medicine man.

Doctor. [Grimly.] I am a medicine man.

Morris. And you don't look mythical, Doc.

Duke. Well, you know, the artistic temperament....

Morris. [Turning suddenly.] See here, Duke! In most commercial ways we're a pretty forward country. In these moral ways we're content to be a pretty backward country. And if you ask me whether I like my sister walking about the woods on a night like this! Well, I don't.

Duke. I am afraid you Americans aren't so advanced as I'd hoped. Why! as old Buffle used to say....

Smith. Whose voice is that?

Doctor. It is no business of mine to decide!

Morris. [Walking to the window.] You need not trouble. I know who it is.

Enter Patricia Carleon

[Still agitated.] Patricia, where have you been?

Patricia. [Rather wearily.] Oh! in Fairyland.

Doctor. [Genially.] And whereabouts is that?

Patricia. It's rather different from other places. It's either nowhere or it's wherever you are.

Morris. [Sharply.] Has it any inhabitants?

Patricia. Generally only two. Oneself and one's shadow. But whether he is my shadow or I am his shadow is never found out.

Morris. He? Who?

Patricia. [Seeming to understand his annoyance for the first time, and smiling.] Oh, you needn't get conventional about it, Morris. He is not a mortal.

Morris. What's his name?

Patricia. We have no names there. You never really know anybody if you know his name.

Morris. What does he look like?

Patricia. I have only met him in the twilight. He seems robed in a long cloak, with a peaked cap or hood like the elves in my nursery stories. Sometimes when I look out of the window here, I see him passing round this house like a shadow; and see his pointed hood, dark against the sunset or the rising of the moon.

Smith. What does he talk about?

Patricia. He tells me the truth. Very many true things. He is a wizard.

Morris. How do you know he's a wizard? I suppose he plays some tricks on you.

Patricia. I should know he was a wizard if he played no tricks. But once he stooped and picked up a stone and cast it into the air, and it flew up into God's heaven like a bird.

Morris. Was that what first made you think he was a wizard?

Patricia. Oh, no. When I first saw him he was tracing circles and pentacles in the grass and talking the language of the elves.

Morris. [Sceptically.] Do you know the language of the elves?

Patricia. Not until I heard it.

Morris. [Lowering his voice as if for his sister, but losing patience so completely that he talks much louder than he imagines.] See here, Patricia, I reckon this kind of thing is going to be the limit. I'm just not going to have you let in by some blamed tramp or fortune-teller because you choose to read minor poetry about the fairies. If this gipsy or whatever he is troubles you again....

Doctor. [Putting his hand on Morris's shoulder.] Come, you must allow a little more for poetry. We can't all feed on nothing but petrol.

Duke. Quite right, quite right. And being Irish, don't you know, Celtic, as old Buffle used to say, charming songs, you know, about the Irish girl who has a plaid shawl—and a Banshee. [Sighs profoundly.] Poor old Gladstone!

Smith. [Speaking to Doctor.] I thought you yourself considered the family superstition bad for the health?

Doctor. I consider a family superstition is better for the health than a family quarrel. [He walks casually across to Patricia.] Well, it must be nice to be young and still see all those stars and sunsets. We old buffers won't be too strict with you if your view of things sometimes gets a bit—mixed up, shall we say? If the stars get loose about the grass by mistake; or if, once or twice, the sunset gets into the east. We should only say, "Dream as much as you like. Dream for all mankind. Dream for us who can dream no longer. But do not quite forget the difference."

Patricia. What difference?

Doctor. The difference between the things that are beautiful and the things that are there. That red lamp over my door isn't beautiful; but it's there. You might even come to be glad it is there, when the stars of gold and silver have faded. I am an old man now, but some men are still glad to find my red star. I do not say they are the wise men.

Patricia. [Somewhat affected.] Yes, I know you are good to everybody. But don't you think there may be floating and spiritual stars which will last longer than the red lamps?

Smith. [With decision.] Yes. But they are fixed stars.

Doctor. The red lamp will last my time.

Duke. Capital! Capital! Why, it's like Tennyson. [Silence.] I remember when I was an undergrad....

Morris. What's the matter?

Patricia. The red star is gone.

Morris. Nonsense! [Rushes to the garden doors.] It's only somebody standing in front of it. Say, Duke, there's somebody standing in the garden.

Patricia. [Calmly.] I told you he walked about the garden.

Morris. If it's that fortune-teller of yours....

Duke. [Staring.] Somebody in the garden! Really, this Land Campaign....

Morris. A spry fellow, your friend. He slipped through my hands like a shadow.

Patricia. I told you he was a shadow.

Morris. Well, I guess there's going to be a shadow hunt. Got a lantern, Duke?

Patricia. Oh, you need not trouble. He will come if I call him.