Fanny’s First Play

Act III

Again in the Gilbeys’ dining room. Afternoon. The table is not laid: it is draped in its ordinary cloth, with pen and ink, an exercise book, and schoolbooks on it. Bobby Gilbey is in the armchair, crouching over the fire, reading an illustrated paper. He is a pretty youth, of very suburban gentility, strong and manly enough by nature, but untrained and unsatisfactory, his parents having imagined that domestic restriction is what they call “bringing up.” He has learnt nothing from it except a habit of evading it by deceit.

He gets up to ring the bell; then resumes his crouch. Juggins answers the bell.

Bobby	Juggins.
Juggins	Sir?
Bobby	Morosely sarcastic. Sir be blowed!
Juggins	Cheerfully. Not at all, sir.
Bobby	I’m a gaol-bird: you’re a respectable man.
Juggins	That doesn’t matter, sir. Your father pays me to call you sir; and as I take the money, I keep my part of the bargain.
Bobby	Would you call me sir if you weren’t paid to do it?
Juggins	No, sir.
Bobby	I’ve been talking to Dora about you.
Juggins	Indeed, sir?
Bobby	Yes. Dora says your name can’t be Juggins, and that you have the manners of a gentleman. I always thought you hadn’t any manners. Anyhow, your manners are different from the manners of a gentleman in my set.
Juggins	They would be, sir.
Bobby	You don’t feel disposed to be communicative on the subject of Dora’s notion, I suppose.
Juggins	No, sir.
Bobby	Throwing his paper on the floor and lifting his knees over the arm of the chair so as to turn towards the footman. It was part of your bargain that you were to valet me a bit, wasn’t it?
Juggins	Yes, sir.
Bobby	Well, can you tell me the proper way to get out of an engagement to a girl without getting into a row for breach of promise or behaving like a regular cad?
Juggins	No, sir. You can’t get out of an engagement without behaving like a cad if the lady wishes to hold you to it.
Bobby	But it wouldn’t be for her happiness to marry me when I don’t really care for her.
Juggins	Women don’t always marry for happiness, sir. They often marry because they wish to be married women and not old maids.
Bobby	Then what am I to do?
Juggins	Marry her, sir, or behave like a cad.
Bobby	Jumping up. Well, I won’t marry her: that’s flat. What would you do if you were in my place?
Juggins	I should tell the young lady that I found I couldn’t fulfil my engagement.
Bobby	But you’d have to make some excuse, you know. I want to give it a gentlemanly turn: to say I’m not worthy of her, or something like that.
Juggins	That is not a gentlemanly turn, sir. Quite the contrary.
Bobby	I don’t see that at all. Do you mean that it’s not exactly true?
Juggins	Not at all, sir.
Bobby	I can say that no other girl can ever be to me what she’s been. That would be quite true, because our circumstances have been rather exceptional; and she’ll imagine I mean I’m fonder of her than I can ever be of anyone else. You see, Juggins, a gentleman has to think of a girl’s feelings.
Juggins	If you wish to spare her feelings, sir, you can marry her. If you hurt her feelings by refusing, you had better not try to get credit for considerateness at the same time by pretending to spare them. She won’t like it. And it will start an argument, of which you will get the worse.
Bobby	But, you know, I’m not really worthy of her.
Juggins	Probably she never supposed you were, sir.
Bobby	Oh, I say, Juggins, you are a pessimist.
Juggins	Preparing to go. Anything else, sir?
Bobby	Querulously. You haven’t been much use. He wanders disconsolately across the room. You generally put me up to the correct way of doing things.
Juggins	I assure you, sir, there’s no correct way of jilting. It’s not correct in itself.
Bobby	Hopefully. I’ll tell you what. I’ll say I can’t hold her to an engagement with a man who’s been in quod. That’ll do it. He seats himself on the table, relieved and confident.
Juggins	Very dangerous, sir. No woman will deny herself the romantic luxury of self-sacrifice and forgiveness when they take the form of doing something agreeable. She’s almost sure to say that your misfortune will draw her closer to you.
Bobby	What a nuisance! I don’t know what to do. You know, Juggins, your cool simple-minded way of doing it wouldn’t go down in Denmark Hill.
Juggins	I daresay not, sir. No doubt you’d prefer to make it look like an act of self-sacrifice for her sake on your part, or provoke her to break the engagement herself. Both plans have been tried repeatedly, but never with success, as far as my knowledge goes.
Bobby	You have a devilish cool way of laying down the law. You know, in my class you have to wrap up things a bit. Denmark Hill isn’t Camberwell, you know.
Juggins	I have noticed, sir, that Denmark Hill thinks that the higher you go in the social scale, the less sincerity is allowed; and that only tramps and riffraff are quite sincere. That’s a mistake. Tramps are often shameless; but they’re never sincere. Swells⁠—if I may use that convenient name for the upper classes⁠—play much more with their cards on the table. If you tell the young lady that you want to jilt her, and she calls you a pig, the tone of the transaction may leave much to be desired; but it’ll be less Camberwellian than if you say you’re not worthy.
Bobby	Oh, I can’t make you understand, Juggins. The girl isn’t a scullery-maid. I want to do it delicately.
Juggins	A mistake, sir, believe me, if you are not a born artist in that line.⁠—Beg pardon, sir, I think I heard the bell. He goes out.
	Bobby, much perplexed, shoves his hands into his pockets, and comes off the table, staring disconsolately straight before him; then goes reluctantly to his books, and sits down to write. Juggins returns.
Juggins	Announcing. Miss Knox.
	Margaret comes in. Juggins withdraws.
Margaret	Still grinding away for that Society of Arts examination, Bobby? You’ll never pass.
Bobby	Rising. No: I was just writing to you.
Margaret	What about?
Bobby	Oh, nothing. At least⁠—How are you?
Margaret	Passing round the other end of the table and putting down on it a copy of Lloyd’s Weekly* and her purse-bag.* Quite well, thank you. How did you enjoy Brighton?
Bobby	Brighton! I wasn’t at⁠—Oh yes, of course. Oh, pretty well. Is your aunt all right?
Margaret	My aunt! I suppose so. I haven’t seen her for a month.
Bobby	I thought you were down staying with her.
Margaret	Oh! was that what they told you?
Bobby	Yes. Why? Weren’t you really?
Margaret	No. I’ve something to tell you. Sit down and lets be comfortable.
	She sits on the edge of the table. He sits beside her, and puts his arm wearily round her waist.
Margaret	You needn’t do that if you don’t like, Bobby. Suppose we get off duty for the day, just to see what it’s like.
