Misalliance

to the Congregationalist minister’s. He’s a nailer at arguing. He likes it. Bentley You can’t argue with a person when his livelihood depends on his not letting you convert him. And would you mind not calling me Bunny. My name is Bentley Summerhays, which you please. Johnny What’s the matter with Bunny? Bentley It puts me in a false position. Have you ever considered the fact that I was an afterthought? Johnny An afterthought? What do you mean by that? Bentley I⁠— Johnny No, stop: I don’t want to know. It’s only a dodge to start an argument. Bentley Don’t be afraid: it won’t overtax your brain. My father was 44 when I was born. My mother was 41. There was twelve years between me and the next eldest. I was unexpected. I was probably unintentional. My brothers and sisters are not the least like me. They’re the regular thing that you always get in the first batch from young parents: quite pleasant, ordinary, do-the-regular-thing sort: all body and no brains, like you. Johnny Thank you. Bentley Don’t mention it, old chap. Now I’m different. By the time I was born, the old couple knew something. So I came out all brains and no more body than is absolutely necessary. I am really a good deal older than you, though you were born ten years sooner. Everybody feels that when they hear us talk; consequently, though it’s quite natural to hear me calling you Johnny, it sounds ridiculous and unbecoming for you to call me Bunny. He rises. Johnny Does it, by George? You stop me doing it if you can: that’s all. Bentley If you go on doing it after I’ve asked you not, you’ll feel an awful swine. He strolls away carelessly to the sideboard with his eye on the sponge cakes. At least I should; but I suppose you’re not so particular. Johnny Rising vengefully and following Bentley, who is forced to turn and listen. I’ll tell you what it is, my boy: you want a good talking to; and I’m going to give it to you. If you think that because your father’s a K.C.B., and you want to marry my sister, you can make yourself as nasty as you please and say what you like, you’re mistaken. Let me tell you that except Hypatia, not one person in this house is in favor of her marrying you; and I don’t believe she’s happy about it herself. The match isn’t settled yet: don’t forget that. You’re on trial in the office because the Governor isn’t giving his daughter money for an idle man to live on her. You’re on trial here because my mother thinks a girl should know what a man is like in the house before she marries him. That’s been going on for two months now; and what’s the result? You’ve got yourself thoroughly disliked in the office; and you’re getting yourself thoroughly disliked here, all through your bad manners and your conceit, and the damned impudence you think clever. Bentley Deeply wounded and trying hard to control himself. That’s enough, thank you. You don’t suppose, I hope, that I should have come down if I had known that that was how you felt about me. He makes for the vestibule door. Johnny Collaring him. No: you don’t run away. I’m going to have this out with you. Sit down: d’y’ hear? Bentley attempts to go with dignity. Johnny slings him into a chair at the writing table, where he sits, bitterly humiliated, but afraid to speak lest he should burst into tears. That’s the advantage of having more body than brains, you see: it enables me to teach you manners; and I’m going to do it too. You’re a spoilt young pup; and you need a jolly good licking. And if you’re not careful you’ll get it: I’ll see to that next time you call me a swine. Bentley I didn’t call you a swine. But bursting into a fury of tears you are a swine: you’re a beast: you’re a brute: you’re a cad: you’re a liar: you’re a bully: I should like to wring your damned neck for you. Johnny With a derisive laugh. Try it, my son. Bentley gives an inarticulate sob of rage. Fighting isn’t in your line. You’re too small and you’re too childish. I always suspected that your cleverness wouldn’t come to very much when it was brought up against something solid: some decent chap’s fist, for instance. Bentley I hope your beastly fist may come up against a mad bull or a prizefighter’s nose, or something solider than me. I don’t care about your fist; but if everybody here dislikes me⁠—He is checked by a sob. Well, I don’t care. Trying to recover himself. I’m sorry I intruded: I didn’t know. Breaking down again. Oh you beast! you pig! Swine, swine, swine, swine, swine! Now! Johnny All right, my lad, all right. Sling your mud as hard as you please: it won’t stick to me. What I want to know is this. How is it that your father, who I suppose is the strongest man England has produced in our time⁠— Bentley You got that out of your halfpenny paper. A lot you know about him! Johnny I don’t set up to be able to do anything but admire him and appreciate him and be proud of him as an Englishman. If it wasn’t for my respect for him, I wouldn’t have stood your cheek for two days, let alone two months. But what I can’t understand is why he didn’t lick it out of you when you were a kid. For twenty-five years he kept a place twice as big as England in order: a place full of seditious coffee-colored heathens and pestilential white agitators in the middle of a lot of savage tribes. And yet he couldn’t keep you in order. I don’t set up to be half the man your father undoubtedly is;