The Mousetrap and Other Plays

ACT ONE

Scene I

SCENE: The drawing room at Gull’s Point, Lady Tressilian’s house at Saltcreek, Cornwall. A morning in September. It is a large, very beautiful room, obviously belonging to somebody with exquisite taste. It has been furnished to combine elegance with comfort. There is a deep, arched alcove up R. with French windows opening on to a terrace overlooking the garden and tennis court. A large curved-bay window up L., with a built-in window-seat, shows a view across the river to Easterhead Bay, with a large hotel on the cliff opposite. This window is slightly raised above the rest of the stage on a platform or rostrum. A door down L. leads to the other parts of the house. There is a chaise-longue R. C.; easy chairs down R. and down L. and armchairs L. C. and R. In the alcove R. there is a bureau-bookcase with a carver chair, a small table and an upright chair. A wastepaper basket stands L. of the bureau. Down R. there is a small table, and on it a framed photograph of Audrey. A standing work-basket is R. of the armchair L. C. On the rostrum in the bay window is a low butler’s tray with a variety of drinks and glasses. A large circular coffee table stands C. A low bookcase, with a table-lamp on it, is L. of the window and there is a corner table R. of the window. On the window-seat, at the L. end is a portable record player with some loose records. At night the room is lit by electric-candle wall-brackets down L. and above and below the alcove R. The switches are below the door down L.

When the curtain rises, the room is empty. An incongruous carpet sweeper stands negligently against the easy chair down L. Thomas Royde enters immediately by the French windows. He is a bronzed middle-aged man, good-looking in a rugged way. He carries a suitcase and a set of golf clubs. As he reaches the upstage end of the chaise, the door down L. is banged by someone as though rushing out of the room. Royde shrugs, moves to the window bay, puts his case and clubs at the L. end of it, opens the C. sash of the window, then takes his pipe and pouch from his pocket and stands gazing out of the window and filling his pipe. Kay Strange rushes in R. She is dressed in tennis kit and carries a towel. Clearly upset about something, she does not see Royde, tosses the towel on the chaise, goes to the table down R. and takes a cigarette from the box on it. As she does so, she sees the photograph of Audrey, drops the cigarette, picks up the photograph, rips it from the frame, tears it in half and throws it angrily into the wastepaper basket. Royde turns sharply. Kay pauses a moment, then looks round and sees Royde. She looks at once like a guilty child and is for a moment too startled to say anything.

KAY. Oh! Who are you?

ROYDE. (Moving to R. of the rostrum) I’ve just walked up from the bus stop. I’m . . .

KAY. (Interrupting.) I know who you are. You’re the man from Malaya.

ROYDE. (Gravely.) Yes, I’m the man from Malaya.

KAY. (Moving to the coffee table C.) I just—came in, to get a cigarette. (She takes a cigarette from the box on the coffee table, crosses to the French windows and turns.) Oh, hell, what’s the good of explaining? What do I care what you think, anyway? (Kay rushes out R. Royde stares thoughtfully after her. Mary Aldin enters L. She is a dark-haired woman of about thirty-six, pleasant and noncommittal in manner and entirely competent. Nevertheless there is something faintly intriguing about her reserve. Royde turns to Mary.)

MARY. (Moving L. C.) Mr. Royde? (Royde moves to R. of Mary and shakes hands with her.) Lady Tressilian is not down yet. I am Mary Aldin—Lady Tressilian’s dogsbody.

ROYDE. Dogsbody?

MARY. The official term is secretary—but as I don’t know shorthand and such talents I have are purely domestic, “dogsbody” is a much better word.

ROYDE. I know all about you. Lady Tressilian told me in her Christmas letter what a wonderful difference you had made to her.

MARY. I’ve very fond of her. She has a lot of personality.

ROYDE. (Moving to L. of the chaise) That’s quite an understatement. (He turns to Mary.) How’s her arthritis?

MARY. It makes her rather helpless, poor dear.

ROYDE. I’m sorry about that.

MARY. (Moving on to the rostrum) Can I offer you a drink?

ROYDE. No, thank you. (He moves on to the R. end of the rostrum and looks out of the window.) What’s that great caravanserai over there?

MARY. That’s the new Easterhead Bay Hotel. It was only finished last year—isn’t it a horror? (She closes the window.) Lady Tressilian doesn’t like this window opened, she’s always afraid that someone might fall out. Yes, Easterhead Bay is a terrific resort, you know, nowadays. (She crosses to the chaise, picks up Kay’s towel and tidies the cushions.) I suppose when you came here as a boy there was nothing the other side of the estuary except a few fishermen’s cottages. (She pauses.) You did come here for your school holidays, didn’t you? (She puts the towel tidily on the end of the chaise.)

ROYDE. Yes, old Sir Mortimer used to take me out sailing—he was mad keen on sailing.

MARY. Yes. He was drowned out there.

ROYDE. Lady Tressilian saw it happen, I wonder she can go on living here.

MARY. I think she preferred to remain with her memories. But she won’t have any boat kept here—she even had the boathouse pulled down.

ROYDE. So if I want to sail or go for a row, I’ve got to go to the ferry.

MARY. (Crossing to the butler’s tray) Or cross to the Easterhead side. That’s where all the boats are nowadays.

ROYDE. (Moving above the chaise.) I hate changes. Always have. (Rather self-consciously.) May I ask who else is staying here?

MARY. Old Mr. Treves—you know him? (Royde nods.) And the Stranges.

ROYDE. (Moving to R of her.) The Stranges? You mean—Audrey Strange, Nevile’s first wife?

MARY. Audrey, yes. But Nevile Strange and his—new wife are here, too.

ROYDE. Isn’t that a bit odd?

MARY. Lady Tressilian thinks it very odd indeed.

ROYDE. Bit awkward—what? (Mathew Treves enters by the French windows R., fanning himself with an old-fashioned panama hat. He is an elderly and distinguished lawyer of ripe experience and great shrewdness. He has retired from his London firm some years ago and is now a keen observer of human nature. His voice is dry and precise.)

TREVES. (As he enters.) Rather too much glare on the terrace today . . . (He sees Royde.) Ah, Thomas. Nice to see you after all these years. (He stands up L. of the chaise.)

ROYDE. (Moving to Treves.) I’m very glad to be here. (He shakes hands with Treves.)

MARY. (Moving to Royde’s suitcase.) Shall I take your things up to your room?

ROYDE. (Crossing quickly to Mary.) No, no, I can’t let you do that. (He picks up his suitcase and golf clubs. Mary leads the way to the door L., sees the sweeper and picks it up.)

MARY. (With a vexed exclamation.) Really! Mrs. Barrett . . . These daily women are impossible. It makes Lady Tressilian very angry when things are left all over the place.

ROYDE. (Following Mary to the door L.) I think my sudden arrival on the terrace frightened the poor woman. (He looks towards Treves. Treves smiles.)