Bobby	Off duty? What do you mean?
Margaret	You know very well what I mean. Bobby: did you ever care one little scrap for me in that sort of way? Don’t funk answering: I don’t care a bit for you⁠—that way.
Bobby	Removing his arm rather huffily. I beg your pardon, I’m sure. I thought you did.
Margaret	Well, did you? Come! Don’t be mean. I’ve owned up. You can put it all on me if you like; but I don’t believe you care any more than I do.
Bobby	You mean we’ve been shoved into it rather by the pars and mars.
Margaret	Yes.
Bobby	Well, it’s not that I don’t care for you: in fact, no girl can ever be to me exactly what you are; but we’ve been brought up so much together that it feels more like brother and sister than⁠—well, than the other thing, doesn’t it?
Margaret	Just so. How did you find out the difference?
Bobby	Blushing. Oh, I say!
Margaret	I found out from a Frenchman.
Bobby	Oh, I say! He comes off the table in his consternation.
Margaret	Did you learn it from a Frenchwoman? You know you must have learnt it from somebody.
Bobby	Not a Frenchwoman. She’s quite a nice woman. But she’s been rather unfortunate. The daughter of a clergyman.
Margaret	Startled. Oh, Bobby! That sort of woman!
Bobby	What sort of woman?
Margaret	You don’t believe she’s really a clergyman’s daughter, do you, you silly boy? It’s a stock joke.
Bobby	Do you mean to say you don’t believe me?
Margaret	No: I mean to say I don’t believe her.
Bobby	Curious and interested, resuming his seat on the table beside her. What do you know about her? What do you know about all this sort of thing?
Margaret	What sort of thing, Bobby?
Bobby	Well, about life.
Margaret	I’ve lived a lot since I saw you last. I wasn’t at my aunt’s. All that time that you were in Brighton, I mean.
Bobby	I wasn’t at Brighton, Meg. I’d better tell you: you’re bound to find out sooner or later. He begins his confession humbly, avoiding her gaze. Meg: it’s rather awful: you’ll think me no end of a beast. I’ve been in prison.
Margaret	You!
Bobby	Yes, me. For being drunk and assaulting the police.
Margaret	Do you mean to say that you⁠—oh! this is a letdown for me. She comes off the table and drops, disconsolate, into a chair at the end of it furthest from the hearth.
Bobby	Of course I couldn’t hold you to our engagement after that. I was writing to you to break it off. He also descends from the table and makes slowly for the hearth. You must think me an utter rotter.
Margaret	Oh, has everybody been in prison for being drunk and assaulting the police? How long were you in?
Bobby	A fortnight.
Margaret	That’s what I was in for.
Bobby	What are you talking about? In where?
Margaret	In quod.
Bobby	But I’m serious: I’m not rotting. Really and truly⁠—
Margaret	What did you do to the copper?
Bobby	Nothing, absolutely nothing. He exaggerated grossly. I only laughed at him.
Margaret	Jumping up, triumphant. I’ve beaten you hollow. I knocked out two of his teeth. I’ve got one of them. He sold it to me for ten shillings.
Bobby	Now please do stop fooling, Meg. I tell you I’m not rotting. He sits down in the armchair, rather sulkily.
Margaret	Taking up the copy of Lloyd’s Weekly* and going to him.* And I tell you I’m not either. Look! Here’s a report of it. The daily papers are no good; but the Sunday papers are splendid. She sits on the arm of the chair. See! Reading: “Hardened at Eighteen. A quietly dressed, respectable-looking girl who refuses her name”⁠—that’s me.
Bobby	Pausing a moment in his perusal. Do you mean to say that you went on the loose out of pure devilment?
Margaret	I did no harm. I went to see a lovely dance. I picked up a nice man and went to have a dance myself. I can’t imagine anything more innocent and more happy. All the bad part was done by other people: they did it out of pure devilment if you like. Anyhow, here we are, two gaolbirds, Bobby, disgraced forever. Isn’t it a relief?
Bobby	Rising stiffly. But you know, it’s not the same for a girl. A man may do things a woman mayn’t. He stands on the hearthrug with his back to the fire.
Margaret	Are you scandalized, Bobby?
Bobby	Well, you can’t expect me to approve of it, can you, Meg? I never thought you were that sort of girl.
Margaret	Rising indignantly. I’m not. You mustn’t pretend to think that I’m a clergyman’s daughter, Bobby.
Bobby	I wish you wouldn’t chaff about that. Don’t forget the row you got into for letting out that you admired Juggins she turns her back on him quickly⁠—a footman! And what about the Frenchman?
Margaret	Facing him again. I know nothing about the Frenchman except that he’s a very nice fellow and can swing his leg round like the hand of a clock and knock a policeman down with it. He was in Wormwood Scrubbs with you. I was in Holloway.
Bobby	It’s all very well to make light of it, Meg; but this is a bit thick, you know.
Margaret	Do you feel you couldn’t marry a woman who’s been in prison?
Bobby	Hastily. No. I never said that. It might even give a woman a greater claim on a man. Any girl, if she were thoughtless and a bit on, perhaps, might get into a scrape. Anyone who really understood her character could see there was no harm in it. But you’re not the larky sort. At least you usen’t to be.
Margaret	I’m not; and I never will be. She walks straight up to him. I didn’t do it for a lark, Bob: I did it out of the very depths of my nature. I did it because I’m that sort of person. I did it in one of my religious fits. I’m hardened at eighteen, as they say. So what about the match, now?
Bobby	Well, I don’t think you can fairly hold me to it, Meg. Of course it would be ridiculous for me to set up to be shocked, or anything of that sort. I can’t afford to throw stones at anybody; and I don’t pretend to. I can understand a lark; I can forgive a slip; as long as it is understood that it is only a lark or a slip. But to go on the loose on principle; to talk about religion in connection with it; to⁠—to⁠—well, Meg, I do find that a bit thick, I must say. I hope you’re not in earnest when you talk that way.
Margaret	Bobby: you’re no good. No good to me, anyhow.
Bobby	Huffed. I’m sorry, Miss Knox.
Margaret	Goodbye, Mr. Gilbey. She turns on her heel and goes to the other end of the table. I suppose you won’t introduce me to the clergyman’s daughter.
Bobby	I don’t think she’d like it. There are limits, after all. He sits down at the table, as if to to resume work at his books: a hint to her to go.
Margaret	On her way to the door. Ring the bell, Bobby; and tell Juggins to show me out.
Bobby	Reddening. I’m not a cad, Meg.
