[appealing to Gerald to interfere]. Gerald.
Gerald. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver is mine. It would be a serious breach of good manners if you used it without my consent, a social solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the instrument happens to be in your hand, you may use it—but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand in the way of another's happiness, as I should do if I continued to exist. At the same time I have conscientious objections to suicide. You will therefore do me a service by aiming straight. Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely mention it because I perceive that you are unaccustomed to the use of firearms. [Folds his arms.]
James. Rosamund, do you love me?
Rosamund. My Jim!
James [deeply moved]. The possessive pronoun convinces me that you do. [Smiling blandly.] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable demand. [Aims at Gerald.]
Rosamund [half shrieking]. I don't love you if you shoot Gerald.
James. But, my dear, this is irrational. He has asked me to shoot him, and I have as good as promised to do so.
Rosamund [entreating]. James, in two hours we are to be married.... Think of the complications.
Gerald. Married! To-day! Then I withdraw my request.
James. Yes; perhaps it will be as well. [Lowers revolver.]
Gerald. I have never yet knowingly asked a friend, even an acquaintance, to shoot me on his wedding-day, and I will not begin now. Moreover, now I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't loaded. Mr. Brett, I inadvertently put you in a ridiculous position. I apologize.
James. I accept the apology. [The general tension slackens. Both the men begin to whistle gently, in the effort after unconcern.]
Rosamund. Jim, will you oblige me by putting that revolver down somewhere. I know it isn't loaded; but so many people have been killed by guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer.... [He puts it down on the table.] Thank you!
James [picking up letter]. By the way, here's that letter that came just now. Aren't you going to open it? The writing seems to me to be something like Lottie Dickinson's.
Rosamund [taking the letter]. It isn't Lottie's; it's her sister's. [Stares at envelope.] I know what it is. I know what it is. Lottie is ill, or dead, or something, and can't come and be a witness at the wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if she's dead we can't be married to-day; it wouldn't be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have a wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black border on the envelope, so she can't be dead. And yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't time to buy mourning stationery! This is the result of your coming here this morning. I felt sure something would happen. Didn't I tell you so?
James. No, you didn't, my dear. But why don't you open the letter?
Rosamund. I am opening it as fast as I can. [Reads it hurriedly.] There! I said so! Lottie fell off her bicycle last night, and broke her ankle—won't be able to stir for a fortnight—in great pain—hopes it won't inconvenience us!
James. Inconvenience! I must say I regard it as very thoughtless of Lottie to go bicycling the very night before our wedding. Where did she fall off?
Rosamund. Sloane Street.
James. That makes it positively criminal. She always falls off in Sloane Street. She makes a regular practice of it. I have noticed it before.
Rosamund. Perhaps she did it on purpose.
James. Not a doubt of it!
Rosamund. She doesn't want us to get married!
James. I have sometimes suspected that she had a certain tenderness for me. [Endeavoring to look meek.]
Rosamund. The cat!
James. By no means. Cats are never sympathetic. She is. Let us be just before we are jealous.
Rosamund. Jealous! My dear James! Have you noticed how her skirts hang?
James. Hang her skirts!
Rosamund. You wish to defend her?
James. On the contrary; it was I who first accused her. [Gerald, to avoid the approaching storm, seeks the shelter of the screen, sits down, and taking some paper from his pocket begins thoughtfully to write.]
Rosamund. My dear James, let me advise you to keep quite, quite calm. You are a little bit upset.
James. I am a perfect cucumber. But I can hear you breathing.
Rosamund. If you are a cucumber, you are a very indelicate cucumber. I'm not breathing more than is necessary to sustain life.
James. Yes, you are; and what's more you'll cry in a minute if you don't take care. You're getting worked up.
Rosamund. No, I shan't. [Sits down and cries.]
James. What did I tell you? Now perhaps you will inform me what we are quarreling about, because I haven't the least idea.
Rosamund [through her sobs]. I do think it's horrid of Lottie. We can't be married with one witness. And I didn't want to be married at a registry office at all.
James. My pet, we can easily get another witness. As for the registry office, it was yourself who proposed it, as a way out of a difficulty. I'm High and you're Low—
Rosamund. I'm not Low; I'm Broad, or else Evangelical.
James [beginning calmly again]. I'm High and you're Broad, and there was a serious question about candles and a genuflexion, and so we decided on the registry office, which, after all, is much cheaper.
Rosamund [drying her tears, and putting on a saintly expression]. Well, anyhow, James, we will consider our engagement at an end.
James. This extraordinary tiff has lasted long enough, Rosie. Come and be kissed.
Rosamund [with increased saintliness]. You mistake me, James. I am not quarreling. I am not angry.
James. Then you have ceased to love me?
Rosamund. I adore you passionately. But we can never marry. Do you not perceive the warnings against such a course? First of all you come here—drawn by some mysterious, sinister impulse—in breach of all etiquette. That was a Sign.
James. A sign of what?
Rosamund. Evil. Then you find that postcard, to remind me of a forgotten episode.
James. Damn the postcard! I wish I'd never picked it up.
Rosamund. Hush! Then comes this letter about Lottie.
James. Damn that, too!
Rosamund [sighs]. Then Gerald arrives.
James.
