pity me, too. I've had a great deal too much pity. I don't want it. Basil married me from pity. Oh, I wish he hadn't. I can't stand the unhappiness.
John.
[Gravely.] You know, Jenny, he's a man of honour.
Jenny.
Oh, I know he's a man of honour. I wish he had a little less of it. One doesn't want a lot of fine sentiments in married life. They don't work.... Oh, why couldn't I fall in love with a man of my own class? I should have been so much happier. I used to be so proud that Basil wasn't a clerk, or something in the City. He's right, we shall never be happy.
John.
[Trying to calm her.] Oh, yes, you will. You mustn't take things too seriously.
Jenny.
It isn't a matter of yesterday, or to-day, or to-morrow. I can't alter myself. He knew I wasn't a lady when he married me. My father had to bring up five children on two-ten a week. You can't expect a man to send his daughters to a boarding-school at Brighton on that, and have them finished in Paris.... He doesn't say a word when I do something or say something a lady wouldn't—but he purses up his lips, and looks.... Then I get so mad that I do things just to aggravate him. Sometimes I try to be vulgar. One learns a good deal in a bar in the City, and I know so well the things to say that'll make Basil curl up. I want to get a bit of revenge out of him sometimes, and I know exactly where he's raw and where I can hurt him. [With a laugh of scorn.] You should see the way he looks when I don't eat properly, or when I call a man a Johnny.
John.
[Drily.] It opens up endless possibilities of domestic unhappiness.
Jenny.
Oh, I know it isn't fair to him, but I lose my head. I can't always be refined. Sometimes I can't help breaking out. I feel I must let myself go.
John.
Why don't you separate, then?
Jenny.
Because I love him. Oh, John, you don't know how I love him. I'd do anything to make him happy. I'd give my life if he wanted it. Oh, I can't say it, but when I think of him my heart burns so that sometimes I can hardly breathe. I can never show him that he's all in the world to me; I try to make him love me, and I only make him hate me. What can I do to show him? Ah, if he only knew, I'm sure he'd not regret that he married me. I feel—I feel as if my heart was full of music, and yet something prevents me from ever bringing it out.
John.
D'you think he means it seriously when he talks of separation?
Jenny.
He's been brooding over it. I know him so well, I knew there was something he was thinking over. Oh, John, I couldn't live without him. I'd rather die. If he leaves me, I swear I'll kill myself.
John.
[Walking up and down.] I wish I could help you. I don't see anything I can do.
Jenny.
Oh, yes, there is. Speak to your sister-in-law. Ask her to have mercy on me. Perhaps she doesn't know what she's doing. Tell her I love him.... Take care. There's Basil. If he knew what I'd said he'd never speak to me again.
[Basil comes in, dressed in a frock-coat; with a tall hat in his hand.
Basil.
I'm ready. We've just got time to catch the train.
John.
All right. Good-bye, Mrs. Kent.
Jenny.
[Keeping her eyes fixed on Basil.] Good-bye.
[The two men go out. Jenny runs to the door and calls out.
Jenny.
Basil, I want you a moment, Basil!
[Basil appears at the door.
Jenny.
Are you really going to Chancery Lane?
[Basil makes a movement of impatience and goes out again without answering.
Jenny.
[Alone.] Oh, well, I'm going to see that for myself. [Calling to the Maid.] Fanny!... Bring my hat and my jacket. Quick!
[She runs to the window and looks out at Basil and John going away. Fanny appears with the clothes. Jenny hurriedly puts them on.
Jenny.
[As Fanny is helping her.] What time is it?
Fanny.
[Looking up at the clock.] Five minutes past four.
Jenny.
I think I can catch it. He said 4.15.
Fanny.
Will you be in to tea, mum?
Jenny.
I don't know. [She runs to the door and rushes out.]
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
THE THIRD ACT
The Same Afternoon.
[A luxuriously furnished drawing-room at Mrs. Murray's house in Charles Street, Mayfair. Everything in it is beautiful, but suggests in the owner good taste rather than originality.]
[Hilda is seated near a tea-table, elaborately gowned, and with her is Mabel. Mr. Robert Brackley is sitting down, a stout, round-faced man, clean-shaven and very bald; about forty; he is attired in the height of fashion, in a frock-coat, patent-leather boots and an eye-glass. He talks very quickly, in a careless frivolous fashion, and is always much amused at what he says.]
Mabel.
What is the time, Mr. Brackley?
Brackley.
I shan't tell you again.
Mabel.
How brutal of you!
Brackley.
There's something unhealthy in your passion for information. I've already told you five times.
Hilda.
It's very unflattering to us who've been doing our little best to amuse you.
Mabel.