Margaret	Coming to the table. Then do something nice to prevent us feeling mean about this afterwards. You’d better kiss me. You needn’t ever do it again.
Bobby	If I’m no good, I don’t see what fun it would be for you.
Margaret	Oh, it’d be no fun. If I wanted what you call fun, I should ask the Frenchman to kiss me⁠—or Juggins.
Bobby	Rising and retreating to the hearth. Oh, don’t be disgusting, Meg. Don’t be low.
Margaret	Determinedly, preparing to use force. Now, I’ll make you kiss me, just to punish you. She seizes his wrist; pulls him off his balance; and gets her arm round his neck.
Bobby	No. Stop. Leave go, will you.
	Juggins appears at the door.
Juggins	Miss Delaney, Sir. Dora comes in. Juggins goes out. Margaret hastily releases Bobby, and goes to the other side of the room.
Dora	Through the door, to the departing Juggins. Well, you are a Juggins to show me up when there’s company. To Margaret* and Bobby.* It’s all right, dear: all right, old man: I’ll wait in Juggins’s pantry till you’re disengaged.
Margaret	Don’t you know me?
Dora	Coming to the middle of the room and looking at her very attentively. Why, it’s never No. 406!
Margaret	Yes it is.
Dora	Well, I should never have known you out of the uniform. How did you get out? You were doing a month, weren’t you?
Margaret	My bloke paid the fine the day he got out himself.
Dora	A real gentleman! Pointing to Bobby, who is staring open-mouthed. Look at him. He can’t take it in.
Bobby	I suppose you made her acquaintance in prison, Meg. But when it comes to talking about blokes and all that⁠—well!
Margaret	Oh, I’ve learnt the language; and I like it. It’s another barrier broken down.
Bobby	It’s not so much the language, Meg. But I think⁠—He looks at Dora* and stops.*
Margaret	Suddenly dangerous. What do you think, Bobby?
Dora	He thinks you oughtn’t to be so free with me, dearie. It does him credit: he always was a gentleman, you know.
Margaret	Does him credit! To insult you like that! Bobby: say that that wasn’t what you meant.
Bobby	I didn’t say it was.
Margaret	Well, deny that it was.
Bobby	No. I wouldn’t have said it in front of Dora; but I do think it’s not quite the same thing my knowing her and you knowing her.
Dora	Of course it isn’t, old man. To Margaret. I’ll just trot off and come back in half an hour. You two can make it up together. I’m really not fit company for you, dearie: I couldn’t live up to you. She turns to go.
Margaret	Stop. Do you believe he could live up to me?
Dora	Well, I’ll never say anything to stand between a girl and a respectable marriage, or to stop a decent lad from settling himself. I have a conscience; though I mayn’t be as particular as some.
Margaret	You seem to me to be a very decent sort; and Bobby’s behaving like a skunk.
Bobby	Much ruffled. Nice language that!
Dora	Well, dearie, men have to do some awfully mean things to keep up their respectability. But you can’t blame them for that, can you? I’ve met Bobby walking with his mother; and of course he cut me dead. I won’t pretend I liked it; but what could he do, poor dear?
Margaret	And now he wants me to cut you dead to keep him in countenance. Well, I shan’t: not if my whole family were there. But I’ll cut him dead if he doesn’t treat you properly. To Bobby, with a threatening move in his direction. I’ll educate you, you young beast.
Bobby	Furious, meeting her halfway. Who are you calling a young beast?
Margaret	You.
Dora	Peacemaking. Now, dearies!
Bobby	If you don’t take care, you’ll get your fat head jolly well clouted.
Margaret	If you don’t take care, the policeman’s tooth will only be the beginning of a collection.
Dora	Now, loveys, be good.
	Bobby, lost to all sense of adult dignity, puts out his tongue at Margaret. Margaret, equally furious, catches his protended countenance a box on the cheek. He hurls himself her. They wrestle.
Bobby	Cat! I’ll teach you.
Margaret	Pig! Beast! She forces him backwards on the table. Now where are you?
Dora	Calling. Juggins, Juggins. They’ll murder one another.
Juggins	Throwing open the door, and announcing. Monsieur Duvallet.
	Duvallet enters. Sudden cessation of hostilities, and dead silence. The combatants separate by the whole width of the room. Juggins withdraws.
Duvallet	I fear I derange you.
Margaret	Not at all. Bobby: you really are a beast: Monsieur Duvallet will think I’m always fighting.
Duvallet	Practising jujitsu or the new Iceland wrestling. Admirable, Miss Knox. The athletic young Englishwoman is an example to all Europe. Indicating Bobby. Your instructor, no doubt. Monsieur⁠—He bows.
Bobby	Bowing awkwardly. How d’y’ do?
Margaret	To Bobby. I’m so sorry, Bobby: I asked Monsieur Duvallet to call for me here; and I forgot to tell you. Introducing. Monsieur Duvallet: Miss Four hundred and seven. Mr. Bobby Gilbey. Duvallet bows. I really don’t know how to explain our relationships. Bobby and I are like brother and sister.
Duvallet	Perfectly. I noticed it.
Margaret	Bobby and Miss⁠—Miss⁠—
Dora	Delaney, dear. To Duvallet, bewitchingly. Darling Dora, to real friends.
Margaret	Bobby and Dora are⁠—are⁠—well, not brother and sister.
Duvallet	With redoubled comprehension. Perfectly.
Margaret	Bobby has spent the last fortnight in prison. You don’t mind, do you?
Duvallet	No, naturally. I have spent the last fortnight in prison.
	The conversation drops. Margaret* renews it with an effort.*
Margaret	Dora has spent the last fortnight in prison.
Duvallet	Quite so. I felicitate Mademoiselle on her enlargement.
Dora	Trop merci, as they say in Boulogne. No call to be stiff with one another, have we?
	Juggins comes in.
Juggins	Beg pardon, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Gilbey are coming up the street.
Dora	Let me absquatulate. Making for the door.
Juggins	If you wish to leave without being seen, you had better step into my pantry and leave afterwards.
Dora	Right oh! She bursts into song. Hide me in the meat safe till the cop goes by. Hum the dear old music as his step draws nigh. She goes out on tiptoe.
Margaret	I won’t stay here if she has to hide. I’ll keep her company in the pantry. She follows Dora.
Bobby	Lets all go. We can’t have any fun with the Mar here. I say, Juggins: you can give us tea in the pantry, can’t you?
Juggins	Certainly, sir.
Bobby	Right. Say nothing to my mother. You don’t mind, Mr. Doovalley, do you?