MARY. Oh, I see. (Mary and Royde exit L. Treves turns to the bureau, sees the torn photograph in the wastepaper basket, stoops with a little difficulty and picks up the pieces. His eyebrows rise and he makes a little sound like “Tut, tut.”)

KAY. (Off L.; calling.) Where are you going to, Nevile?

NEVILE. (Off L.) Only into the house for a moment. (Treves puts the pieces of the photograph into the wastepaper basket. Nevile Strange enters by the French windows L. He wears tennis kit and carries the remains of a glass of lemonade. He crosses to the coffee table and puts the glass on it.) Isn’t Audrey here?

TREVES. No.

NEVILE. Where is she? Do you know?

TREVES. I have no idea.

KAY. (Off, calling.) Nevile—Nevile. (Treves moves down R. of the chaise.)

NEVILE. (Frowning.) Oh, damn!

KAY. (Off, nearer.) Nevile.

NEVILE. (Crossing to the French windows and calling.) Coming—coming. (Royde enters L.)

ROYDE. (Moving to L. of the coffee table.) Nevile.

NEVILE. (Moving to R. of the coffee table.) Hullo, Thomas. (They shake hands above the coffee table.) What time did you get here?

ROYDE. Just now.

NEVILE. Must be quite a long time since I saw you last. When was it you were home, three years ago?

ROYDE. Seven.

NEVILE. Good Lord, is it, really? How time flies.

KAY. (Off.) Nevile!

NEVILE. (Moving above the chaise.) All right, Kay. (Kay enters by the French windows R.)

KAY. (Moving to R. of Nevile.) Why can’t you come? Ted and I are waiting.

NEVILE. I just came to see if Audrey . . .

KAY. (Turning away.) Oh, bother Audrey—we can get on quite well . . . (Kay and Nevile exit by the French windows R. Their voices die away.)

ROYDE. And who is Kay?

TREVES. (Moving below the chaise to R. of the coffee table.) The present Mrs. Nevile Strange. (Lady Tressilian enters L. Mary assists her on. Lady Tressilian uses a walking stick. She is a white-haired, aristocratic-looking woman, a little younger than Treves. Mary carries Lady Tressilian’s sewing.) Good morning, Camilla.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Good morning, Mathew. (She greets Royde affectionately.) Well, Thomas, so here you are. I’m very glad to see you.

ROYDE. (Rather shyly.) Very glad to be here. (Mary puts the sewing in the work-box and arranges the cushion in the armchair L. C.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. Tell me all about yourself.

ROYDE. (Mumbling.) Nothing to tell.

LADY TRESSILIAN. (Studying him.) You look exactly the same as you did at fourteen. That same boiled owl look. And no more conversation now than you had then. (Treves moves up C. Mary moves to the butler’s tray.)

ROYDE. Never had the gift of the gab.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Then it’s time you learnt. Have some sherry? Mathew? Thomas?

ROYDE. Thank you. (Mary pours two glasses of sherry.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. (Indicating the sofa.) Then go and sit down. Somebody’s got to amuse me by bringing me all the gossip. (She sits in the armchair L. C.) Why can’t you be more like Adrian? I wish you’d known his brother, Mary, a really brilliant young man, witty, amusing—(Royde sits on the chaise.) all the things that Thomas isn’t. And don’t go grinning at me, Thomas Royde, as though I were praising you. I’m scolding you.

ROYDE. Adrian was certainly the show man of our family.

MARY. (Handing a glass of sherry to Treves.) Did he—was he—killed in the war?

ROYDE. No, he was killed in a motor accident two years ago.

MARY. How dreadful! (She hands a glass of sherry to Royde.)

TREVES. The impossible way young people drive cars nowadays . . . (Lady Tressilian picks up her sewing.)

ROYDE. In his case it was some fault in the steering. (He takes his pipe from his pocket and looks at Lady Tressilian.) I’m so sorry, may I? (Mary pours another glass of sherry.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. I wouldn’t know you without your pipe. But don’t think you can just sit back and puff contentedly while you’re here. You’ve got to exert yourself and help.

ROYDE. (Surprised.) Help? (Treves perches himself on the upstage end of the chaise.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. We’ve got a difficult situation on our hands. Have you been told who’s here? (Mary takes the glass of sherry to Lady Tressilian. To Mary.) No, no, much too early, pour it back into the decanter. (Mary resignedly pours the glass of sherry into the decanter.)

ROYDE. Yes, I’ve just heard.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Well, don’t you think it’s disgraceful?

ROYDE. Well . . .

TREVES. You’ll have to be a little more explicit, Camilla.

LADY TRESSILIAN. I intend to be. When I was a girl such things did not happen. Men had their affairs, naturally, but they did not allow them to break up their married life.

TREVES. Regrettable though the modern point of view may be, one has to accept it, Camilla. (Mary moves to the easy chair down L. and sits on the upstage arm of it.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. That’s not the point. We were all delighted when Nevile married Audrey. Such a sweet gentle girl. (To Royde.) You were all in love with her—you, Adrian and Nevile. Nevile won.

ROYDE. Naturally. He always wins.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Of all the defeatist . . .

ROYDE. I don’t blame her, Nevile had everything—good looks, first-class athlete—even had a shot at swimming the channel.

TREVES. And all the kudos of that early Everest attempt—never stuck up about it.

ROYDE. Mens sana in corpore sana.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Sometimes I think that’s the only bit of Latin you men ever learn in your expensive education.

TREVES. My dear Camilla, you must allow for its being invariably quoted by one’s housemaster whenever he is slightly embarrassed.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Mary, I wish you wouldn’t sit on the arms of chairs—you know how much I dislike it.

MARY. (Rising.) Sorry, Camilla. (She sits in the easy chair down L. Treves rises guiltily and quickly, then sits above Royde on the chaise.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. Now where was I?

MARY. You were saying that Audrey married Nevile.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Oh, yes. Well, Audrey married Nevile and we were all delighted. Mortimer was particularly pleased, wasn’t he, Mathew?

TREVES. Yes, yes.

LADY TRESSILIAN. And they were very happy together until this creature Kay came along; how Nevile could leave Audrey for a girl like Kay I simply cannot imagine.

TREVES. I can—I’ve seen it happen so often.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Kay is quite the wrong wife for Nevile, no background.

TREVES. But a singularly attractive young woman.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Bad stock, her mother was notorious all over the Riviera.

ROYDE. What for?

LADY TRESSILIAN. Never you mind. What an upbringing for a girl. Kay made a dead set at Nevile from the moment they met, and never rested until she got him to leave Audrey and go off with her. I blame Kay entirely for the whole thing.

TREVES. (Rising and moving above the coffee table, fairly amused.) I’m sure you do. You’re very fond of Nevile.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Nevile’s a fool. Breaking up his marriage for a silly infatuation. It nearly broke poor Audrey’s heart. (To Royde.) She went to your mother at the Vicarage and practically had a nervous breakdown.

