MRS. FULLARTON. Yes, lovely, Clare. [FULLARTON abases eyes which mechanically readjust themselves] We can't stay for Bridge, my dear; I just wanted to see you a minute, that's all. [Seeing HUNTINGDON coming in she speaks in a low voice to her husband] Edward, I want to speak to Clare. How d'you do, Captain Huntingdon?
MALISE. I'll say good-night.
He shakes hands with CLARE, bows to MRS. FULLARTON, and makes his way out. HUNTINGDON and FULLERTON foregather in the doorway.
MRS. FULLARTON. How are things, Clare? [CLARE just moves her shoulders] Have you done what I suggested? Your room?
CLARE. No.
MRS. FULLARTON. Why not?
CLARE. I don't want to torture him. If I strike—I'll go clean. I expect I shall strike.
MRS. FULLARTON. My dear! You'll have the whole world against you.
CLARE. Even you won't back me, Dolly?
MRS. FULLARTON. Of course I'll back you, all that's possible, but I can't invent things.
CLARE. You wouldn't let me come to you for a bit, till I could find my feet?
MRS. FULLARTON, taken aback, cannot refrain from her glance at
FULLARTON automatically gazing at CLARE while he talks with
HUNTINGDON.
MRS. FULLARTON. Of course—the only thing is that——
CLARE. [With a faint smile] It's all right, Dolly. I'm not coming.
MRS. FULLARTON. Oh! don't do anything desperate, Clare—you are so desperate sometimes. You ought to make terms—not tracks.
CLARE. Haggle? [She shakes her head] What have I got to make terms with? What he still wants is just what I hate giving.
MRS. FULLARTON. But, Clare——
CLARE. No, Dolly; even you don't understand. All day and every day—just as far apart as we can be—and still—Jolly, isn't it? If you've got a soul at all.
MRS. FULLARTON. It's awful, really.
CLARE. I suppose there are lots of women who feel as I do, and go on with it; only, you see, I happen to have something in me that—comes to an end. Can't endure beyond a certain time, ever.
She has taken a flower from her dress, and suddenly tears it to
bits. It is the only sign of emotion she has given.
MRS. FULLARTON. [Watching] Look here, my child; this won't do. You must get a rest. Can't Reggie take you with him to India for a bit?
CLARE. [Shaking her head] Reggie lives on his pay.
MRS. FULLARTON. [With one of her quick looks] That was Mr. Malise, then?
FULLARTON. [Coming towards them] I say, Mrs. Dedmond, you wouldn't sing me that little song you sang the other night, [He hums] "If I might be the falling bee and kiss thee all the day"? Remember?
MRS. FULLARTON. "The falling dew," Edward. We simply must go,
Clare. Good-night. [She kisses her.]
FULLARTON. [Taking half-cover between his wife and CLARE] It suits you down to the ground-that dress.
CLARE. Good-night.
HUNTINGDON sees them out. Left alone CLARE clenches her hands, moves swiftly across to the window, and stands looking out.
HUNTINGDON. [Returning] Look here, Clare!
CLARE. Well, Reggie?
HUNTINGDON. This is working up for a mess, old girl. You can't do this kind of thing with impunity. No man'll put up with it. If you've got anything against George, better tell me. [CLARE shakes her head] You ought to know I should stick by you. What is it? Come?
CLARE. Get married, and find out after a year that she's the wrong person; so wrong that you can't exchange a single real thought; that your blood runs cold when she kisses you—then you'll know.
HUNTINGDON. My dear old girl, I don't want to be a brute; but it's a bit difficult to believe in that, except in novels.
CLARE. Yes, incredible, when you haven't tried.
HUNTINGDON. I mean, you—you chose him yourself. No one forced you to marry him.
CLARE. It does seem monstrous, doesn't it?
HUNTINGDON. My dear child, do give us a reason.
CLARE. Look! [She points out at the night and the darkening towers] If George saw that for the first time he'd just say, "Ah, Westminster! Clock Tower! Can you see the time by it?" As if one cared where or what it was—beautiful like that! Apply that to every—every—everything.
HUNTINGDON. [Staring] George may be a bit prosaic. But, my dear old girl, if that's all——
CLARE. It's not all—it's nothing. I can't explain, Reggie—it's not reason, at all; it's—it's like being underground in a damp cell; it's like knowing you'll never get out. Nothing coming—never anything coming again-never anything.
HUNTINGDON. [Moved and puzzled] My dear old thing; you mustn't get into fantods like this. If it's like that, don't think about it.
CLARE. When every day and every night!—Oh! I know it's my fault for having married him, but that doesn't help.
HUNTINGDON. Look here! It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent chap. And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent on him. At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep going.
CLARE. I know.
HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it awfully.
CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home long ago.
HUNTINGDON. Well, what's to be done? If my pay would run to it—but it simply won't.
CLARE. Thanks, old boy, of course not.
HUNTINGDON. Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?
CLARE. I do. Oh! don't let's talk about it.
HUNTINGDON. Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go sailing near the wind, will you? I mean, there are fellows always on the lookout.
CLARE. "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!" Why?
HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New Woman and that kind of thing—haven't been brought up to it.
CLARE. British home-made summer goods, light
