Short Plays

Sunrise. Aurora, you know: the rosy fingered Aurora. They’re all about Aurora. When Mrs. Bompas told me her name was Aurora, I couldn’t resist the temptation to lend them to her to read. But I didn’t bargain for your unsympathetic eyes. Her Husband Grinning. Apjohn: that’s really very ready of you. You are cut out for literature; and the day will come when Rory and I will be proud to have you about the house. I have heard far thinner stories from much older men. He With an air of great surprise. Do you mean to imply that you don’t believe me? Her Husband Do you expect me to believe you? He Why not? I don’t understand. Her Husband Come! Don’t underrate your own cleverness, Apjohn. I think you understand pretty well. He I assure you I am quite at a loss. Can you not be a little more explicit? Her Husband Don’t overdo it, old chap. However, I will just be so far explicit as to say that if you think these poems read as if they were addressed, not to a live woman, but to a shivering cold time of day at which you were never out of bed in your life, you hardly do justice to your own literary powers⁠—which I admire and appreciate, mind you, as much as any man. Come! own up. You wrote those poems to my wife. An internal struggle prevents Henry from answering. Of course you did. He throws the poems on the table; and goes to the hearthrug, where he plants himself solidly, chuckling a little and waiting for the next move. He Formally and carefully. Mr. Bompas: I pledge you my word you are mistaken. I need not tell you that Mrs. Bompas is a lady of stainless honor, who has never cast an unworthy thought on me. The fact that she has shown you my poems⁠— Her Husband That’s not a fact. I came by them without her knowledge. She didn’t show them to me. He Does not that prove their perfect innocence? She would have shown them to you at once if she had taken your quite unfounded view of them. Her Husband Shaken. Apjohn: play fair. Don’t abuse your intellectual gifts. Do you really mean that I am making a fool of myself? He Earnestly. Believe me, you are. I assure you, on my honor as a gentleman, that I have never had the slightest feeling for Mrs. Bompas beyond the ordinary esteem and regard of a pleasant acquaintance. Her Husband Shortly, showing ill humor for the first time. Oh, indeed. He leaves his hearth and begins to approach Henry slowly, looking him up and down with growing resentment. He Hastening to improve the impression made by his mendacity. I should never have dreamt of writing poems to her. The thing is absurd. Her Husband Reddening ominously. Why is it absurd? He Shrugging his shoulders. Well, it happens that I do not admire Mrs. Bompas⁠—in that way. Her Husband Breaking out in Henry’s face. Let me tell you that Mrs. Bompas has been admired by better men than you, you soapy headed little puppy, you. He Much taken aback. There is no need to insult me like this. I assure you, on my honor as a⁠— Her Husband Too angry to tolerate a reply, and boring Henry more and more towards the piano. You don’t admire Mrs. Bompas! You would never dream of writing poems to Mrs. Bompas! My wife’s not good enough for you, isn’t she. Fiercely. Who are you, pray, that you should be so jolly superior? He Mr. Bompas: I can make allowances for your jealousy⁠— Her Husband Jealousy! do you suppose I’m jealous of you? No, nor of ten like you. But if you think I’ll stand here and let you insult my wife in her own house, you’re mistaken. He Very uncomfortable with his back against the piano and Teddy standing over him threateningly. How can I convince you? Be reasonable. I tell you my relations with Mrs. Bompas are relations of perfect coldness⁠—of indifference⁠— Her Husband Scornfully. Say it again: say it again. You’re proud of it, aren’t you? Yah! You’re not worth kicking. Henry suddenly executes the feat known to pugilists as dipping, and changes sides with Teddy, who is now between Henry and the piano. He Look here: I’m not going to stand this. Her Husband Oh, you have some blood in your body after all! Good job! He This is ridiculous. I assure you Mrs. Bompas is quite⁠— Her Husband What is Mrs. Bompas to you, I’d like to know. I’ll tell you what Mrs. Bompas is. She’s the smartest woman in the smartest set in South Kensington, and the handsomest, and the cleverest, and the most fetching to experienced men who know a good thing when they see it, whatever she may be to conceited penny-a-lining puppies who think nothing good enough for them. It’s admitted by the best people; and not to know it argues yourself unknown. Three of our first actor-managers have offered her a hundred a week if she’d go on the stage when they start a repertory theatre; and I think they know what they’re about as well as you. The only member of the present Cabinet that you might call a handsome man has neglected the business of the country to dance with her, though he don’t belong to our set as a regular thing. One of the first professional poets in Bedford Park wrote a sonnet to her, worth all your amateur trash. At Ascot last season the eldest son of a duke excused himself from calling on me on the ground that his feelings for Mrs. Bompas were not consistent with his duty to me as host; and it did him honor and me too. But with gathering fury she isn’t good enough for you, it seems. You regard her with coldness, with indifference; and you have the cool cheek to tell me so to