ROYDE. Er—yes—I know.

TREVES. When the divorce went through, Nevile married Kay.

LADY TRESSILIAN. If I had been true to my principles I should have refused to receive them here.

TREVES. If one sticks too rigidly to one’s principles one would hardly see anybody.

LADY TRESSILIAN. You’re very cynical, Mathew—but it’s quite true. I’ve accepted Kay as Nevile’s wife—though I shall never really like her. But I must say I was dumbfounded and very much upset, wasn’t I, Mary?

MARY. Yes, you were, Camilla.

LADY TRESSILIAN. When Nevile wrote asking if he could come home with Kay, under the pretext, if you please, that it would be nice if Audrey and Kay could be friends—(Scornfully.) friends—I said I couldn’t entertain such a suggestion for a moment and that it would be very painful for Audrey.

TREVES. (Putting his glass on the coffee table.) And what did he say to that?

LADY TRESSILIAN. He replied that he had already consulted Audrey and she thought it a good idea.

TREVES. And did Audrey think it a good idea?

LADY TRESSILIAN. Apparently, yes. (She tosses a knot of silk to Mary.) Unravel that.

MARY. Well, she said she did, quite firmly.

LADY TRESSILIAN. But Audrey is obviously embarrassed and unhappy. If you ask me, it’s just Nevile being like Henry the Eighth.

ROYDE. (Puzzled.) Henry the Eighth?

LADY TRESSILIAN. Conscience. Nevile feels guilty about Audrey and is trying to justify himself. (Mary rises, moves above the armchair L. C. and puts the silks in the work-basket.) Oh! I don’t understand any of this modern nonsense. (To Mary.) Do you? (Royde puts his glass on the coffee table.)

MARY. In a way.

LADY TRESSILIAN. And you, Thomas?

ROYDE. Understand Audrey—but I don’t understand Nevile. It’s not like Nevile.

TREVES. I agree. Not like Nevile at all, to go looking for trouble. (Mary transfers Royde’s and Treves’ glasses to the butler’s tray.)

MARY. Perhaps it was Audrey’s suggestion.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Oh, no. Nevile says it was entirely his idea.

MARY. Perhaps he thinks it was. (Treves looks sharply at Mary.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. What a fool the boy is, bringing two women together who are both in love with him. (Royde looks sharply at Lady Tressilian.) Audrey has behaved perfectly, but Nevile himself has paid far too much attention to her, and as a result Kay has become jealous, and as she has no kind of self-control, it is all most embarrassing—(To Treves.) isn’t it? (Treves, gazing towards the French windows, does not hear.) Mathew?

TREVES. There is undeniably a certain tension . . .

LADY TRESSILIAN. I’m glad you admit it. (There is a knock on the door L.) Who’s that?

MARY. (Moving to the door L.) Mrs. Barrett, I expect, wanting to know something.

LADY TRESSILIAN. (Irritably.) I wish you could teach these women that they only knock on bedroom doors. (Mary exits L.) The last so-called butler we had, actually whistled, Come into the garden, Maud, as he served at table. (Mary enters L.)

MARY. It’s only about the lunch, Camilla. I’ll see to it. (Mary exits L.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. I don’t know what I should do without Mary. She’s so self-effacing that I sometimes wonder whether she has a self of her own.

TREVES. I know. She’s been with you nearly two years now, but what’s her background?

LADY TRESSILIAN. Her father was a professor of some kind, I believe. He was an invalid and she nursed him for years. Poor Mary, she’s never had any life of her own. And now, perhaps, it’s too late. (She rises and puts her sewing in the work-box.)

TREVES. I wonder. (He strolls to the French windows.) They’re still playing tennis. (Royde rises, moves and stands behind Treves, gazing off R.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. Nevile and Kay?

TREVES. No, Kay and that friend of hers from the Easterhead Bay Hotel—young Latimer.

LADY TRESSILIAN. That theatrical-looking young man. (She moves to L. of the coffee table.) Just the sort of friend she would have.

TREVES. One wonders what he does for a living.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Lives by his wits, I imagine.

TREVES. (Moving slowly down R.) Or by his looks. A decorative young man. (Dreamily.) Interesting shaped head. The last man I saw with a head shaped like that was at the Central Criminal Court—a case of brutal assault on an elderly jeweller.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Mathew! Do you mean to tell me . . . ?

TREVES. (Perturbed.) No, no, no, you misunderstand me. I am making no suggestion of any kind. I was only commenting on a matter of anatomical structure.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Oh, I thought . . .

TREVES. What reminded me of that was that I met a very old friend of mine this morning, Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard. He’s staying down here on holiday with his nephew who’s in the local police.

LADY TRESSILIAN. You and your interest in criminology. The truth is I am thoroughly jumpy—I feel the whole time as though something was going to happen. (She moves on to the rostrum.)

TREVES. (Crossing and standing down R. of Lady Tressilian.) Yes, there is a suggestion of gunpowder in the air. One little spark might set off an explosion.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Must you talk as though you were Guy Fawkes? Say something cheerful.

TREVES. (Turning and smiling at her.) What can I say? “Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them—but not for love.”

LADY TRESSILIAN. And he calls that cheerful. I shall go out on the terrace for a little. (Treves crosses to the French windows and looks off. She moves up L. of the chaise. To Royde, confidentially.) Don’t make a fool of yourself a second time.

ROYDE. What do you mean?

LADY TRESSILIAN. You know quite well what I mean. Last time, you let Nevile walk off with Audrey under your nose.

ROYDE. (Moving below the chaise.) Is it likely she’d have preferred me to Nevile?

LADY TRESSILIAN. (Moving above the chaise.) She might have—if you’d asked her. (Royde moves to L. of Lady Tressilian.) Are you going to ask her this time?

ROYDE. (With sudden force.) You bet your life I am. (Audrey enters by the French windows. She is very fair and has an Undine-like look. There is something strange about her air of repressed emotion. With Royde she is natural and happy.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. (As Audrey enters.) Thank God for that. (Audrey, with hands outstretched, crosses below Treves and Lady Tressilian to R. of Royde.)

AUDREY. Thomas—dear Thomas. (Royde takes Audrey’s hands. Lady Tressilian looks for a moment at Royde and Audrey.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. Mathew, your arm. (Treves assists Lady Tressilian, and exits with her by the French windows.)

AUDREY. (After a pause.) It’s lovely to see you.

ROYDE. (Shyly.) Good to see you.

AUDREY. (Crossing below Royde to L.) It’s years since you’ve been home. Don’t they give you any leave on rubber plantations?

ROYDE. I was coming home two years ago . . . (He breaks off awkwardly.)

AUDREY. Two years ago! And then you didn’t.

