You Can Never Tell

father, sir. Crampton What! Waiter Only his joke, sir, his favourite joke. Yesterday, I was to be his father. Today, as soon as he knew you were coming, sir, he tried to put it up on me that you were his father, his long lost father⁠—not seen you for eighteen years, he said. Crampton Startled. Eighteen years! Waiter Yes, sir. With gentle archness. But I was up to his tricks, sir. I saw the idea coming into his head as he stood there, thinking what new joke he’d have with me. Yes, sir: that’s the sort he is: very pleasant, ve⁠—ry off hand and affable indeed, sir. Again changing his tempo to say to Valentine, who is putting his stick down against the corner of the garden seat. If you’ll allow me, sir? Taking Valentine’s stick. Thank you, sir. Valentine strolls up to the luncheon table and looks at the menu. The waiter turns to Crampton and resumes his lay. Even the solicitor took up the joke, although he was in a manner of speaking in my confidence about the young gentleman, sir. Yes, sir, I assure you, sir. You would never imagine what respectable professional gentlemen from London will do on an outing, when the sea air takes them, sir. Crampton Oh, there’s a solicitor with them, is there? Waiter The family solicitor, sir⁠—yes, sir. Name of McComas, sir. He goes towards hotel entrance with coat and stick, happily unconscious of the bomblike effect the name has produced on Crampton. Crampton Rising in angry alarm. McComas! Calls to Valentine. Valentine! Again, fiercely. Valentine!! Valentine turns. This is a plant, a conspiracy. This is my family⁠—my children⁠—my infernal wife. Valentine Coolly. On, indeed! Interesting meeting! He resumes his study of the menu. Crampton Meeting! Not for me. Let me out of this. Calling to the waiter. Give me that coat. Waiter Yes, sir. He comes back, puts Valentine’s stick carefully down against the luncheon table; and delicately shakes the coat out and holds it for Crampton to put on. I seem to have done the young gentleman an injustice, sir, haven’t I, sir. Crampton Rrrh! He stops on the point of putting his arms into the sleeves, and turns to Valentine with sudden suspicion. Valentine: you are in this. You made this plot. You⁠— Valentine Decisively. Bosh! He throws the menu down and goes round the table to look out unconcernedly over the parapet. Crampton Angrily. What d’ye⁠—McComas, followed by Philip and Dolly, comes out. He vacillates for a moment on seeing Crampton. Waiter Softly⁠—interrupting Crampton. Steady, sir. Here they come, sir. He takes up the stick and makes for the hotel, throwing the coat across his arm. McComas turns the corners of his mouth resolutely down and crosses to Crampton, who draws back and glares, with his hands behind him. McComas, with his brow opener than ever, confronts him in the majesty of a spotless conscience. Waiter Aside, as he passes Philip on his way out. I’ve broke it to him, sir. Philip Invaluable William! He passes on to the table. Dolly Aside to the waiter. How did he take it? Waiter Aside to her. Startled at first, miss; but resigned⁠—very resigned, indeed, miss. He takes the stick and coat into the hotel. McComas Having stared Crampton out of countenance. So here you are, Mr. Crampton. Crampton Yes, here⁠—caught in a trap⁠—a mean trap. Are those my children? Philip With deadly politeness. Is this our father, Mr. McComas? McComas Yes⁠—er⁠—He loses countenance himself and stops. Dolly Conventionally. Pleased to meet you again. She wanders idly round the table, exchanging a smile and a word of greeting with Valentine on the way. Philip Allow me to discharge my first duty as host by ordering your wine. He takes the wine list from the table. His polite attention, and Dolly’s unconcerned indifference, leave Crampton on the footing of the casual acquaintance picked up that morning at the dentist’s. The consciousness of it goes through the father with so keen a pang that he trembles all over; his brow becomes wet; and he stares dumbly at his son, who, just conscious enough of his own callousness to intensely enjoy the humor and adroitness of it, proceeds pleasantly. Finch: some crusted old port for you, as a respectable family solicitor, eh? McComas Firmly. Apollinaris only. I prefer to take nothing heating. He walks away to the side of the terrace, like a man putting temptation behind him. Philip Valentine⁠—? Valentine Would Lager be considered vulgar? Philip Probably. We’ll order some. Dolly takes it. Turning to Crampton with cheerful politeness. And now, Mr. Crampton, what can we do for you? Crampton What d’ye mean, boy? Philip Boy! Very solemnly. Whose fault is it that I am a boy? Crampton snatches the wine list rudely from him and irresolutely pretends to read it. Philip abandons it to him with perfect politeness. Dolly Looking over Crampton’s right shoulder. The whisky’s on the last page but one. Crampton Let me alone, child. Dolly Child! No, no: you may call me Dolly if you like; but you mustn’t call me child. She slips her arm through Philip’s; and the two stand looking at Crampton as if he were some eccentric stranger. Crampton Mopping his brow in rage and agony, and yet relieved even by their playing with him. McComas: we are⁠—ha!⁠—going to have a pleasant meal. McComas Pusillanimously. There is no reason why it should not be pleasant. He looks abjectly gloomy. Philip Finch’s face is a feast in itself. Mrs. Clandon and Gloria come from the hotel. Mrs. Clandon advances with courageous self-possession and marked dignity of manner. She stops at the foot of the steps to address Valentine, who is in her path.