You Never Can Tell

the domino and throwing the bundle on the table like a champion throwing down his glove. He is now seen to be a stout, tall man between forty and fifty, clean shaven, with a midnight oil pallor emphasized by stiff black hair, cropped short and oiled, and eyebrows like early Victorian horsehair upholstery. Physically and spiritually, a coarsened man: in cunning and logic, a ruthlessly sharpened one. His bearing as he enters is sufficiently imposing and disquieting; but when he speaks, his powerful, menacing voice, impressively articulated speech, strong inexorable manner, and a terrifying power of intensely critical listening raise the impression produced by him to absolute tremendousness. The Stranger My name is Bohun. General awe. Have I the honor of addressing Mrs. Clandon? Mrs. Clandon bows. Bohun bows. Miss Clandon? Gloria bows. Bohun bows. Mr. Clandon? Crampton Insisting on his rightful name as angrily as he dares. My name is Crampton, sir. Bohun Oh, indeed. Passing him over without further notice and turning to Valentine. Are you Mr. Clandon? Valentine Making it a point of honor not to be impressed by him. Do I look like it? My name is Valentine. I did the drugging. Bohun Ah, quite so. Then Mr. Clandon has not yet arrived? Waiter Entering anxiously through the window. Beg pardon, ma’am; but can you tell me what became of that⁠—He recognizes Bohun, and loses all his self-possession. Bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself together. After a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself sufficiently to address Bohun weakly but coherently. Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure, sir. Was⁠—was it you, sir? Bohun Ruthlessly. It was I. Waiter Brokenly. Yes, sir. Unable to restrain his tears. You in a false nose, Walter! He sinks faintly into a chair at the table. I beg pardon, ma’am, I’m sure. A little giddiness⁠— Bohun Commandingly. You will excuse him, Mrs. Clandon, when I inform you that he is my father. Waiter Heartbroken. Oh, no, no, Walter. A waiter for your father on the top of a false nose! What will they think of you? Mrs. Clandon Going to the waiter’s chair in her kindest manner. I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Bohun. Your father has been an excellent friend to us since we came here. Bohun bows gravely. Waiter Shaking his head. Oh, no, ma’am. It’s very kind of you⁠—very ladylike and affable indeed, ma’am; but I should feel at a great disadvantage off my own proper footing. Never mind my being the gentleman’s father, ma’am: it is only the accident of birth after all, ma’am. He gets up feebly. You’ll all excuse me, I’m sure, having interrupted your business. He begins to make his way along the table, supporting himself from chair to chair, with his eye on the door. Bohun One moment. The waiter stops, with a sinking heart. My father was a witness of what passed today, was he not, Mrs. Clandon? Mrs. Clandon Yes, most of it, I think. Bohun In that case we shall want him. Waiter Pleading. I hope it may not be necessary, sir. Busy evening for me, sir, with that ball: very busy evening indeed, sir. Bohun Inexorably. We shall want you. Mrs. Clandon Politely. Sit down, won’t you? Waiter Earnestly. Oh, if you please, ma’am, I really must draw the line at sitting down. I couldn’t let myself be seen doing such a thing, ma’am: thank you, I am sure, all the same. He looks round from face to face wretchedly, with an expression that would melt a heart of stone. Gloria Don’t let us waste time. William only wants to go on taking care of us. I should like a cup of coffee. Waiter Brightening perceptibly. Coffee, miss? He gives a little gasp of hope. Certainly, miss. Thank you, miss: very timely, miss, very thoughtful and considerate indeed. To Mrs. Clandon, timidly but expectantly. Anything for you, ma’am? Mrs. Clandon Er⁠—oh, yes: it’s so hot, I think we might have a jug of claret cup. Waiter Beaming. Claret cup, ma’am! Certainly, ma’am. Gloria Oh, well I’ll have a claret cup instead of coffee. Put some cucumber in it. Waiter Delighted. Cucumber, miss! yes, miss. To Bohun. Anything special for you, sir? You don’t like cucumber, sir. Bohun If Mrs. Clandon will allow me⁠—syphon⁠—Scotch. Waiter Right, sir. To Crampton. Irish for you, sir, I think, sir? Crampton assents with a grunt. The waiter looks enquiringly at Valentine. Valentine I like the cucumber. Waiter Right, sir. Summing up. Claret cup, syphon, one Scotch and one Irish? Mrs. Clandon I think that’s right. Waiter Perfectly happy. Right, ma’am. Directly, ma’am. Thank you. He ambles off through the window, having sounded the whole gamut of human happiness, from the bottom to the top, in a little over two minutes. McComas We can begin now, I suppose? Bohun We had better wait until Mrs. Clandon’s husband arrives. Crampton What d’y’ mean? I’m her husband. Bohun Instantly pouncing on the inconsistency between this and his previous statement. You said just now your name was Crampton. Crampton So it is. All four speaking simultaneously. Mrs. Clandon I⁠— Gloria My⁠— McComas Mrs.⁠— Valentine You⁠— Bohun Drowning them in two thunderous words. One moment. Dead silence. Pray allow me. Sit down everybody. They obey humbly. Gloria takes the saddlebag chair on the hearth. Valentine slips around to her side of the room and sits on the ottoman facing the window, so that he can look at her. Crampton sits on the ottoman with his back to Valentine’s. Mrs. Clandon, who has all along kept at the opposite side of the room in order to avoid Crampton as much as possible, sits near the door, with McComas beside her on her left. Bohun places himself magisterially in the centre of the group, near the corner of the