ROYDE. My dear, you know—there were reasons.

AUDREY. (Sitting in the armchair L. C.; with affection) Oh, Thomas—you look just the same as when we last met—pipe and all.

ROYDE. (Moving to L. of the coffee table, after a pause) Do I?

AUDREY. Oh, Thomas—I am so glad you’ve come back. Now, at last I can talk to someone. Thomas—there’s something wrong.

ROYDE. Wrong?

AUDREY. Something’s changed about this place. Ever since I arrived I’ve felt there was something not quite right. Don’t you feel there’s something different? No—how can you, you’ve only just come. The only person who doesn’t seem to feel it is Nevile.

ROYDE. Damn Nevile!

AUDREY. You don’t like him?

ROYDE. (With intensity.) I hate his guts—always have. (He quickly recovers himself.) Sorry.

AUDREY. I—didn’t know . . .

ROYDE. Lots of things one—doesn’t know—about people.

AUDREY. (Thoughtfully.) Yes—lots of things.

ROYDE. Gather there’s a spot of bother. What made you come here at the same time as Nevile and his new wife? Did you have to agree?

AUDREY. (Rising and standing L. of the armchair L. C.) Yes. Oh, I know you can’t understand . . .

ROYDE. (Moving to R. of the armchair L. C.) But I do understand. I know all about it. (Audrey looks doubtfully at Royde.) I know exactly what you’ve been through—(With meaning.) But it’s all past, Audrey, it’s over. You must forget the past and think of the future. (Nevile enters by the French windows and moves up R. of the chaise.)

NEVILE. Hullo, Audrey, where have you been all the morning? (Audrey moves to R. of the easy chair down L. Royde moves above the coffee table.)

AUDREY. I haven’t been anywhere particular.

NEVILE. I couldn’t find you anywhere. What about coming down to the beach for a swim before lunch?

AUDREY. (Crossing to the coffee table.) No, I don’t think so. (She looks among the magazines on the table. Royde moves on to the rostrum.) Have you seen this week’s London Illustrated News?

NEVILE. (Moving to R. of Audrey.) No. Come on—the water will be really warm today.

AUDREY. Actually, I told Mary I’d go into Saltington with her to shop.

NEVILE. Mary won’t mind. (Audrey picks up a magazine. He takes her hand.) Come on, Audrey.

AUDREY. No, really . . . (Kay enters by the French windows.)

NEVILE. (As he sees Kay.) I’m trying to persuade Audrey to come bathing.

KAY. (Moving to R. of the chaise.) Oh? And what does Audrey say?

AUDREY. Audrey says “no.” (Audrey withdraws her hand from Nevile’s and exits L.)

ROYDE. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and unpack. (Royde pauses a moment by the bookshelves up L., selects a book, then exits L.)

KAY. So that’s that. Coming, Nevile?

NEVILE. Well, I’m not sure. (He takes a magazine from the coffee table, sits on the chaise, leans back and puts his feet up.)

KAY. (Impatiently.) Well, make up your mind.

NEVILE. I’m not sure I won’t just have a shower and laze in the garden.

KAY. It’s a perfect day for bathing. Come on.

NEVILE. What have you done with the boy friend?

KAY. Ted? I left him on the beach and came up to find you. You can laze on the beach. (She touches his hair.)

NEVILE. (Moving her hand from his hair.) With Latimer, I suppose? (He shakes his head.) Doesn’t appeal to me a lot.

KAY. You don’t like Ted, do you?

NEVILE. Not madly. But if it amuses you to pull him around on a string . . .

KAY. (Tweaking his ear.) I believe you’re jealous.

NEVILE. (Pushing her hand from his ear.) Of Latimer? Nonsense, Kay.

KAY. Ted’s very attractive.

NEVILE. I’m sure he is. He has that lithe South American charm.

KAY. You needn’t sneer. He’s very popular with women.

NEVILE. Especially with the ones over fifty.

KAY. (Pleased.) You are jealous.

NEVILE. My dear—I couldn’t care less—he just doesn’t count.

KAY. I think you’re very rude about my friends. I have to put up with yours.

NEVILE. What do you mean by that?

KAY. (Moving above the chaise to R. of the coffee table.) Dreary old Lady Tressilian and stuffy old Mr. Treves and all the rest of them. (She sits on the coffee table, facing Nevile.) Do you think I find them amusing? (Suddenly.) Nevile, do we have to stay on here? Can’t we go away—tomorrow? It’s so boring . . .

NEVILE. We’ve only just come.

KAY. We’ve been here four days—four whole long days. Do let’s go, Nevile, please.

NEVILE. Why?

KAY. I want to go. We could easily find some excuse. Please, darling.

NEVILE. Darling, it’s out of the question. We came for a fortnight and we’re going to stay a fortnight. You don’t seem to understand. Sir Mortimer Tressilian was my guardian. I came here for holidays as a boy. Gull’s Point was practically my home. Camilla would be terribly hurt. (He smiles.)

KAY. (Rising and moving to the window up L.; impatiently.) Oh, all right, all right. I suppose we have to suck up to old Camilla, because of getting all that money when she dies.

NEVILE. (Rising and moving on to the rostrum, angrily.) It’s not a question of sucking up. I wish you wouldn’t look at it like that. She’s no control over the money. Old Mortimer left it in trust to come to me and my wife at her death. Don’t you realize it’s a question of affection?

KAY. Not with me, it isn’t. She hates me.

NEVILE. Don’t be stupid.

KAY. (Moving to L. of the armchair L. C.) Yes, she does. She looks down that bony nose of hers at me, and Mary Aldin talks to me as though I were someone she’d just met on a train. They only have me here on sufferance. You don’t seem to know what goes on.

NEVILE. They always seem to me to be very nice to you. (He moves to the coffee table and throws the magazine on it.) You imagine things.

KAY. Of course they’re polite. But they know how to get under my skin all right. I’m an interloper. That’s what they feel.

NEVILE. Well—I suppose that’s only natural . . .

KAY. Oh, yes, I daresay it’s quite natural. They’re devoted to Audrey, aren’t they? (She turns and looks towards the door L.) Dear, well bred, cool, colorless Audrey. Camilla has never forgiven me for taking Audrey’s place. (She turns, moves above the armchair L. C. and leans on the back of it.) I’ll tell you something—Audrey gives me the creeps. You never know what she’s thinking.

NEVILE. (Sitting on the chaise.) Oh, nonsense, Kay, don’t be absurd.

KAY. Audrey’s never forgiven you for marrying me. Once or twice I’ve seen her looking at you—and the way she looked at you frightened me.

NEVILE. You’re prejudiced, Kay. Audrey’s been charming. No one could have been nicer.

KAY. It seems like that, but it isn’t true. There’s something behind it all. (She runs above the chaise to R. of Nevile and kneels beside him.) Let’s go away—at once—before it’s too late.

