Vernon.
Aren’t you fond of the country?
Grace.
[Vehemently.] I hate it! I hate it with all my heart and soul.
Claude.
My dear Grace, what are you saying?
Grace.
It bores me. It bores me stiff. Those endless trees, and those dreary meadows, and those ploughed fields. Oh!
Edith.
I don’t think I could ever get tired of the view from your dining-room.
Grace.
Not if you saw it for three meals a day for ten years? Oh, my dear, you don’t know what that view is like at an early breakfast on a winter’s morning. You sit there looking at it, with icy fingers, wondering if your nose is red, while your husband reads morning prayers, because his father read morning prayers before him; and the sky looks as if it were going to sink down and crush you.
Claude.
You can’t expect sunshine all the year round, can you?
Grace.
[Smiling.] True, O King!
Edith.
Well, I’m a Cockney, and I feel inclined to fall down on my very knees and worship those big trees in your park. Oh, what a night!
Miss Vernon.
In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise. …
[Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis go out. Grace is left alone with her husband.
Grace.
What on earth was Gann doing here?
Claude.
I had something to say to him.
Grace.
May I know what?
Claude.
It would only bore you.
Grace.
That wouldn’t be a new experience.
Claude.
I say, you’re looking jolly to-night, darling.
Grace.
It’s kind of you to say so.
Claude.
Were you pleased with the necklace I gave you this morning?
Grace.
[Smiling.] Surely I said so at the time.
Claude.
I was rather hoping you’d wear it to-night.
Grace.
It wouldn’t have gone with my frock.
Claude.
You might have put it on all the same.
Grace.
You see, your example hasn’t been lost on me. I’ve learnt to put propriety before sentiment.
Claude.
[Rather shyly.] I should have thought, if you cared for me, you wouldn’t have minded.
Grace.
Are you reproaching me?
Claude.
No!
Grace.
Only?
Claude.
Hang it all, I can’t help wishing sometimes you’d seem as if—you were fond of me, don’t you know.
Grace.
If you’ll point out anything you particularly object to in my behaviour, I’ll try to change it.
Claude.
My dear, I don’t want much, do I?
Grace.
I don’t know why you should choose this particular time to make a scene.
Claude.
Hang it all, I’m not making a scene!
Grace.
I beg your pardon, I forgot that only women make scenes.
Claude.
I only wanted to tell you that I’m just about as fond of you as I can stick.
Grace.
[Suddenly touched.] After ten years of holy matrimony?
Claude.
It seems about ten days to me.
Grace.
Good God, to me it seems a lifetime.
Claude.
I say, Grace, what d’you mean by that?
Grace.
[Recovering herself.] Oughtn’t you to go back to the dining-room? Your brother and Mr. Cobbett will be boring one another.
[Claude looks at her for a moment, then rises and goes out. Grace clenches her hands, and an expression of utter wretchedness crosses her face. She passes her hand across her eyes with an impatient gesture, as if she were trying to shake herself free from some torturing thought. Moore comes in with coffee on a salver.
Grace.
Put it down on the table.
Moore.
Yes, madam.
Grace.
Miss Vernon’s in the garden with Miss Lewis. Will you tell them that coffee is here?
Moore.
Very