Duvallet	I shall be charmed.
Bobby	Right you are. Come along. At the door. Oh, by the way, Juggins, fetch down that concertina from my room, will you?
Juggins	Yes, sir. Bobby goes out. Duvallet follows him to the door. You understand, sir, that Miss Knox is a lady absolutely comme il faut?
Duvallet	Perfectly. But the other?
Juggins	The other, sir, may be both charitably and accurately described in your native idiom as a daughter of joy.
Duvallet	It is what I thought. These English domestic interiors are very interesting. He goes out, followed by Juggins.
	Presently Mr. and Mrs. Gilbey* come in. They take their accustomed places: he on the hearthrug, she at the colder end of the table.*
Mrs. Gilbey	Did you smell scent in the hall, Rob?
Gilbey	No, I didn’t. And I don’t want to smell it. Don’t you go looking for trouble, Maria.
Mrs. Gilbey	Snuffing up the perfumed atmosphere. She’s been here. Gilbey rings the bell. What are you ringing for? Are you going to ask?
Gilbey	No, I’m not going to ask. Juggins said this morning he wanted to speak to me. If he likes to tell me, let him; but I’m not going to ask; and don’t you either. Juggins appears at the door. You said you wanted to say something to me.
Juggins	When it would be convenient to you, sir.
Gilbey	Well, what is it?
Mrs. Gilbey	Oh, Juggins, we’re expecting Mr. and Mrs. Knox to tea.
Gilbey	He knows that. He sits down. Then, to Juggins. What is it?
Juggins	Advancing to the middle of the table. Would it inconvenience you, sir, if I was to give you a month’s notice?
Gilbey	Taken aback. What! Why? Ain’t you satisfied?
Juggins	Perfectly, sir. It is not that I want to better myself, I assure you.
Gilbey	Well, what do you want to leave for, then? Do you want to worse yourself?
Juggins	No, sir. I’ve been well treated in your most comfortable establishment; and I should be greatly distressed if you or Mrs. Gilbey were to interpret my notice as an expression of dissatisfaction.
Gilbey	Paternally. Now you listen to me, Juggins. I’m an older man than you. Don’t you throw out dirty water till you get in fresh. Don’t get too big for your boots. You’re like all servants nowadays: you think you’ve only to hold up your finger to get the pick of half a dozen jobs. But you won’t be treated everywhere as you’re treated here. In bed every night before eleven; hardly a ring at the door except on Mrs. Gilbey’s day once a month; and no other manservant to interfere with you. It may be a bit quiet perhaps; but you’re past the age of adventure. Take my advice: think over it. You suit me; and I’m prepared to make it suit you if you’re dissatisfied⁠—in reason, you know.
Juggins	I realize my advantages, sir; but I’ve private reasons⁠—
Gilbey	Cutting him short angrily and retiring to the hearthrug in dudgeon. Oh, I know. Very well: go. The sooner the better.
Mrs. Gilbey	Oh, not until we’re suited. He must stay his month.
Gilbey	Sarcastic. Do you want to lose him his character, Maria? Do you think I don’t see what it is? We’re prison folk now. We’ve been in the police court. To Juggins. Well, I suppose you know your own business best. I take your notice: you can go when your month is up, or sooner, if you like.
Juggins	Believe me, sir⁠—
Gilbey	That’s enough: I don’t want any excuses. I don’t blame you. You can go downstairs now, if you’ve nothing else to trouble me about.
Juggins	I really can’t leave it at that, sir. I assure you I’ve no objection to young Mr. Gilbey’s going to prison. You may do six months yourself, sir, and welcome, without a word of remonstrance from me. I’m leaving solely because my brother, who has suffered a bereavement, and feels lonely, begs me to spend a few months with him until he gets over it.
Gilbey	And is he to keep you all that time? or are you to spend your savings in comforting him? Have some sense, man: how can you afford such things?
Juggins	My brother can afford to keep me, sir. The truth is, he objects to my being in service.
Gilbey	Is that any reason why you should be dependent on him? Don’t do it, Juggins: pay your own way like an honest lad; and don’t eat your brother’s bread while you’re able to earn your own.
Juggins	There is sound sense in that, sir. But unfortunately it is a tradition in my family that the younger brothers should sponge to a considerable extent on the eldest.
Gilbey	Then the sooner that tradition is broken, the better, my man.
Juggins	A Radical sentiment, sir. But an excellent one.
Gilbey	Radical! What do you mean? Don’t you begin to take liberties, Juggins, now that you know we’re loth to part with you. Your brother isn’t a duke, you know.
Juggins	Unfortunately, he is, sir.
	Together.
Gilbey	What!
Mrs. Gilbey	Juggins!
Juggins	Excuse me, sir: the bell. He goes out.
Gilbey	Overwhelmed. Maria: did you understand him to say his brother was a duke?
Mrs. Gilbey	Fancy his condescending! Perhaps if you’d offer to raise his wages and treat him as one of the family, he’d stay.
Gilbey	And have my own servant above me! Not me. What’s the world coming to? Here’s Bobby and⁠—
Juggins	Entering and announcing. Mr. and Mrs. Knox.
	The Knoxes* come in. Juggins takes two chairs from the wall and places them at the table, between the host and hostess. Then he withdraws.*
Mrs. Gilbey	To Mrs. Knox. How are you, dear?
Mrs. Knox	Nicely, thank you. Good evening, Mr. Gilbey. They shake hands; and she takes the chair nearest Mrs. Gilbey. Mr. Knox* takes the other chair.*
Gilbey	Sitting down. I was just saying, Knox, What is the world coming to?
Knox	Appealing to his wife. What was I saying myself only this morning?
Mrs. Knox	This is a strange time. I was never one to talk about the end of the world; but look at the things that have happened!
Knox	Earthquakes!
Gilbey	San Francisco!
Mrs. Gilbey	Jamaica!
Knox	Martinique!
Gilbey	Messina!
Mrs. Gilbey	The plague in China!
Mrs. Knox	The floods in France!
Gilbey	My Bobby in Wormwood Scrubbs!
Knox	Margaret in Holloway!
Gilbey	And now my footman tells me his brother’s a duke!
Knox	No!
Mrs. Knox	What’s that?
Gilbey	Just before he let you in. A duke! Here has everything been respectable from the beginning of the world, as you may say, to the present day; and all of a sudden everything is turned upside down.
Mrs. Knox	It’s like in the book of Revelations. But I do say that unless people have happiness within themselves, all the earthquakes, all the floods, and all the prisons in the world can’t make them really happy.