NEVILE. Don’t be melodramatic. I’m not going to upset old Camilla just because you work yourself up into a state about nothing at all.

KAY. It isn’t nothing at all. I don’t think you know the first thing about your precious Audrey. (Lady Tressilian and Treves enter by the French windows.)

NEVILE. (Furiously.) She isn’t my—precious Audrey. (Lady Tressilian moves above the chaise.)

KAY. Isn’t she? Anyone would think so, the way you follow her about. (She sees Lady Tressilian.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. Are you going down to bathe, Kay?

KAY. (Rising, nervously.) Yes—yes, I was.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Almost high tide. It ought to be very pleasant. (She knocks her stick against the leg of the chaise.) What about you, Nevile?

NEVILE. (Sulkily.) I don’t want to bathe.

LADY TRESSILIAN. (To Kay.) Your friend, I think, is down there waiting for you. (Kay hesitates a moment, then crosses and exits by the French window. Treves moves down R.) Nevile, you’re behaving very badly. You really must stand up when I come into the room. What’s the matter with you—forgetting your manners?

NEVILE. (Rising quickly.) I’m sorry.

LADY TRESSILIAN. (Crossing to the armchair L. C.) You’re making us all very uncomfortable. I don’t wonder your wife is annoyed.

NEVILE. My wife? Audrey?

LADY TRESSILIAN. Kay is your wife now.

NEVILE. With your High Church principles I wonder you admit the fact.

LADY TRESSILIAN. (Sitting in the armchair L. C.) Nevile, you are exceedingly rude. (Nevile crosses to R. of Lady Tressilian, takes her hand and kisses her on the cheek.)

NEVILE. (With sudden disarming charm.) I’m very sorry, Camilla. Please forgive me. I’m so worried I don’t know what I’m saying. (Treves sits in the easy chair down R.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. (With affection.) My dear boy, what else could you expect with this stupid idea of being all friends together?

NEVILE. (Wistfully.) It still seems to me the sensible way to look at things.

LADY TRESSILIAN. Not with two women like Audrey and Kay.

NEVILE. Audrey doesn’t seem to care.

TREVES. How did the matter first come up, Nevile? (Nevile withdraws his hand from Lady Tressilian’s and moves down L. of the chaise.)

NEVILE. (Eagerly.) Well, I happened to run across Audrey in London, quite by chance, and she was awfully nice about things—didn’t seem to bear any malice or anything like that. While I was talking to her the idea came to me how sensible it would be if—if she and Kay could be friends—if we could all get together. And it seemed to me that this was the place where it could happen quite naturally.

TREVES. You thought of that—all by yourself?

NEVILE. Oh, yes, it was all my idea. And Audrey seemed quite pleased and ready to try.

TREVES. Was Kay equally pleased?

NEVILE. Well—no—I had a spot of bother with Kay. I can’t think why. I mean if anyone was going to object, you’d think it would be Audrey.

LADY TRESSILIAN. (Rising.) Well, I’m an old woman. (Treves rises.) Nothing people do nowadays seems to make any sense. (She moves to the door L.)

TREVES. (Crossing to the door L.) One has to go with the times, Camilla. (He opens the door.)

LADY TRESSILIAN. I feel very tired. I shall rest before lunch. (She turns to Nevile.) But you must behave yourself, Nevile. With or without reason, Kay is jealous. (She emphasizes her following words by banging her stick on the carpet.) I will not have these discordant scenes in my house. (She peaks off L.) Ah, Mary—I shall lie down on the library sofa. (Lady Tressilian exits L. Treves closes the door.)

NEVILE. (Sitting on the chaise.) She speaks to me as though I were six.

TREVES. (Moving up R. C. and standing with his back to the audience.) At her age, she doubtless feels you are six.

NEVILE. (Recovering his temper with an effort.) Yes, I suppose so. It must be ghastly to be old.

TREVES. (After a slight pause, turning.) It has its compensations, I assure you. (Dryly.) There is no longer any question of emotional involvements.

NEVILE. (Grinning.) That’s certainly something. (He rises and moves above the chaise to the French windows.) I suppose I’d better go and make my peace with Kay. I really can’t see, though, why she has to fly off the handle like this. Audrey might very well be jealous of her, but I can’t see why she should be jealous of Audrey. Can you? (Nevile grins and exits by the French windows. Treves thoughtfully strokes his chin for a moment or two, then goes to the wastepaper basket, takes out the pieces of the torn photograph and turns to the bureau to put the pieces into a pigeon-hole. Audrey enters L., looking round rather cautiously for Nevile. She carries a magazine.)

AUDREY. (Crossing to the coffee table, surprised.) What are you doing with my photograph? (She puts the magazine on the table.)

TREVES. (Turning and holding out the pieces of the photograph.) It seems to have been torn.

AUDREY. Who tore it?

TREVES. Mrs. Barrett, I suppose—that is the name of the woman in the cloth cap who cleans this room? I thought I would put it in here until it can be mended. (Treves’ eyes meet Audrey’s for a moment, then he puts the pieces of the photograph in the bureau.)

AUDREY. It wasn’t Mrs. Barrett, was it?

TREVES. I have no information—but I should think probably not.

AUDREY. Was it Kay?

TREVES. I told you—I have no information. (There is a pause, during which Audrey crosses to R. of the armchair R.)

AUDREY. Oh, dear, this is all very uncomfortable.

TREVES. Why did you come here, my dear?

AUDREY. I suppose because I always come here at this time. (She crosses and stands below the armchair L. C.)

TREVES. But with Nevile coming here, wouldn’t it have been better to have postponed your visit?

AUDREY. I couldn’t do that. I have a job, you know. I have to earn my living. I have two weeks’ holiday and once that is arranged I can’t alter it.

TREVES. An interesting job?

AUDREY. Not particularly, but it pays quite well.

TREVES. (Moving to R. of the coffee table.) But, my dear Audrey, Nevile is a very well-to-do man. Under the terms of your divorce he has to make suitable provision for you.

AUDREY. I have never taken a penny from Nevile. I never shall.

TREVES. Quite so. Quite so. Several of my clients have taken that point of view. It has been my duty to dissuade them. In the end, you know, one must be guided by common sense. You have hardly any money of your own, I know. It is only just and right that you should be provided for suitably by Nevile, who can well afford it. Who were your solicitors, because I could . . .

AUDREY. (Sitting in the armchair L. C.) It’s nothing to do with solicitors. I won’t take anything from Nevile—anything at all.

TREVES. (Eyeing her thoughtfully.) I see—you feel strongly—very strongly.

AUDREY. If you like to put it that way, yes.

TREVES. Was it really Nevile’s idea to come here all together?

AUDREY. (Sharply.) Of course it was.

TREVES. But you agreed?

AUDREY. I agreed. Why not?

TREVES. It hasn’t turned out very well, has it?

