class="center">Drummle.

Yes, if you choose to call it living. Miss Tanqueray—a young woman of nineteen now—is in the Loretto convent at Armagh. She professes to have found her true vocation in a religious life, and within a month or two will take final vows.

Misquith.

He ought to have removed his daughter from the convent when the mother died.

Drummle.

Yes, yes, but absolutely at the end there was reconciliation between husband and wife, and she won his promise that the child should complete her conventual education. He reaped his reward. When he attempted to gain his girl's confidence and affection he was too late; he found he was dealing with the spirit of the mother. You remember his visit to Ireland last month?

Jayne.

Yes.

Drummle.

That was to wish his girl good-bye.

Misquith.

Poor fellow?

Drummle.

He sent for me when he came back. I think he must have had a lingering hope that the girl would relent—would come to life, as it were—at the last moment, for, for an hour or so, in this room, he was terribly shaken. I'm sure he'd clung to that hope from the persistent way in which he kept breaking off in his talk to repeat one dismal word, as if he couldn't realise his position without dinning this damned word into his head.

Jayne.

What word was that?

Drummle.

Alone—alone.

Aubrey enters.

Aubrey.

A thousand apologies!

Drummle.

[Gaily.] We are talking about you, my dear Aubrey.

[During the telling of the story, Misquith has risen and gone to the fire, and Drummle has thrown himself full-length on the sofa. Aubrey now joins Misquith and Jayne.

Aubrey.

Well, Cayley, are you surprised?

Drummle.

Surp——! I haven't been surprised for twenty years.

Aubrey.

And you're not angry with me?

Drummle.

Angry! [Rising.] Because you considerately withhold the name of a lady with whom it is now the object of my life to become acquainted? My dear fellow, you pique my curiosity, you give zest to my existence! And as for a wedding, who on earth wants to attend that familiar and probably draughty function? Ugh! My cigar's out.

Aubrey.

Let's talk about something else.

Misquith.

[Looking at his watch.] Not to-night, Aubrey.

Aubrey.

My dear Frank!

Misquith.

I go up to Scotland to-morrow, and there are some little matters——

Jayne.

I am off too.

Aubrey.

No, no.

Jayne.

I must: I have to give a look to a case in Clifford Street on my way home.

Aubrey.

[Going to the door.] Well! [Misquith and Jayne exchange looks with Drummle. Opening the door and calling.] Morse, hats and coats! I shall write to you all next week from Genoa or Florence. Now, doctor, Frank, remember, my love to Mrs. Misquith and to Mrs. Jayne!

Morse enters with hats and coats.

Misquith and Jayne.

Yes, yes—yes, yes.

Aubrey.

And your young people!

[As Misquith and Jayne put on their coats there is the clatter of careless talk.

Jayne.

Cayley, I meet you at dinner on Sunday.

Drummle.

At the Stratfields'. That's very pleasant.

Misquith.

[Putting on his coat with Aubrey's aid.] Ah-h!

Aubrey.

What's wrong?

Misquith.

A twinge. Why didn't I go to Aix in August?

Jayne.

[Shaking hands with Drummle.] Good-night, Cayley.

Drummle.

Good-night, my dear doctor!

Misquith.

[Shaking hands with Drummle.] Cayley, are you in town for long?

Drummle.

Dear friend, I'm nowhere for long. Good-night.

Misquith.

Good-night.

[Aubrey, Jayne, and Misquith go out, followed by Morse; the hum of talk is continued outside.

Aubrey.

A cigar, Frank?

Misquith.

No, thank you.

Aubrey.

Going to walk, doctor?

Jayne.

If Frank will.

Misquith.

By all means.

Aubrey.

It's a cold night.

[The door is closed. Drummle remains standing with his coat on his arm and his hat in his hand.

Drummle.

[To himself, thoughtfully.] Now then! What the devil——!

[Aubrey returns.

Aubrey.

[Eyeing Drummle a little awkwardly.] Well, Cayley?

Drummle.

Well, Aubrey?

[Aubrey walks up to the fire and stands looking into it.

Aubrey.

You're not going, old chap?

Drummle.

[Sitting.] No.

Aubrey.

[After a slight pause, with a forced laugh.] Hah! Cayley, I never thought I should feel—shy—with you.