Knox	It isn’t alone the curious things that are happening, but the unnatural way people are taking them. Why, there’s Margaret been in prison, and she hasn’t time to go to all the invitations she’s had from people that never asked her before.
Gilbey	I never knew we could live without being respectable.
Mrs. Gilbey	Oh, Rob, what a thing to say! Who says we’re not respectable?
Gilbey	Well, it’s not what I call respectable to have your children in and out of gaol.
Knox	Oh come, Gilbey! we’re not tramps because we’ve had, as it were, an accident.
Gilbey	It’s no use, Knox: look it in the face. Did I ever tell you my father drank?
Knox	No. But I knew it. Simmons told me.
Gilbey	Yes: he never could keep his mouth quiet: he told me your aunt was a kleptomaniac.
Mrs. Knox	It wasn’t true, Mr. Gilbey. She used to pick up handkerchiefs if she saw them lying about; but you might trust her with untold silver.
Gilbey	My Uncle Phil was a teetotaller. My father used to say to me: Rob, he says, don’t you ever have a weakness. If you find one getting a hold on you, make a merit of it, he says. Your Uncle Phil doesn’t like spirits; and he makes a merit of it, and is chairman of the Blue Ribbon Committee. I do like spirits; and I make a merit of it, and I’m the King Cockatoo of the Convivial Cockatoos. Never put yourself in the wrong, he says. I used to boast about what a good boy Bobby was. Now I swank about what a dog he is; and it pleases people just as well. What a world it is!
Knox	It turned my blood cold at first to hear Margaret telling people about Holloway; but it goes down better than her singing used to.
Mrs. Knox	I never thought she sang right after all those lessons we paid for.
Gilbey	Lord, Knox, it was lucky you and me got let in together. I tell you straight, if it hadn’t been for Bobby’s disgrace, I’d have broke up the firm.
Knox	I shouldn’t have blamed you: I’d have done the same only for Margaret. Too much straightlacedness narrows a man’s mind. Talking of that, what about those hygienic corset advertisements that Vines & Jackson want us to put in the window? I told Vines they weren’t decent and we couldn’t show them in our shop. I was pretty high with him. But what am I to say to him now if he comes and throws this business in our teeth?
Gilbey	Oh, put ’em in. We may as well go it a bit now.
Mrs. Gilbey	You’ve been going it quite far enough, Rob. To Mrs. Knox. He won’t get up in the mornings now: he that was always out of bed at seven to the tick!
Mrs. Knox	You hear that, Jo? To Mrs. Gilbey. he’s taken to whisky and soda. A pint a week! And the beer the same as before!
Knox	Oh, don’t preach, old girl.
Mrs. Knox	To Mrs. Gilbey. That’s a new name he’s got for me. To Knox. I tell you, Jo, this doesn’t sit well on you. You may call it preaching if you like; but it’s the truth for all that. I say that if you’ve happiness within yourself, you don’t need to seek it outside, spending money on drink and theatres and bad company, and being miserable after all. You can sit at home and be happy; and you can work and be happy. If you have that in you, the spirit will set you free to do what you want and guide you to do right. But if you haven’t got it, then you’d best be respectable and stick to the ways that are marked out for you; for you’ve nothing else to keep you straight.
Knox	Angrily. And is a man never to have a bit of fun? See what’s come of it with your daughter! She was to be content with your happiness that you’re always talking about; and how did the spirit guide her? To a month’s hard for being drunk and assaulting the police. Did I ever assault the police?
Mrs. Knox	You wouldn’t have the courage. I don’t blame the girl.
Mrs. Gilbey	Oh, Maria! What are you saying?
Gilbey	What! And you so pious!
Mrs. Knox	She went where the spirit guided her. And what harm there was in it she knew nothing about.
Gilbey	Oh, come, Mrs. Knox! Girls are not so innocent as all that.
Mrs. Knox	I don’t say she was ignorant. But I do say that she didn’t know what we know: I mean the way certain temptations get a sudden hold that no goodness nor self-control is any use against. She was saved from that, and had a rough lesson too; and I say it was no earthly protection that did that. But don’t think, you two men, that you’ll be protected if you make what she did an excuse to go and do as you’d like to do if it wasn’t for fear of losing your characters. The spirit won’t guide you, because it isn’t in you; and it never had been: not in either of you.
Gilbey	With ironic humility. I’m sure I’m obliged to you for your good opinion, Mrs. Knox.
Mrs. Knox	Well, I will say for you, Mr. Gilbey, that you’re better than my man here. He’s a bitter hard heathen, is my Jo, God help me! She begins to cry quietly.
Knox	Now, don’t take on like that, Amelia. You know I always give in to you that you were right about religion. But one of us had to think of other things, or we’d have starved, we and the child.
Mrs. Knox	How do you know you’d have starved? All the other things might have been added unto you.
Gilbey	Come, Mrs. Knox, don’t tell me Knox is a sinner. I know better. I’m sure you’d be the first to be sorry if anything was to happen to him.
Knox	Bitterly to his wife. You’ve always had some grudge against me; and nobody but yourself can understand what it is.
Mrs. Knox	I wanted a man who had that happiness within himself. You made me think you had it; but it was nothing but being in love with me.
Mrs. Gilbey	And do you blame him for that?
Mrs. Knox	I blame nobody. But let him not think he can walk by his own light. I tell him that if he gives up being respectable he’ll go right down to the bottom of the hill. He has no powers inside himself to keep him steady; so let him cling to the powers outside him.
Knox	Rising angrily. Who wants to give up being respectable? All this for a pint of whisky that lasted a week! How long would it have lasted Simmons, I wonder?
Mrs. Knox	Gently. Oh, well, say no more, Jo. I won’t plague you about it. He sits down. You never did understand; and you never will. Hardly anybody understands: even Margaret didn’t till she went to prison. She does now; and I shall have a companion in the house after all these lonely years.
Knox	Beginning to cry. I did all I could to make you happy. I never said a harsh word to you.
Gilbey	Rising indignantly. What right have you to treat a man like that? an honest respectable husband? as if he were dirt under your feet?
Knox	Let her alone, Gilbey. Gilbey sits down, but mutinously.
Mrs. Knox	Well, you gave me all you could, Jo; and if it wasn’t what I wanted, that wasn’t your fault. But I’d rather have you as you were than since you took to whisky and soda.
Knox	I don’t want any whisky and soda. I’ll take the pledge if you like.
Mrs. Knox	No: you shall have your beer because you like it. The whisky was only brag. And if you and me are to remain friends, Mr. Gilbey, you’ll get up tomorrow morning at seven.