AUDREY. That’s not my fault.

TREVES. No, it isn’t your fault—ostensibly.

AUDREY. (Rising.) What do you mean?

TREVES. I was wondering . . .

AUDREY. You know, Mr. Treves, sometimes I think I’m just a little frightened of you.

TREVES. Why should you be?

AUDREY. I don’t know. You’re a very shrewd observer. I sometimes . . . (Mary enters L.)

MARY. Audrey, will you go to Lady Tressilian? She’s in the library.

AUDREY. Yes. (Audrey crosses and exits L. Treves sits on the chaise. Mary goes to the butler’s tray and collects the dirty sherry glasses.)

TREVES. Miss Aldin, who do you think is behind this plan of meeting here?

MARY. (Moving to R. of the butler’s tray.) Audrey.

TREVES. But why?

MARY. (Moving to L. of Treves.) I suppose—she still cares for him.

TREVES. You think it’s that?

MARY. What else can it be? He’s not really in love with Kay, you know.

TREVES. (Primly.) These sudden passionate infatuations are very often not of long duration.

MARY. You’d think Audrey would have more pride.

TREVES. In my experience, pride is a word often on women’s lips—but they display little sign of it where love affairs are concerned.

MARY. (With bitterness.) Perhaps. I wouldn’t know. (She looks towards the French windows.) Excuse me. (Mary exits L. Royde enters by the French windows. He carries a book.)

TREVES. Ah, Thomas, have you been down to the ferry?

ROYDE. (Crossing to C.) No, I’ve been reading a detective story. Not very good. (He looks down at the book.) Always seems to me these yarns begin in the wrong place. Begin with the murder. But the murder’s not really the beginning.

TREVES. Indeed? Where would you begin?

ROYDE. As I see it, the murder is the end of the story. (He sits in the armchair L. C.) I mean, the real story begins long before—years before, sometimes. Must do. All the causes and events that bring the people concerned to a certain place on a certain day at a certain time. And then, over the top—zero hour.

TREVES. (Rising.) That is an interesting point of view.

ROYDE. (Apologetically.) Not very good at explaining myself, I’m afraid.

TREVES. (Moving above the coffee table.) I think you’ve put it very clearly, Thomas. (He uses the coffee table as a globe.) All sorts of people converging towards a given spot and hour—all going towards zero. (He pauses briefly.) Towards Zero. (Treves looks at Royde, and the lights fade to Black-Out, as—the Curtain falls.)

CURTAIN

Scene II

SCENE: The same. After dinner, four days later. When the Curtain rises, the lights are on. The curtains of the bay window are half closed. The French windows are open, the curtains undrawn. The night is very warm, sultry and cloudy. Kay is seated on the chaise, smoking a cigarette. She is in evening dress and looks rather sulky and bored. Ted Latimer is standing on the rostrum, gazing out of the window. He is a very dark, good-looking man of about twenty-six. His dinner suit fits him a shade too well.

KAY. (After a pause.) This is what I call a wildly hilarious evening, Ted.

LATIMER. (Turning.) You should have come over to the hotel as I suggested. (He moves to the downstage edge of the rostrum.) They’ve got a dance on. The band’s not so hot, but it’s fun.

KAY. I wanted to, but Nevile wasn’t keen.

LATIMER. So you behaved like a dutiful wife.

KAY. Yes—and I’ve been rewarded by being bored to death.

LATIMER. The fate of most dutiful wives. (He moves to the record player on the window-seat.) Aren’t there any dance records? We could at least dance.

KAY. There’s nothing like that here. Only Mozart and Bach—all classical stuff.

LATIMER. (Moving to the coffee table.) Oh, well—at least we’ve been spared the old battleaxe tonight. (He takes a cigarette from the box.) Doesn’t she ever appear at dinner, or did she just shirk it because I was there? (He lights his cigarette.)

KAY. Camilla always goes to bed at seven. She’s got a groggy heart or something. She has her dinner sent up on a tray.

LATIMER. Not what you’d call a gay life.

KAY. (Rising abruptly.) I hate this place. (She moves below the chaise then up R. of it.) I wish to God we’d never come here.

LATIMER. (Moving to L. of her.) Steady, honey. What’s the matter?

KAY. I don’t know. (She crosses and stands below the armchair L. C.) It’s just—sometimes I get—scared.

LATIMER. (Moving to R. of the coffee table.) That doesn’t sound like you, Kay.

KAY. (Recovering.) It doesn’t, does it? But there’s something queer going on. I don’t know what, but I’ll swear that Audrey’s behind it all.

LATIMER. It was a damn silly idea of Nevile’s—coming here with you at the same time as his ex-wife.

KAY. (Sitting in the armchair L. C.) I don’t think it was his idea. I’m convinced she put him up to it.

LATIMER. Why?

KAY. I don’t know—to cause trouble probably.

LATIMER. (Moving to Kay and touching her arm.) What you want is a drink, my girl.

KAY. (Moving his hand from her arm, irritably.) I don’t want a drink and I’m not your girl.

LATIMER. You would have been if Nevile hadn’t come along. (He moves to the butler’s tray and pours two glasses of whisky and soda.) Where is Nevile, by the way?

KAY. I’ve no idea.

LATIMER. They’re not a very sociable crowd, are they? Audrey’s out on the terrace talking to old Treves, and that fellow Royde’s strolling about the garden all by himself, puffing at that eternal pipe of his. Nice, cheery lot.

KAY. (Crossly.) I wouldn’t care a damn if they were all at the bottom of the sea—except Nevile.

LATIMER. I should have felt much happier, darling, if you’d included Nevile. (He picks up the drinks and takes one to Kay.) You drink that, my sweet. You’ll feel much better. (Kay takes her drink and sips it.)

KAY. God, it’s strong.

LATIMER. More soda?

KAY. No, thanks. I wish you wouldn’t make it so clear you don’t like Nevile.

LATIMER. Why should I like him? He’s not my sort. (Bitterly.) The ideal Englishman—good at sport, modest, good-looking, always the little pukka sahbit. Getting everything he wants all along the line—even pinched my girl.

KAY. I wasn’t your girl.

LATIMER. (Moving above the coffee table.) Yes, you were. If I’d been as well off as Nevile . . .

KAY. I didn’t marry Nevile for his money.

LATIMER. Oh, I know, and I understand—Mediterranean nights and dewy-eyed romance . . .

KAY. I married Nevile because I fell in love with him.

LATIMER. I’m not saying you didn’t, my sweet, but his money helped you to fall.

KAY. Do you really think that?

LATIMER. (Moving up C.) I try to—it helps soothe my injured vanity.

KAY. (Rising and moving to L. of him.) You’re rather a dear, Ted—I don’t know what I should do without you, sometimes.

