be marrying out of his—

Jack. Out of his senses, father. All men do that.

Hargrave (gyrating in circles). The will! the will! Oh, he must know, he must! The estate was left to him on condition that he was married, and that's why he's marrying now. (Pulls large pair of colored glasses from his pocket.) The will! Show me the will!

Jack. I knew you hadn't lost them. The old rarely lose anything. They have nothing to lose.

Hargrave (teeming with excitement). The will! the will!

Jack (reaching in hip pocket, coat pocket, hip pocket). Yes, father. (Repeats the experiment.) No, father. (Subsides into chair.)

Hargrave. Oh, Jack! He has found it—we are lost.

Jack (springing to his feet). No, it's not lost. I remember, you remember, it is under the tree. I left it in the Park this morning.

Hargrave. No!

Jack. Yes. (Makes for door—returns deliberately.) You agree to behave in my absence, father? I am very popular these days, and if Jane or Kathryn should happen in—

Hargrave. Jane! Did you say Jane! I have a particular aversion to that name, Jack. I trust that no woman named Jane bears any relationship to Kathryn?

Jack. Only her mother.

Hargrave. Her mother? Her name, please! Even now I trace a resemblance, a terrible resemblance. Tell me her name!

Jack. Her name's the same as Kathryn's, of course. I only ask you to leave the whole family alone hereafter. They did not even know you existed until this afternoon. You were a creation of my fancy and had form, color and expression. And now you have ruined it all. All, father, because you will not wear your glasses.

Hargrave. I don't know Kathryn's name. She never told me and I never asked.

Jack. Kathryn's name is Kathryn Gibbs, her aunt's name is Gloria Gibbs, and her mother's name is Jane Gibbs. Jane's a jewel, Gloria's an idiot, and Kathryn's mine. Have you learned all that you want now, or must I tell you more?

Hargrave (in a most melancholy voice). Jack, this is terrible. I had never expected that. Jane Gibbs!

Jack. The name's no worse than Jack, father. Too bad Jane's not a socialist, and could exchange for a number.

Hargrave. She is a socialist, Jack. Oh, a horrible, horrible socialist! Did I never tell you of a woman? whose views of life—

Jack. Are not so antiquated as your own, sir? (There comes a tinkle of the bell, a second and a third.) But come, father, one should always give in to the inevitable, and I have chosen Jane as your most likely spouse.

Hargrave. I will not marry that woman! I will not! (Jack throws open the door and Jane enters. She has on a gown of many colors and a hat of many heights.)

Jack. Ah, Jane! So glad to see you! I've just been speaking to father about that matter we discussed and he's quite interested already. Fact is, father's always interested, though interesting he is not. I've taken him to task about that blunder, though. Father's a bull for blunders. In the morning I've suggested that he be unfrocked. You'll be there of course? Great sight. (Facing about.) Why don't you say something, father! Or should fathers be seen and not heard? But perhaps you desire an introduction. Jane—my father. My father—Jane Gibbs. (Each are about to shake hands, but Jack's body intervenes and he rambles on.) The family problem is the most important product of this age, and ranks even higher than the servant question. Of course, fathers were fashionable at one time, or I never should have had one. It's a great fault, though, I admit.

Jane (loosening wrap). My faults are my fortune, Jack. Some people are even famous for them.

Jack. Ravishing, Jane, ravishing! (Plays with dress, avoiding Hargrave.) But perhaps I should go.

Jane. Probably you should go, Jack.

Hargrave. It is not problematical at all. It is obvious, sir. (Jack runs around the table.) My son has a roving nature, Jane; it is almost poetical. I've just advised an interview with a certain tree, a rather poetical tree. He is a near poet, you know.

Jack (bowing). A minor poet only, not yet being of age.

Jane. Do not make fun of the minor poets, Jack. Leave that to the newspapers. They foster them.

Hargrave (apologetic). My son had good intentions.

Jack. Heaven is filled with good intentions, father. (To Jane.) Chesterton says that poets are a trouble to their families. But then Chesterton is always wrong. If the families of real poets are anything like mine, the trouble rests with them.

Jane. Hurry, Jack, the tree may be gone. (Crosses L. and seats herself in the armchair.)

Jack. My interview will prove a very short one. (Pulls out watch.) Before long, father, I shall expect you to have arranged everything.

Hargrave (in a conciliatory manner). You said that her sister was an idiot, did you not?

Jack. I did, father.

Hargrave (writing on cuff). It may prove of importance. (Shuts door on him. A whistling sound is heard as Jack leisurely descends the stairs. Hargrave returns to Jane. Her taking the larger chair upsets him very much. There is a moment's lapse in which they look at each other.)

Jane. How very still it is here, Peter. I feel almost as if I were in the country—in the country that we both knew so well before our hearts had learned to beat.

Hargrave (rising to the sentimentality of the occasion). My heart is bigger than its beat, Jane.

Jane. Ah, but you have been in this country many days, and you never once wrote to tell me. We should have been glad to see you, all of us, even Dill—that's my butler—but he's almost one of the family.

Hargrave (scowling). I came to America from a sense of duty, Jane, and it has completely absorbed my time. I came to find my brother.

Jane. You never told me you had a brother. You left that for your son to do.

Hargrave. Then Jack has told you.

Jane. Yes.

Hargrave. The fact is, Jane, that I have never spoken very much of my brother to anyone. The poor fellow eloped just before I met you, and our recollection of him has always been a sad one. Sadder still has been my present duty to investigate and find that he is dead.

Jane (ironically). The Peter Kent that I knew had very little sense of duty. Often I thought that he had none at all. But he was not the Peter Hargrave that I see now. He was not a minister, and he did not lie. He was not a hypocrite and he did not masquerade under a false name to swindle his own brother, his living brother whom he pretended to think dead.

Hargrave (surprised and