Gilbey	Defiantly. Damn if I will! There!
Mrs. Knox	With gentle pity. How do you know, Mr. Gilbey, what you’ll do tomorrow morning?
Gilbey	Why shouldn’t I know? Are we children not to be let do what we like, and our own sons and daughters kicking their heels all over the place? To Knox. I was never one to interfere between man and wife, Knox; but if Maria started ordering me about like that⁠—
Mrs. Gilbey	Now don’t be naughty, Rob. You know you mustn’t set yourself up against religion?
Gilbey	Whos setting himself up against religion?
Mrs. Knox	It doesn’t matter whether you set yourself up against it or not, Mr. Gilbey. If it sets itself up against you, you’ll have to go the appointed way: it’s no use quarrelling about it with me that am as great a sinner as yourself.
Gilbey	Oh, indeed! And who told you I was a sinner?
Mrs. Gilbey	Now, Rob, you know we are all sinners. What else is religion?
Gilbey	I say nothing against religion. I suppose we're all sinners, in a manner of speaking; but I don’t like to have it thrown at me as if I’d really done anything.
Mrs. Gilbey	Mrs. Knox is speaking for your good, Rob.
Gilbey	Well, I don’t like to be spoken to for my good. Would anybody like it?
Mrs. Knox	Don’t take offence where none is meant, Mr. Gilbey. Talk about something else. No good ever comes of arguing about such things among the like of us.
Knox	The like of us! Are you throwing it in our teeth that your people were in the wholesale and thought Knox and Gilbey wasn’t good enough for you?
Mrs. Knox	No, Jo: you know I’m not. What better were my people than yours, for all their pride? But I’ve noticed it all my life: we’re ignorant. We don’t really know what’s right and what’s wrong. We’re all right as long as things go on the way they always did. We bring our children up just as we were brought up; and we go to church or chapel just as our parents did; and we say what everybody says; and it goes on all right until something out of the way happens: there’s a family quarrel, or one of the children goes wrong, or a father takes to drink, or an aunt goes mad, or one of us finds ourselves doing something we never thought we’d want to do. And then you know what happens: complaints and quarrels and huff and offence and bad language and bad temper and regular bewilderment as if Satan possessed us all. We find out then that with all our respectability and piety, we’ve no real religion and no way of telling right from wrong. We’ve nothing but our habits; and when they’re upset, where are we? Just like Peter in the storm trying to walk on the water and finding he couldn’t.
Mrs. Gilbey	Piously. Aye! He found out, didn’t he?
Gilbey	Reverently. I never denied that you’ve a great intellect, Mrs. Knox⁠—
Mrs. Knox	Oh get along with you, Gilbey, if you begin talking about my intellect. Give us some tea, Maria. I’ve said my say; and I’m sure I beg the company’s pardon for being so long about it, and so disagreeable.
Mrs. Gilbey	Ring, Rob. Gilbey rings. Stop. Juggins will think we’re ringing for him.
Gilbey	Appalled. It’s too late. I rang before I thought of it.
Mrs. Gilbey	Step down and apologize, Rob.
Knox	Is it him that you said was brother to a⁠—
	Juggins comes in with the tea-tray. All rise. He takes the tray to Mrs. Gilbey.
Gilbey	I didn’t mean to ask you to do this, Mr. Juggins. I wasn’t thinking when I rang.
Mrs. Gilbey	Trying to take the tray from him. Let me, Juggins.
Juggins	Please sit down, madam. Allow me to discharge my duties just as usual, sir. I assure you that is the correct thing. They sit down, ill at ease, whilst he places the tray on the table. He then goes out for the curate.
Knox	Lowering his voice. Is this all right, Gilbey? Anybody may be the son of a duke, you know. Is he legitimate?
Gilbey	Good lord! I never thought of that.
	Juggins returns with the cakes. They regard him with suspicion.
Gilbey	Whispering to Knox. You ask him.
Knox	To Juggins. Just a word with you, my man. Was your mother married to your father?
Juggins	I believe so, sir. I can’t say from personal knowledge. It was before my time.
Gilbey	Well, but look here you know⁠—He hesitates.
Juggins	Yes, sir?
Knox	I know whatll clinch it, Gilbey. You leave it to me. To Juggins. Was your mother the duchess?
Juggins	Yes, sir. Quite correct, sir, I assure you. To Mrs. Gilbey. That is the milk, madam. She has mistaken the jugs. This is the water.
	They stare at him in pitiable embarrassment.
Mrs. Knox	What did I tell you? Here’s something out of the common happening with a servant; and we none of us know how to behave.
Juggins	It’s quite simple, madam. I’m a footman, and should be treated as a footman. He proceeds calmly with his duties, handing round cups of tea as Mrs. Knox* fills them.*
	Shrieks of laughter from below stairs reach the ears of the company.
Mrs. Gilbey	What’s that noise? Is Master Bobby at home? I heard his laugh.
Mrs. Knox	I’m sure I heard Margaret’s.
Gilbey	Not a bit of it. It was that woman.
Juggins	I can explain, sir. I must ask you to excuse the liberty; but I’m entertaining a small party to tea in my pantry.
Mrs. Gilbey	But you’re not entertaining Master Bobby?
Juggins	Yes, madam.
Gilbey	Who’s with him?
Juggins	Miss Knox, sir.
Gilbey	Miss Knox! Are you sure? Is there anyone else?
Juggins	Only a French marine officer, sir, and⁠—er⁠—Miss Delaney. He places Gilbey’s* tea on the table before him.* The lady that called about Master Bobby, sir.
Knox	Do you mean to say they’re having a party all to themselves downstairs, and we having a party up here and knowing nothing about it?
Juggins	Yes, sir. I have to do a good deal of entertaining in the pantry for Master Bobby, sir.
Gilbey	Well, this is a nice state of things!
Knox	What’s the meaning of it? What do they do it for?
Juggins	To enjoy themselves, sir, I should think.
Mrs. Gilbey	Enjoy themselves! Did ever anybody hear of such a thing?
Gilbey	Knox’s daughter shown into my pantry!
Knox	Margaret mixing with a Frenchman and a footman⁠—Suddenly realizing that the footman is offering him cake. She doesn’t know about⁠—about His Grace, you know.
Mrs. Gilbey	Perhaps she does. Does she, Mr. Juggins?
Juggins	The other lady suspects me, madam. They call me Rudolph, or the Long Lost Heir.
Mrs. Gilbey	It’s a much nicer name than Juggins. I think I’ll call you by it, if you don’t mind.