LATIMER. Why try? I’m always around. You should know that by this time. The faithful swain—or should it be swine? Probably depends which you happen to be—the wife or the husband. (He kisses Kay’s shoulder. Mary enters L. She wears a plain dinner frock. Kay moves hastily on to the rostrum up L.)

MARY. (Pointedly.) Have either of you seen Mr. Treves? Lady Tressilian wants him.

LATIMER. He’s out on the terrace, Miss Aldin.

MARY. Thank you, Mr. Latimer. (She closes the door.) Isn’t it stifling? I’m sure there’s going to be a storm. (She crosses to the French windows.)

LATIMER. I hope it holds off until I get back to the hotel. (He moves to L. of Mary and glances off.) I didn’t bring a coat. I’ll get soaked to the skin going over in the ferry if it rains.

MARY. I daresay we could find you an umbrella if necessary, or Nevile could lend you his raincoat. (Mary exits by the French windows.)

LATIMER. (Moving up C.) Interesting woman, that—bit of a dark horse.

KAY. I feel rather sorry for her. (She moves to the armchair L. C., sits and sips her drink.) Slaving for that unpleasant old woman—and she won’t get anything for it, either. All the money comes to me and Nevile.

LATIMER. (Moving to R. of Kay.) Perhaps she doesn’t know that.

KAY. That would be rather funny. (They laugh. Audrey and Treves enter by the French windows. Treves is wearing an old-fashioned dinner suit. Audrey is in evening dress. She notices Latimer and Kay together, then moves below the chaise. Treves stops in the doorway and speaks over his shoulder.)

TREVES. I shall enjoy a little gossip with Lady Tressilian, Miss Aldin. With, perhaps, the remembering of a few old scandals. A touch of malice, you know, adds a certain savour to conversation. (He crosses to the door L.) Doesn’t it, Audrey?

AUDREY. She chooses the person she wants and summons them by a kind of Royal Command.

TREVES. Very aptly put, Audrey. I am always sensible of the royal touch in Lady Tressilian’s manner. (Treves exits L.)

AUDREY. (Listlessly.) It’s terribly hot, isn’t it? (She sits on the chaise.)

LATIMER. (With a step towards the butler’s tray.) Would you—like a drink?

AUDREY. (Shaking her head.) No, thank you. I think I shall go to bed very soon. (There is a short silence. Nevile enters L. He is wearing a dinner suit and is carrying a magazine.)

KAY. What have you been doing all this time, Nevile?

NEVILE. I had a couple of letters to write—thought I might as well get ’em off my chest.

KAY. (Rising.) You might have chosen some other time. (She moves to the butler’s tray and puts her glass on it.)

NEVILE. (Crossing and standing above the coffee table.) Better the hour, better the deed. By the way, here’s the Illustrated News. Somebody wanted it.

KAY. (Holding out her hand.) Thank you, Nevile.

AUDREY. (At almost the same moment.) Oh! Thank you, Nevile. (She holds out her hand. Nevile hesitates between them, smiling.)

KAY. (With a slight note of hysteria.) I want it. Give it to me.

AUDREY. (Withdrawing her hand, slightly confused.) Oh, sorry. I thought you were speaking to me, Nevile. (Nevile hesitates for a moment, then holds out the magazine to Audrey.)

NEVILE. (Quietly.) Here you are, Audrey.

AUDREY. Oh, but I . . .

KAY. (In suppressed fury, and almost crying.) It is stifling in here. (She moves quickly to the coffee table, picks up her evening bag and rushes below the chaise to the French windows.) Let’s go out in the air, Ted. I can’t stand being cooped up in this lousy hole any longer. (Kay almost stumbles as she exits by the French windows. Latimer, with an angry look at Nevile, follows Kay off. Nevile tosses the magazine on to the coffee table.)

AUDREY. (Rising, reproachfully.) You shouldn’t have done that, Nevile.

NEVILE. Why not?

AUDREY. (Crossing below the coffee table and standing down L.) It was stupid. You’d better go after Kay and apologize.

NEVILE. I don’t see why I should apologize.

AUDREY. I think you’d better. You were very rude to your wife. (Mary enters by the French windows and stands above the chaise.)

NEVILE. (In a low voice.) You’re my wife, Audrey. You always will be. (He sees Mary.) Ah—Miss Aldin—are you going up to Lady Tressilian? (Audrey moves on to the L. end of the rostrum.)

MARY. (Crossing to L. C.) Yes—when Mr. Treves comes down. (Royde enters by the French windows and stands R. of the chaise. Nevile stares for a moment at Royde, then exits by the French windows. Wearily.) Oh, dear! I don’t think I’ve ever felt so tired in my life. If Lady Tressilian’s bell rings tonight, I’m quite certain I shall never hear it. (She sits in the armchair L. C.)

AUDREY. (Turning and moving to the downstage edge of the rostrum.) What bell?

MARY. It rings in my room—in case Lady Tressilian should want anything in the night. It’s one of those old-fashioned bells—on a spring and worked with a wire. It makes a ghastly jangle, but Lady Tressilian insists that it’s more reliable than electricity. (She yawns.) Excuse me—it’s this dreadful sultry weather, I think.

AUDREY. You ought to go to bed, Mary. You look worn out.

MARY. I shall—as soon as Mr. Treves has finished talking to Lady Tressilian. Then I shall tuck her up for the night and go to bed myself. Oh, dear. It’s been a very trying day. (Latimer enters by the French windows and moves down R.)

ROYDE. It certainly has.

AUDREY. (After a look at Latimer.) Thomas! Let’s go on to the terrace. (She crosses to the French windows.)

ROYDE. (Moving to Audrey.) Yes—I want to tell you about a detective story I’ve been reading . . . (Audrey and Royde exit by the French windows. There is a pause, as Latimer looks after Royde and Audrey for a moment.)

LATIMER. You and I, Miss Aldin, seem to be the odd men out. We must console each other. (He moves to the butler’s tray.) Can I get you a drink?

MARY. No, thank you.

LATIMER. (Pouring a drink for himself.) One conjugal reconciliation in the rose garden, one faithful swain nerving himself to pop the question. Where do we come in? Nowhere. We’re the outsiders. (He moves to the downstage edge of the rostrum and raises his glass.) Here’s to the outsiders—and to hell with all those inside the ringed fence. (He drinks.)

MARY. How bitter you are.

LATIMER. So are you.

MARY. (After a pause.) Not really.

LATIMER. (Moving below the coffee table to R. of it.) What’s it like, fetching and carrying, running up and down stairs, endlessly waiting on an old woman?

MARY. There are worse things.

LATIMER. I wonder. (He turns and looks towards the terrace.)

MARY. (After a pause.) You’re very unhappy.

LATIMER. Who isn’t?

MARY. Have—(She pauses.) you always been in love with Kay?

LATIMER. More or less.

MARY. And she?

