feeling against her. She’s very nice, very good-hearted: I’m very fond of her and can appreciate her real qualities far better than any man can. [He shakes his head sadly and turns to the bookcase, looking along the shelves for a volume. She follows him with intense pepperiness.] You don’t believe me? [He turns and faces her. She pounces at him with spitfire energy.] You think I’m jealous. Oh, what a profound knowledge of the human heart you have, Mr. Lexy Mill! How well you know the weaknesses of Woman, don’t you? It must be so nice to be a man and have a fine penetrating intellect instead of mere emotions like us, and to know that the reason we don’t share your amorous delusions is that we’re all jealous of one another! [She abandons him with a toss of her shoulders, and crosses to the fire to warm her hands.]
LEXY. Ah, if you women only had the same clue to Man’s strength that you have to his weakness, Miss Prossy, there would be no Woman Question.
PROSERPINE. [Over her shoulder, as she stoops, holding her hands to the blaze.] Where did you hear Morell say that? You didn’t invent it yourself: you’re not clever enough.
LEXY. That’s quite true. I am not ashamed of owing him that, as I owe him so many other spiritual truths. He said it at the annual conference of the Women’s Liberal Federation. Allow me to add that though they didn’t appreciate it, I, a mere man, did. [He turns to the bookcase again, hoping that this may leave her crushed.]
PROSERPINE. [Putting her hair straight at the little panel of mirror in the mantelpiece.] Well, when you talk to me, give me your own ideas, such as they are, and not his. You never cut a poorer figure than when you are trying to imitate him.
LEXY. [Stung.] I try to follow his example, not to imitate him.
PROSERPINE. [Coming at him again on her way back to her work.] Yes, you do: you imitate him. Why do you tuck your umbrella under your left arm instead of carrying it in your hand like anyone else? Why do you walk with your chin stuck out before you, hurrying along with that eager look in your eyes—you, who never get up before half past nine in the morning? Why do you say “knoaledge” in church, though you always say “knolledge” in private conversation! Bah! do you think I don’t know? [She goes back to the typewriter.] Here, come and set about your work: we’ve wasted enough time for one morning. Here’s a copy of the diary for to-day. [She hands him a memorandum.]
LEXY. [Deeply offended.] Thank you. [He takes it and stands at the table with his back to her, reading it. She begins to transcribe her shorthand notes on the typewriter without troubling herself about his feelings. Mr. Burgess enters unannounced. He is a man of sixty, made coarse and sordid by the compulsory selfishness of petty commerce, and later on softened into sluggish bumptiousness by overfeeding and commercial success. A vulgar, ignorant, guzzling man, offensive and contemptuous to people whose labor is cheap, respectful to wealth and rank, and quite sincere and without rancour or envy in both attitudes. Finding him without talent, the world has offered him no decently paid work except ignoble work, and he has become in consequence, somewhat hoggish. But he has no suspicion of this himself, and honestly regards his commercial prosperity as the inevitable and socially wholesome triumph of the ability, industry, shrewdness and experience in business of a man who in private is easygoing, affectionate and humorously convivial to a fault. Corporeally, he is a podgy man, with a square, clean shaven face and a square beard under his chin; dust colored, with a patch of grey in the centre, and small watery blue eyes with a plaintively sentimental expression, which he transfers easily to his voice by his habit of pompously intoning his sentences.]
BURGESS. [Stopping on the threshold, and looking round.] They told me Mr. Morell was here.
PROSERPINE. [Rising.] He’s upstairs. I’ll fetch him for you.
BURGESS. [Staring boorishly at her.] You’re not the same young lady as used to typewrite for him?
PROSERPINE. No.
BURGESS. [Assenting.] No: she was younger. [Miss Garnett stolidly stares at him; then goes out with great dignity. He receives this quite obtusely, and crosses to the hearth-rug, where he turns and spreads himself with his back to the fire.] Startin’ on your rounds, Mr. Mill?
LEXY. [Folding his paper and pocketing it.] Yes: I must be off presently.
BURGESS. [Momentously.] Don’t let me detain you, Mr. Mill. What I come about is private between me and Mr. Morell.
LEXY. [Huffily.] I have no intention of intruding, I am sure, Mr. Burgess. Good morning.
BURGESS. [Patronizingly.] Oh, good morning to you. [Morell returns as Lexy is making for the door.]
MORELL. [To Lexy.] Off to work?
LEXY. Yes, sir.
MORELL. [Patting him affectionately on the shoulder.] Take my silk handkerchief and wrap your throat up. There’s a cold wind. Away with you. [Lexy brightens up, and goes out.]
BURGESS. Spoilin’ your curates, as usu’l, James. Good mornin’. When I pay a man, an’ ’is livin’ depen’s on me, I keep him in his place.
MORELL. [Rather shortly.] I always keep my curates in their places as my helpers and comrades. If you get as much work out of your clerks and warehousemen as I do out of my curates, you must be getting rich pretty fast. Will you take your old chair? [He points with curt authority to the arm chair beside the fireplace; then takes the spare chair from the table and sits down in front of Burgess.]
BURGESS. [Without moving.] Just the same as hever, James!
MORELL. When you last called—it was about three years ago, I think—you said the same thing a little more frankly. Your exact words then were: “Just as big a fool as ever, James?”
BURGESS. [Soothingly.] Well, perhaps I did; but. [With conciliatory cheerfulness] I meant no offence by it. A clergyman is privileged to be a bit of a fool, you know: it’s on’y becomin’ in his profession that he should. Anyhow, I come here, not to rake up hold differences, but to let bygones be bygones. [Suddenly becoming very solemn, and approaching Morell.] James: three year ago, you done me a hill turn. You done me hout of a contrac’; an’ when I gev you ’arsh words in my nat’ral disappointment, you turned my daughrter again me. Well, I’ve come to act the part of a Cherischin. [Offering his hand.] I forgive you, James.
MORELL. [Starting up.] Confound your impudence!
BURGESS. [Retreating, with almost lachrymose deprecation of this treatment.] Is that becomin’ language for a clergyman, James?—and you so partic’lar, too?
MORELL. [Hotly.] No, sir, it is not becoming language for a clergyman. I used the wrong word. I should have said damn your impudence: that’s what St. Paul, or any honest priest would have said to you. Do you think I have forgotten that tender of yours for the contract to supply clothing to the workhouse?
BURGESS. [In a paroxysm of public spirit.] I acted in the interest of the ratepayers, James. It was the lowest tender: you can’t deny that.
MORELL. Yes, the lowest, because you paid worse wages than any other employer—starvation wages—aye, worse than starvation wages—to the women who made the clothing. Your wages would have driven them to the streets to keep body and soul together. [Getting angrier and. angrier.] Those women were my parishioners. I shamed the Guardians out of accepting your tender: I shamed the ratepayers out of letting them do it: I shamed everybody but you. [Boiling over.] How dare you, sir, come here and offer to forgive me, and talk about your daughter, and—
BURGESS. Easy, James, easy, easy. Don’t git hinto a fluster about nothink. I’ve howned
