class="center">Drummle.

My dear Aubrey, I assure you I consider Mrs.—Miss Jarman—Mrs. Ray—Miss Ray—delightful. But I confess there is a form of chivalry which I gravely distrust, especially in a man of—our age.

Aubrey.

Thanks. I've heard you say that from forty till fifty a man is at heart either a stoic or a satyr.

Drummle.

[Protestingly.] Ah! now——

Aubrey.

I am neither. I have a temperate, honourable affection for Mrs. Jarman. She has never met a man who has treated her well—I intend to treat her well. That's all. And in a few years, Cayley, if you've not quite forsaken me, I'll prove to you that it's possible to rear a life of happiness, of good repute, on a—miserable foundation.

Drummle.

[Offering his hand.] Do prove it!

Aubrey.

[Taking his hand.] We have spoken too freely of—of Mrs. Jarman. I was excited—angry. Please forget it!

Drummle.

My dear Aubrey, when we next meet I shall remember nothing but my respect for the lady who bears your name.

Morse enters, closing the door behind him carefully.

Aubrey.

What is it?

Morse.

[Hesitatingly.] May I speak to you, Sir? [In an undertone.] Mrs. Jarman, sir.

Aubrey.

[Softly to Morse.] Mrs. Jarman! Do you mean she is at the lodge in her carriage?

Morse.

No, sir—here. [Aubrey looks towards Drummle, perplexed.] There's a nice fire in your—in that room, sir. [Glancing in the direction of the door leading to the bedroom.]

Aubrey.

[Between his teeth, angrily.] Very well.

[Morse retires.

Drummle.

[Looking at his watch.] A quarter to eleven—horrible! [Taking up his hat and coat.] Must get to bed—up late every night this week. [Aubrey assists Drummle with his coat.] Thank you. Well, good-night, Aubrey. I feel I've been dooced serious, quite out of keeping with myself; pray overlook it.

Aubrey.

[Kindly.] Ah, Cayley!

Drummle.

[Putting on a neck-handkerchief.] And remember that, after all, I'm merely a spectator in life; nothing more than a man at a play, in fact; only, like the old-fashioned playgoer, I love to see certain characters happy and comfortable at the finish. You understand?

Aubrey.

I think I do.

Drummle.

Then, for as long as you can, old friend, will you—keep a stall for me?

Aubrey.

Yes, Cayley.

Drummle.

[Gaily.] Ah, ha! Good-night! [Bustling to the door.] Don't bother! I'll let myself out! Good-night! God bless yer!

[He goes out; Aubrey follows him. Morse enters by the other door, carrying some unopened letters which after a little consideration he places on the mantelpiece against the clock. Aubrey returns.

Aubrey.

Yes?

Morse.

You hadn't seen your letters that came by the nine o'clock post, sir; I've put 'em where they'll catch your eye by-and-by.

Aubrey.

Thank you.

Morse.

[Hesitatingly.] Gunter's cook and waiter have gone, sir. Would you prefer me to go to bed?

Aubrey.

[Frowning.] Certainly not.

Morse.

Very well, sir.

[He goes out.

Aubrey.

[Opening the upper door] Paula! Paula!

Paula enters and throws her arms round his neck. She is a young woman of about twenty-seven: beautiful, fresh, innocent-looking. She is in superb evening dress.

Paula.

Dearest!

Aubrey.

Why have you come here?

Paula.

Angry?

Aubrey.

Yes—no. But it's eleven o'clock.

Paula.

[Laughing.] I know.

Aubrey.

What on earth will Morse think?

Paula.

Do you trouble yourself about what servants think?

Aubrey.

Of course.

Paula.

Goose! They're only machines made to wait upon people—and to give evidence in the Divorce Court. [Looking round.] Oh, indeed! A snug little dinner!

Aubrey.

Three men.

Paula.

[Suspiciously.] Men?

Aubrey.

Men.

Paula.

[Penitently.] Ah! [Sitting at the table.] I'm so hungry.

Aubrey.

Let me get you some game pie, or some——

Paula.

No, no, hungry for this. What beautiful fruit! I love fruit when it's expensive. [He clears a space on the table, places a plate before her, and helps her to fruit.] I haven't dined, Aubrey dear.