LATIMER. (Moving up R. C.) I thought so—until Nevile came along. Nevile with his money and his sporting record. (He moves to L. of the chaise.) I could go climbing in the Himalayas if I’d ever had the cash.

MARY. You wouldn’t want to.

LATIMER. Perhaps not. (Sharply.) What do you want out of life?

MARY. (Rising, after a pause.) It’s almost too late.

LATIMER. But not quite.

MARY. No—not quite. (She moves on to the rostrum.) All I want is a little money—not very much—just enough.

LATIMER. Enough for what?

MARY. Enough to have some sort of life of my own before it’s too late. I’ve never had anything.

LATIMER. (Moving to R. of Mary.) Do you hate them, too, those inside the fence?

MARY. (Violently.) Hate them—I . . . (She yawns.) No—no—I’m too tired to hate anybody. (Treves enters L.)

TREVES. Ah, Miss Aldin, Lady Tressilian would like you to go to her now if you will be so kind. I think she’s feeling sleepy.

MARY. That’s a blessing. Thank you, Mr. Treves. I’ll go up at once. (She crosses to the door L.) I shan’t come down again so I’ll say good night now. Good night, Mr. Latimer. Good night, Mr. Treves.

LATIMER. Good night. (Mary exits L. Treves moves on to the L. end of the rostrum.) I must be running along myself. With luck I shall get across the ferry and back to the hotel before the storm breaks. (He moves above the chaise. Royde enters by the French windows.)

ROYDE. Are you going, Latimer? Would you like a raincoat?

LATIMER. No, thanks, I’ll chance it.

ROYDE. (Moving on to the rostrum.) Hell of a storm coming.

TREVES. Is Audrey on the terrace?

ROYDE. I haven’t the faintest idea. (He crosses to the door L.) I’m for bed. Good night. (Royde exits L. There is a flash of lightning and a low rumble of thunder is heard off.)

LATIMER. (With malice.) It would seem that the course of true love has not run smoothly. Was that thunder? Some way away still—(He moves to the French windows.) but I think I’ll make it.

TREVES. I’ll come with you and bolt the garden gate. (He crosses to the French windows. Latimer and Treves exit by the French windows.)

AUDREY. (Off, to Latimer.) Good night. (Audrey enters rather quickly by the French windows. There is a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder. Audrey stands for a moment looking around the room, then moves slowly on to the rostrum, sits on the window-seat and looks out at the night. Nevile enters by the French windows and moves above the chaise.)

NEVILE. Audrey.

AUDREY. (Rising quickly and moving to the L. end of the rostrum.) I’m going to bed, Nevile. Good night.

NEVILE. (Moving on to the rostrum.) Don’t go yet. I want to talk to you.

AUDREY. (Nervously.) I think you’d better not.

NEVILE. (Moving to R. of her.) I must. I’ve got to. Please listen to me, Audrey.

AUDREY. (Backing to the L. wall of the window bay.) I’d rather you didn’t.

NEVILE. That means you know what I’m going to say. (Audrey does not reply.) Audrey, can’t we go back to where we were? Forget everything that has happened?

AUDREY. (Turning a little.) Including—Kay?

NEVILE. Kay will be sensible.

AUDREY. What do you mean by—sensible?

NEVILE. (Eagerly.) I shall tell her the truth—that you are the only woman I’ve ever loved. That is the truth, Audrey. You’ve got to believe that.

AUDREY. (Desperately.) You loved Kay when you married her.

NEVILE. My marriage to Kay was the biggest mistake I ever made. I realize now what a damned fool I’ve been. I . . . (Kay enters by the French windows.)

KAY. (Moving to R. C.) Sorry to interrupt this touching scene, but I think it’s about time I did.

NEVILE. (Moving to C. of the rostrum.) Kay, listen . . .

KAY. (Furiously.) Listen! I’ve heard all I want to hear—too much.

AUDREY. (With relief.) I’m going to bed. (She moves to the door L.) Good night.

KAY. (Crossing to R. of Audrey.) That’s right. Go to bed! You’ve done all the mischief you wanted to do, haven’t you? But you’re not going to get out of it as easily as all that. I’ll deal with you after I’ve had it out with Nevile.

AUDREY. (Coldly.) It’s no concern of mine. Good night. (Audrey exits L. There is a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder off.)

KAY. (Looking after Audrey.) Of all the damned, cool . . .

NEVILE. (Moving to R. of the coffee table.) Look here, Kay, Audrey had absolutely nothing to do with this. It’s not her fault. Blame me if you like . . .

KAY. (Working herself up.) And I do like. What sort of man do you think you are? (She turns to Nevile. Her voice rises.) You leave your wife, come bald-headed after me, get your wife to divorce you. Crazy about me one minute, tired of me the next. Now I suppose you want to go back to that—(She looks towards the door L.) whey-faced, mewling, double-crossing little cat . . .

NEVILE. (Angrily.) Stop that, Kay.

KAY. (Moving on to the rostrum.) That’s what she is. A crafty, cunning, scheming, little . . .

NEVILE. (Moving to Kay and gripping her arms.) Stop it!

KAY. (Releasing herself.) Leave me alone! (She moves slowly to L. of the chaise.) What the hell do you want?

NEVILE. (Turning and facing upstage.) I can’t go on. I’m every kind of worm you like to call me. But it’s no good, Kay. I can’t go on. (Kay sits on the chaise. He turns.) I think—really—I must have loved Audrey all the time. I’ve only just realized it. My love for you was—was a kind of madness. But it’s no good—you and I don’t belong. It’s better to cut our losses. (He moves above the chaise to R. of it.)

KAY. (In a deceptively quiet voice.) What exactly are you suggesting, Nevile?

NEVILE. We can get a divorce. You can divorce me for desertion.

KAY. You’d have to wait three years for it.

NEVILE. I’ll wait.

KAY. And then, I suppose, you’ll ask dear, sweet, darling Audrey to marry you all over again? Is that the idea?

NEVILE. If she’ll have me.

KAY. She’ll have you all right. And where do I come in?

NEVILE. Naturally, I’ll see you’re well provided for.

KAY. (Losing control of herself.) Cut out the bribes. (She rises and moves to Nevile.) Listen to me, Nevile. I’ll not divorce you. (She beats her hands against his chest.) You fell in love with me and you married me and I’m not going to let you go back to the sly little bitch who’s got her hooks into you again.

NEVILE. (Throwing Kay on to the chaise.) Shut up, Kay. For God’s sake. You can’t make this kind of scene here.

KAY. She meant this to happen. It’s what she’s been playing for. She’s probably gloating over her success now. But she’s not going to bring it off. You’ll see what I can do. (She flings herself on the chaise in a paroxysm of hysterical sobbing. Nevile gives a despairing gesture. Treves enters by the French windows and stands watching. At the same moment there is a brilliant flash of lightning, a rolling peal of thunder and the storm bursts as—the curtain falls.)

CURTAIN