stand on my honor: oh, I will play the gentleman, never fear. She Yes, put it all on me, of course. Don’t be mean, Henry. He Rousing himself with an effort. You are quite right, Mrs. Bompas: I beg your pardon. You must excuse my temper. I have got growing pains, I think. She Growing pains! He The process of growing from romantic boyhood into cynical maturity usually takes fifteen years. When it is compressed into fifteen minutes, the pace is too fast; and growing pains are the result. She Oh, is this a time for cleverness? It’s settled, isn’t it, that you’re going to be nice and good, and that you’ll brazen it out to Teddy that you have some other Aurora? He Yes: I’m capable of anything now. I should not have told him the truth by halves; and now I will not lie by halves. I’ll wallow in the honor of a gentleman. She Dearest boy, I knew you would. I⁠—Sh! She rushes to the door, and holds it ajar, listening breathlessly. He What is it? She White with apprehension. It’s Teddy: I hear him tapping the new barometer. He can’t have anything serious on his mind or he wouldn’t do that. Perhaps Georgina hasn’t said anything. She steals back to the hearth. Try and look as if there was nothing the matter. Give me my gloves, quick. He hands them to her. She pulls on one hastily and begins buttoning it with ostentatious unconcern. Go further away from me, quick. He walks doggedly away from her until the piano prevents his going farther. If I button my glove, and you were to hum a tune, don’t you think that⁠— He The tableau would be complete in its guiltiness. For Heaven’s sake, Mrs. Bompas, let that glove alone: you look like a pickpocket. Her Husband comes in: a robust, thicknecked, well groomed city man, with a strong chin but a blithering eye and credulous mouth. He has a momentous air, but shows no sign of displeasure: rather the contrary. Her Husband Hallo! I thought you two were at the theatre. She I felt anxious about you, Teddy. Why didn’t you come home to dinner? Her Husband I got a message from Georgina. She wanted me to go to her. She Poor dear Georgina! I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call on her this last week. I hope there’s nothing the matter with her. Her Husband Nothing, except anxiety for my welfare and yours. She steals a terrified look at Henry. By, the way, Apjohn, I should like a word with you this evening, if Aurora can spare you for a moment. He Formally. I am at your service. Her Husband No hurry. After the theatre will do. He We have decided not to go. Her Husband Indeed! Well, then, shall we adjourn to my snuggery? She You needn’t move. I shall go and lock up my diamonds since I’m not going to the theatre. Give me my things. Her Husband As he hands her the cloud and the mirror. Well, we shall have more room here. He Looking about him and shaking his shoulders loose. I think I should prefer plenty of room. Her Husband So, if it’s not disturbing you, Rory⁠—? She Not at all. She goes out. When the two men are alone together, Bompas deliberately takes the poems from his breast pocket; looks at them reflectively; then looks at Henry, mutely inviting his attention. Henry refuses to understand, doing his best to look unconcerned. Her Husband Do these manuscripts seem at all familiar to you, may I ask? He Manuscripts? Her Husband Yes. Would you like to look at them a little closer? He proffers them under Henry’s nose. He As with a sudden illumination of glad surprise. Why, these are my poems. Her Husband So I gather. He What a shame! Mrs. Bompas has shown them to you! You must think me an utter ass. I wrote them years ago after reading Swinburne’s Songs Before Sunrise. Nothing would do me then but I must reel off a set of Songs to the