Juggins	Not at all, madam.
	Roars of merriment from below.
Gilbey	Go and tell them to stop laughing. What right have they to make a noise like that?
Juggins	I asked them not to laugh so loudly, sir. But the French gentleman always sets them off again.
Knox	Do you mean to tell me that my daughter laughs at a Frenchman’s jokes?
Gilbey	We all know what French jokes are.
Juggins	Believe me: you do not, sir. The noise this afternoon has all been because the Frenchman said that the cat had whooping cough.
Mrs. Gilbey	Laughing heartily. Well, I never!
Gilbey	Don’t be a fool, Maria. Look here, Knox: we can’t let this go on. People can’t be allowed to behave like this.
Knox	Just what I say.
	A concertina adds its music to the revelry.
Mrs. Gilbey	Excited. That’s the squiffer. He’s bought it for her.
Gilbey	Well, of all the scandalous⁠—Redoubled laughter from below.
Knox	I’ll put a stop to this. He goes out to the landing and shouts: Margaret! Sudden dead silence. Margaret, I say!
Margaret’s voice	Yes, father. Shall we all come up? We’re dying to.
Knox	Come up and be ashamed of yourselves, behaving like wild Indians.
Dora’s voice	Screaming. Oh! oh! oh! Don’t Bobby. Now⁠—oh! In headlong flight she dashes into and right across the room, breathless, and slightly abashed by the company. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Gilbey, for coming in like that; but whenever I go upstairs in front of Bobby, he pretends it’s a cat biting my ankles; and I just must scream.
	Bobby and Margaret enter rather more shyly, but evidently in high spirits. Bobby places himself near his father, on the hearthrug, and presently slips down into the armchair.
Margaret	How do you do, Mrs. Gilbey? She posts herself behind her mother.
	Duvallet comes in behaving himself perfectly. Knox follows.
Margaret	Oh⁠—let me introduce. My friend Lieutenant Duvallet. Mrs. Gilbey. Mr. Gilbey. Duvallet bows and sits down on Mr. Knox’s left, Juggins placing a chair for him.
Dora	Now, Bobby: introduce me: there’s a dear.
Bobby	A little nervous about it; but trying to keep up his spirits. Miss Delaney: Mr. and Mrs. Knox. Knox, as he resumes his seat, acknowledges the introduction suspiciously. Mrs. Knox bows gravely, looking keenly at Dora and taking her measure without prejudice.
Dora	Pleased to meet you. Juggins places the baby rocking-chair for her on Mrs. Gilbey’s right, opposite Mrs. Knox. Thank you. She sits and turns to Mrs. Gilbey. Bobby’s given me the squiffer. To the company generally. Do you know what they’ve been doing downstairs? She goes off into ecstasies of mirth. You’d never guess. They’ve been trying to teach me table manners. The Lieutenant and Rudolph say I’m a regular pig. I’m sure I never knew there was anything wrong with me. But live and learn to Gilbey eh, old dear?
Juggins	Old dear is not correct, Miss Delaney. He retires to the end of the sideboard nearest the door.
Dora	Oh get out! I must call a man something. He doesn’t mind: do you, Charlie?
Mrs. Gilbey	His name isn’t Charlie.
Dora	Excuse me. I call everybody Charlie.
Juggins	You mustn’t.
Dora	Oh, if I were to mind you, I should have to hold my tongue altogether; and then how sorry you’d be! Lord, how I do run on! Don’t mind me, Mrs. Gilbey.
Knox	What I want to know is, what’s to be the end of this? It’s not for me to interfere between you and your son, Gilbey: he knows his own intentions best, no doubt, and perhaps has told them to you. But I’ve my daughter to look after; and it’s my duty as a parent to have a clear understanding about her. No good is ever done by beating about the bush. I ask Lieutenant⁠—well, I don’t speak French; and I can’t pronounce the name⁠—
Margaret	Mr. Duvallet, father.
Knox	I ask Mr. Doovalley what his intentions are.
Margaret	Oh father: how can you?
Duvallet	I’m afraid my knowledge of English is not enough to understand. Intentions? How?
Margaret	He wants to know will you marry me.
Mrs. Gilbey	What a thing to say!
Knox	Silence, miss.
Dora	Well, that’s straight, ain’t it?
Duvallet	But I am married already. I have two daughters.
Knox	Rising, virtuously indignant. You sit there after carrying on with my daughter, and tell me coolly you’re married.
Margaret	Papa: you really must not tell people that they sit there. He sits down again sulkily.
Duvallet	Pardon. Carrying on? What does that mean?
Margaret	It means⁠—
Knox	Violently. Hold your tongue, you shameless young hussy. Don’t you dare say what it means.
Duvallet	Shrugging his shoulders. What does it mean, Rudolph?
Mrs. Knox	If it’s not proper for her to say, it’s not proper for a man to say, either. Mr. Doovalley: you’re a married man with daughters. Would you let them go about with a stranger, as you are to us, without wanting to know whether he intended to behave honorably?
