to HECTOR again.] Why, Walter simply loathes the poor girl! That's what made it so funny! [At the mere thought of it she bursts out laughing again, and goes on speaking through her laughter.] And I tell you—if you ever hear he's engaged to her—why, you can believe the rest of the story too!

HECTOR. [Laughing heartily as he pats WALTER on the shoulder.] Poor old Walter! And, d'you know, I was quite pleased at the thought of his getting married! I was! [He turns to him.] But it's better, old chap, for us—we'd have missed you—terribly! [With another pat on WALTER'S shoulder, he goes to the fire, and drops in the letter.] Mustn't leave that lying about! [He turns.] Well, by Jove, if any one had told me…. And drinking to him, and all!

BETTY. If you'll fetch me that glass of Hock now, I will drink to him,
Hector. To Walter, the Bachelor!

HECTOR. [Beaming.] So we will! Good. I'll get it.

[He bustles into the dining-room.

BETTY. [Moving swiftly to WALTER.] Well, now's your time. One thing or the other.

WALTER. [Savagely.] You fiend!

BETTY. I'll go and see her to-morrow—see her constantly—

WALTER. Why are you doing this?

BETTY. You've ruined my life and his. At least, you shan't be happy.

WALTER. And you imagine I'll come back to you—that we'll go on, you and
I?

BETTY. [Scornfully.] No—don't be afraid! You've shown yourself to me to-day. That's all done with—finished. His friend now—with the load off you—but never her husband. Never!

[HECTOR comes bustling back, with the bottle of Hock, and a wine-glass that he gives to BETTY—she holds it, and he fills it from the bottle.

HECTOR. Here you are, my girl—and now, where's my whiskey? [He trots round to the side table, finds his glass, and WALTER'S—hands one to WALTER.] Here, Wallie—yours must be the one that's begun—I didn't have time to touch mine! Here. [WALTER takes it.] And forgive me, old man, for thinking, even one minute—[He wrings him by the hand.] Here's to you, old friend. And Betty, to you! Oh, Lord, I just want this drink!

BETTY. [In cold, clear tones, as she holds up her glass.] To Walter, the
Bachelor!

[She drains her glass; WALTER has his moment's hesitation; he drinks, and with tremendous effort succeeds in composing his face.

HECTOR. [Gaily.] To Walter, the Bachelor! [He drinks his glass to the dregs and puts it down.] And now—for a game.

WALTER. I think I—

HECTOR. [Coaxingly.] Sit down, laddie—just one rubber. It's quite early. Do. There's a good chap. [They all sit: HECTOR at back, BETTY to the left of him, WALTER to the right—he spreads out the cards—they draw for partners.] As we are—you and Betty—I've got the dummy. [He shuffles the cards—BETTY cuts—he begins to deal.] That's how I like it—one on each side of me. Also I like having dummy. Now, Betty, play up. Oh, Lord, how good it is, how good! A nightmare, I tell you—terrible! And really you must forgive me for being such an ass. But the way you played up, both of you! My little Betty—a Duse, that's what she is—a real Duse! [He gathers up his cards.] And the gods are kind to me—I've got a hand, I tell you! I call NO TRUMPS!

[He beams at them—they are placidly sorting their cards. He puts his hand down and proceeds to look at his dummy, as the curtain falls.

CURTAIN

A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED….

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

MR. HARRISON CROCKSTEAD LADY ALINE DE VAUX

Produced at the Garrick Theatre on March 27, 1904

A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED….

SCENE The conservatory of No. 300 Grosvenor Square. Hour, close on midnight. A ball is in progress, and dreamy waltz music is heard in the distance.

     LADY ALINE DE VAUX enters, leaning on the arm of MR. HARRISON
     CROCKSTEAD.

LADY ALINE is a tall, exquisitely-gowned girl, of the conventional and much-admired type of beauty. Put her in any drawing-room in the world, and she would at once be recognised as a highborn Englishwoman. She has in her, in embryo, all those excellent qualities that go to make a great lady: the icy stare, the haughty movement of the shoulder, the disdainful arch of the lip; she has also, but only an experienced observer would notice it, something of wistfulness, something that speaks of a sore and wounded heart—though it is sufficiently evident that this organ is kept under admirable control. A girl who has been placed in a position of life where artificiality rules, who has been taught to be artificial and has thoroughly learned her lesson; yet one who would unhesitatingly know the proper thing to do did a camel bolt with her in the desert, or an eastern potentate invite her to become his two hundred and fifty-seventh wife. In a word, a lady of complete self-possession and magnificent control. MR. CROCKSTEAD is a big, burly man of forty or so, and of the kind to whom the ordinary West End butler would consider himself perfectly justified in declaring that her ladyship was not at home. And yet his evening clothes sit well on him; and there is a certain air of command about the man that would have made the butler uncomfortable. That functionary would have excused himself by declaring that MR. CROCKSTEAD didn't look a gentleman. And perhaps he doesn't. His walk is rather a slouch; he has a way of keeping his hands in his pockets, and of jerking out his sentences; a way, above all, of seeming perfectly indifferent to the comfort of the people he happens to be addressing. The impression he gives is one of power, not of refinement; and the massive face, with its heavy lines, and eyes that are usually veiled, seems to give no clue whatever to the character of the man within.

The couple break apart when they enter the room; LADY ALINE is the least bit nervous, though she shows no trace of it; MR. CROCKSTEAD absolutely imperturbable and undisturbed.

CROCKSTEAD. [Looking around.] Ah—this is the place—very quiet, retired, romantic—et cetera. Music in the distance—all very appropriate and sentimental.

[She leaves him, and sits, quietly fanning herself; he stands, looking at her.] You seem perfectly calm, Lady Aline?

ALINE. [Sitting.] Conservatories are not unusual appendages to a ball-room, Mr. Crockstead; nor is this conservatory unlike other conservatories.

CROCKSTEAD [Turning to her.] I wonder why women are always so evasive?

ALINE. With your permission we will not discuss the sex. You and I are too old to be cynical, and too young to be appreciative. And