she was. Was Mr. Pet lonely this morning? Couldn't he keep away from his little cooky-lecturer? He should see his little cooky-lecturer.
James. And that reminds me, hadn't we better lunch in the train instead of at Willis's? That will give us more time?
Rosamund. Horrid greedy piggywiggy! Perhaps he will be satisfied if Mrs. Pet agrees to lunch both at Willis's and in the train?
James. Yes. Only piggywiggy doesn't want to trespass on Mrs. Pet's good nature. Let piggywiggy look at the papers. [He takes up a paper from the desk.]
Rosamund [a little seriously]. No, Jimmy. I don't think we'll go through them. Perhaps it wouldn't be wise. Just let's destroy them. [Takes papers from his hand and drops them in desk.]
James [sternly]. When you have been the wife of a War Office clerk for a week you will know that papers ought never to be destroyed. Now I come to think, it is not only my right but my duty to examine this secret dossier. Who knows—[Takes up at random another document, which proves to be a postcard. Reads.] "Shall come to-morrow night. Thine, Gerald."
Rosamund [after a startled shriek of consternation]. There! There! You've done it, first time! [She begins to think, with knitted brows.]
James. Does this highly suspicious postcard point to some—some episode in your past of which you have deemed it advisable to keep me in ignorance? If so, I seek not to inquire. I forgive you—I take you, Rosamund, as you are!
Rosamund [reflective, not heeding his remark]. I had absolutely forgotten the whole affair, absolutely. [Smiles a little. Aside.] Suppose he should come! [To James.] Jim, I think I had better tell you all about Gerald. It will interest you. Besides, there is no knowing what may happen.
James. As I have said, I seek not to inquire. [Stiffly.] Nor do I imagine that this matter, probably some childish entanglement, would interest me.
Rosamund. Oh, wouldn't it! Jim, don't be absurd. You know perfectly well you are dying to hear.
James. Very well, save my life, then, at the least expense of words. To begin with, who is this Gerald—"thine," thine own Gerald?
Rosamund. Don't you remember Gerald O'Mara? You met him at the Stokes's, I feel sure. You know—the young engineer.
James. Oh! That ass!
Rosamund. He isn't an ass. He's a very clever boy.
James. For the sake of argument and dispatch, agreed! Went out to Cyprus or somewhere, didn't he, to build a bridge, or make a dock, or dig a well, or something of that kind?
Rosamund [nodding]. Now, listen, I'll tell you all about it. [Settles herself for a long narration.] Four years ago poor, dear Gerald was madly in love with me. He was twenty and I was twenty-four. Keep calm—I felt like his aunt. Don't forget I was awfully pretty in those days. Well, he was so tremendously in love that in order to keep him from destroying himself—of course, I knew he was going out to Cyprus—I sort of pretended to be sympathetic. I simply had to; Irishmen are so passionate. And he was very nice. And I barely knew you then. Well, the time approached for him to leave for Cyprus, and two days before the ship sailed he sent me that very postcard that by pure chance you picked up.
James. He should have written a letter.
Rosamund. Oh! I expect he couldn't wait. He was so impulsive. Well, on the night before he left England he came here and proposed to me. I remember I was awfully tired and queer. I had been giving a lecture in the afternoon on "How to Pickle Pork," and the practical demonstration had been rather smelly. However, the proposal braced me up. It was the first I had had—that year. Well, I was so sorry for him that I couldn't say "No" outright. It would have been too brutal. He might have killed himself on the spot, and spoilt this carpet, which, by the way, was new then. So I said, "Look here, Gerald—"
James. You called him "Gerald"?
Rosamund. Rather! "Look here, Gerald," I said; "you are going to Cyprus for four years. If your feeling towards me is what you think it is, come back to me at the end of those four years, and I will then give you an answer." Of course I felt absolutely sure that in the intervening period he would fall in and out of love half a dozen times at least.
James. Of course, half a dozen times at least; probably seven. What did he say in reply?
Rosamund. He agreed with all the seriousness in the world. "On this day four years hence," he said, standing just there [pointing], "I will return for your answer. And in the meantime I will live only for you." That was what he said—his very words.
James. And a most touching speech, too! And then?
Rosamund. We shook hands, and he tore himself away, stifling a sob. Don't forget, he was a boy.
James. Have the four years expired?
Rosamund. What is the date of that postcard? Let me see it. [Snatches it, and smiles at the handwriting pensively.] July 4th—four years ago.
James. Then it's over. He's not coming. To-day is July 5th.
Rosamund. But yesterday was Sunday. He wouldn't come on Sunday. He was always very particular and nice.
James. Do you mean to imply that you think he will come to-day and demand from you an affirmative? A moment ago you gave me to understand that in your opinion he would have—er—other affairs to attend to.
Rosamund. Yes. I did think so at the time. But now—now I have a kind of idea that he may come, that after all he may have remained faithful. You know I was maddeningly pretty then, and he had my photograph.
James. Tell me, have you corresponded?
Rosamund. No, I expressly forbade it.
James. Ah!
Rosamund. But still, I have a premonition he may come.
James [assuming a pugnacious pose]. If he does, I will attend to him.
Rosamund. Gerald was a terrible fighter. [A resounding knock is heard at the door. Both start violently, and look at each other in silence. Rosamund goes to the door and opens it.]
Rosamund [with an unsteady laugh of relief]. Only the postman with a letter. [She returns to her seat.] No, I don't expect he will come, really. [Puts letter idly on table. Another knock still louder. Renewed start.]
Rosamund. Now that is he, I'm positive. He always knocked like that. Just fancy. After four years! Jim, just take the chair behind that screen for a bit. I must hide you.
James. No, thanks! The screen dodge is a trifle too frayed at the edges.
Rosamund. Only for a minute. It would be such fun.
James. No, thanks. [Another knock.]
Rosamund [with forced sweetness]. Oh, very well, then....
James. Oh, well, of course, if you take it in that way—[He proceeds to a chair behind screen, which does not, however, hide him from the audience.]