Duvallet	Ah, madam, my daughters are French girls. That is very different. It would not be correct for a French girl to go about alone and speak to men as English and American girls do. That is why I so immensely admire the English people. You are so free⁠—so unprejudiced⁠—your women are so brave and frank⁠—their minds are so⁠—how do you say?⁠—wholesome. I intend to have my daughters educated in England. Nowhere else in the world but in England could I have met at a Variety Theatre a charming young lady of perfect respectability, and enjoyed a dance with her at a public dancing saloon. And where else are women trained to box and knock out the teeth of policemen as a protest against injustice and violence? Rising, with immense elan. Your daughter, madam, is superb. Your country is a model to the rest of Europe. If you were a Frenchman, stifled with prudery, hypocrisy and the tyranny of the family and the home, you would understand how an enlightened Frenchman admires and envies your freedom, your broadmindedness, and the fact that home life can hardly be said to exist in England. You have made an end of the despotism of the parent; the family council is unknown to you; everywhere in these islands one can enjoy the exhilarating, the soul-liberating spectacle of men quarrelling with their brothers, defying their fathers, refusing to speak to their mothers. In France we are not men: we are only sons⁠—grown-up children. Here one is a human being⁠—an end in himself. Oh, Mrs. Knox, if only your military genius were equal to your moral genius⁠—if that conquest of Europe by France which inaugurated the new age after the Revolution had only been an English conquest, how much more enlightened the world would have been now! We, alas, can only fight. France is unconquerable. We impose our narrow ideas, our prejudices, our obsolete institutions, our insufferable pedantry on the world by brute force⁠—by that stupid quality of military heroism which shows how little we have evolved from the savage: nay, from the beast. We can charge like bulls; we can spring on our foes like gamecocks; when we are overpowered by reason, we can die fighting like rats. And we are foolish enough to be proud of it! Why should we be? Does the bull progress? Can you civilize the gamecock? Is there any future for the rat? We can’t even fight intelligently: when we lose battles, it is because we have not sense enough to know when we are beaten. At Waterloo, had we known when we were beaten, we should have retreated; tried another plan; and won the battle. But no: we were too pigheaded to admit that there is anything impossible to a Frenchman: we were quite satisfied when our Marshals had six horses shot under them, and our stupid old grognards died fighting rather than surrender like reasonable beings. Think of your great Wellington: think of his inspiring words, when the lady asked him whether British soldiers ever ran away. “All soldiers run away, madam,” he said; “but if there are supports for them to fall back on it does not matter.” Think of your illustrious Nelson, always beaten on land, always victorious at sea, where his men could not run away. You are not dazzled and misled by false ideals of patriotic enthusiasm: your honest and sensible statesmen demand for England a two-power standard, even a three-power standard, frankly admitting that it is wise to fight three to one: whilst we, fools and braggarts as we are, declare that every Frenchman is a host in himself, and that when one Frenchman attacks three Englishmen he is guilty of an act of cowardice comparable to that of the man who strikes a woman. It is folly: it is nonsense: a Frenchman is not really stronger than a German, than an Italian, even than an Englishman. Sir: if all Frenchwomen were like your daughter⁠—if all Frenchmen had the good sense, the power of seeing things as they really are, the calm judgment, the open mind, the philosophic grasp, the foresight and true courage, which are so natural to you as an Englishman that you are hardly conscious of possessing them, France would become the greatest nation in the world.
Margaret	Three cheers for old England! She shakes hands with him warmly.
Bobby	Hurra-a-ay! And so say all of us.
	Duvallet, having responded to Margaret’s handshake with enthusiasm, kisses Juggins on both cheeks, and sinks into his chair, wiping his perspiring brow.
Gilbey	Well, this sort of talk is above me. Can you make anything out of it, Knox?
Knox	The long and short of it seems to be that he can’t lawfully marry my daughter, as he ought after going to prison with her.
Dora	I’m ready to marry Bobby, if that will be any satisfaction.
Gilbey	No you don’t. Not if I know it.
Mrs. Knox	He ought to, Mr. Gilbey.
Gilbey	Well, if that’s your religion, Amelia Knox, I want no more of it. Would you invite them to your house if he married her?
Mrs. Knox	He ought to marry her whether or no.
Bobby	I feel I ought to, Mrs. Knox.
Gilbey	Hold your tongue. Mind your own business.
Bobby	Wildly. If I’m not let marry her, I’ll do something downright disgraceful. I’ll enlist as a soldier.
Juggins	That is not a disgrace, sir.
Bobby	Not for you, perhaps. But you’re only a footman. I’m a gentleman.
Mrs. Gilbey	Don’t dare to speak disrespectfully to Mr. Rudolph, Bobby. For shame!
Juggins	Coming forward to the middle of the table. It is not gentlemanly to regard the service of your country as disgraceful. It is gentlemanly to marry the lady you make love to.
Gilbey	Aghast. My boy is to marry this woman and be a social outcast!
Juggins	Your boy and Miss Delaney will be inexorably condemned by respectable society to spend the rest of their days in precisely the sort of company they seem to like best and be most at home in.
Knox	And my daughter? Whos to marry my daughter?
Juggins	Your daughter, sir, will probably marry whoever she makes up her mind to marry. She is a lady of very determined character.
Knox	Yes: if he’d have her with her character gone. But who would? You’re the brother of a duke. Would⁠—
Bobby	What’s that?
Margaret	Juggins a duke?
Duvallet	Comment!
Dora	What did I tell you?
Knox	Yes: the brother of a duke: that’s what he is. To Juggins. Well, would you marry her?
Juggins	I was about to propose that solution of your problem, Mr. Knox.
Mrs. Gilbey	Well I never!
Knox	D’ye mean it?
Mrs. Knox	Marry Margaret!
Juggins	Continuing. As an idle younger son, unable to support myself, or even to remain in the Guards in competition with the grandsons of American millionaires, I could not have aspired to Miss Knox’s hand. But as a sober, honest, and industrious domestic servant, who has, I trust, given satisfaction to his employer he bows to Mr. Gilbey I feel I am a man with a character. It is for Miss Knox to decide.
Margaret	I got into a frightful row once for admiring you, Rudolph.
Juggins	I should have got into an equally frightful row myself, Miss, had I betrayed my admiration for you. I looked forward to those weekly dinners.
Mrs. Knox	But why did a gentleman like you stoop to be a footman?
Dora	He stooped to conquer.
Margaret	Shut up, Dora: I want to hear.
Juggins	I will explain; but only Mrs. Knox will understand. I once insulted a servant⁠—rashly; for he was a sincere Christian. He rebuked me for trifling with a girl of his own class. I told him to remember what he was, and to whom he was speaking. He said God would remember. I discharged him on the spot.
Gilbey	Very properly.
Knox	What right had he to mention such a thing to you?
Mrs. Gilbey	What are servants coming to?
Mrs. Knox	Did it come true, what he said?
Juggins	It stuck like a poisoned arrow. It rankled for months. Then I gave in. I apprenticed myself to an old butler of ours who kept a hotel. He taught me my present business, and got me a place as footman with Mr. Gilbey. If ever I meet that man again I shall be able to look him in the face.
Mrs. Knox	Margaret: it’s not on account of the duke: dukes are vanities. But take my advice and take him.
Margaret	Slipping her arm through his. I have loved Juggins since the first day I beheld him. I felt instinctively he had been in the Guards. May he walk out with me, Mr. Gilbey?
Knox	Don’t be vulgar, girl. Remember your new position. To Juggins. I suppose you’re serious about this, Mr.⁠—Mr. Rudolph?
Juggins	I propose, with your permission, to begin keeping company this afternoon, if Mrs. Gilbey can spare me.
Gilbey	In a gust of envy, to Bobby. It’ll be long enough before you’ll marry the sister of a duke, you young good-for-nothing.
Dora	Don’t fret, old dear. Rudolph will teach me high-class manners. I call it quite a happy ending: don’t you, lieutenant?
Duvallet	In France it would be impossible. But here⁠—ah! Kissing his hand. la belle Angleterre!