Don’t let us talk about that cruel play.

Rose. Why was it cruel?

Lady C. What did it make you think of Madame de Saint Géran?

Rose. Well—I thought she was a very wicked woman. Wasn’t she?

Lady C. Perhaps. But if we had been told her history—if we had ever been in her position—we might have sympathised with her. Were you ever in love?

Rose. Yes! I mean no! I can’t exactly say.

Lady C. If you had been, you wouldn’t hesitate. There is no doubt about it. It is a weird thing. Sometimes it leads to heights, sometimes to depths. I do not say it is an excuse. All I say is, those who have never loved are not entitled to judge those who have. Wait till you are in love yourself, before you judge poor Madame de Saint Géran. And if you ever should be——

Rose. Oh, I shall be!

Lady C. Marry for love, my dear, or not at all.

Rose. What did you marry for?

Lady C. (stroking Rose’s hair) I didn’t marry; I was married. Don’t ask me any more.

Rose. Poor Aunt Bell! lie down, and let me play to you. (rises)

Lady C. Do, dear. I am too tired to talk. (she lies back on the lounge, Rose goes to the piano)

Rose. (sitting at piano) What shall I play you?

Lady C. Anything you please.

Rose plays on the piano—Lady Carlyon, with the firelight flickering about her, gradually falls asleep.

Music.

Rose. Aunt! (turning) Aunt! (rises and goes on tip-toe to the back of the lounge) She’s fast asleep. (covers Lady Carlyon with the cloaks, until the upper part of her figure is quite hidden, and then stands surveying her) How pretty she looks! but how pale! I like you, aunt! I never saw you till to-day, but I like you. (comes down) If I stop I shall wake her. (crosses to C.) I’ll lower the lamp and go. (lowers the lamp and crosses behind desk to R. at back) Good night, Aunt Bell! (bending over the further end of the lounge) Good night—(kisses her softly)—and pleasant dreams! (Exit, R.)

The room is now in darkness, except for the firelight, which throws a strong glow over Lady Carlyon, so that her slightest movement is quite visible to the audience, but not from the L. side of the desk. At present she is fast asleep and motionless.

Re-enter Sir George, L., followed by Philip.

Sir G. Yes, they have gone to bed. The lamp has been turned down. Now we can smoke. (about to turn lamp up)

Philip. Don’t turn it up, please. This half light is charming.

Sir G. Just as you like, but I can scarcely see you. (takes up cigar box)

Philip. (aside) So much the better.

Sir G. A cigar? (offers box)

Philip. Thanks. (takes one)

Sir G. Now we can talk more comfortably. (takes a cigar himself while Philip lights his with a match which he then hands to Sir George) Thanks. (Philip sits, L., Sir George, C.) As I was saying, Rose being my ward, I am concerned in this affair, and what I just now recommended as a friend, in my position as her guardian I can insist upon.

Philip. I have already said, Sir George, that I intend to act on your advice.

Sir G. How does the matter stand?

Philip. Exactly as it stood when I left England. It was a friendship, nothing but a friendship.

Sir G. Friendship?

Philip. Dangerous, no doubt; that’s why I went abroad.

Sir G. Have you communicated with the lady since?

Philip. Never.

Sir G. Nor she with you? (pause) Eh?

Philip. Once.

Sir G. Ah! Now I understand the case. May I inquire what you propose to do?

Philip. To see her and to tell her I am going to be married.

Sir G. What does that put an end to?

Philip. Everything.

Sir G. What, friendship?

Philip. Well——

Sir G. You said friendship.

Philip. Yes.

Sir G. Does marriage put an end to friendship? I hope not.

Philip. Of course it doesn’t, but——

Sir G. That friendship must be put an end to. Philip, you are the son of an old comrade, and I believe that, if you start fair, you will make an admirable husband. But you must start fair, or you won’t. I don’t ask you to bring to me a spotless character—a history without a speck or flaw; all I ask—and on that I insist—is that you shall begin your future life unhampered by the past.

Philip. What would you have me do?

Sir G. Make your fair friend distinctly understand that all—however little that all may have been—is over.

Philip. Will that satisfy you?

Sir G. Yes; but I must have proof she understands it.

Philip. What sort of proof?

Sir G. We lawyers have great faith in black and white. You laymen think it a cumbrous form; but I have seen too many fortunes turn on a forgotten sheet of notepaper, not to appreciate its value.

Philip. What do you mean?

Sir G. That you must bring to me a letter from your friend——

Philip. A letter from her!

Sir G. A mere acknowledgment that all is over.

Philip. A letter!

Sir G. Signed, mind you, signed.

Philip. Signed! (his cry wakes Lady Carlyon)

Sir G. Nothing like a signature.

Philip. (rising) Wouldn’t you like it stamped as well, Sir George? (Lady Carlyon moves slightly)

Sir G. A penny postage stamp will be enough.

Philip. That is impossible.

Sir G. It must be got. (lays down cigar. Philip sinks back into seat again—Lady Carlyon, who has gone through the first processes of waking, lifts her head; at the sound of Sir George’s voice she starts half up and holds herself in