Index     I     II-I     II-II     III

ACT ONE

SCENE: The living room of an English country house not far from Brighton. It is not one of the "great houses" but rambling and informal and spaciously hospitable in a casual way. The garden seems almost to grow into the living room; the French windows at the back merely to beach its efflorescence. Cross the garden and you are in another living room; cross that and you are in another garden. The knack of combining an air of improvisation with solid comfort appears to be a special attribute of the British country house of this type.

It is a sunny afternoon in spring.

MRS. DINGLE, the ample housekeeper, and JOAN ELDRIDGE, an attractive young American girl, are awaiting the arrival by motor of two visitors. Each time they hear the sound of a car in the road which passes the house, JOAN leaps to the piano and strikes up "The Entrance of the Gladiators." At the rising of the curtain JOAN is discovered in one of these spasms of optimism.

JOAN—[As she runs to the piano.] There they are!

MRS. DINGLE—[Lumbering to the window near the hall-door left, whence she may scan the road.] I believe it is, Miss Joan! [JOAN plays the music triumphantly. But the motor passes and dies down.]

JOAN—[In despair.] This is impossible. [She leaves the piano disconsolately.] I wish Lael hadn't left me to receive them. I'm getting more nervous every minute.

MRS. DINGLE—Nothing to be nervous about that I can see! Your own father . . . and your uncle . . . Tell me, Miss Joan, does your Uncle Rand look like a hero?

JOAN—That depends what your notion of a hero is. Besides, you've seen his picture in the papers, haven't you?

MRS. DINGLE—Don't know as I have.

JOAN—He's quite young, you know. And good-looking.

MRS. DINGLE—As good-looking as Lindbergh?

JOAN—[Considering it.] Different style. Yes. Quite different.

MRS. DINGLE—Do they make a big fuss over him in America?

JOAN—Oh, no end. [Sound of motor car. Same business. JOAN rushes to the piano and plays. MRS. DINGLE stands at attention at French window. Same result. Motor car passes and dies down. JOAN rises from the piano.] I give up!

MRS. DINGLE—Perhaps they had an accident.

JOAN—I don't think so. It's just Father telling the driver to go slow. He's so damn cautious!

MRS. DINGLE—[Shocked.] What a way to speak of your own father! In my day . . . !

JOAN—I know. In your day you suppressed your feelings! Such a bother, Lael not having a telephone! I'd like to ring up my young man in London to find out if he's all right. [MRS. DINGLE starts to protest; she decides it's hopeless.]

MRS. DINGLE—You mean Mr.—Mr.—?

JOAN—Barashaev.

MRS. DINGLE—I never will say that name.

JOAN—You will. With practice.

MRS. DINGLE—Is he your young man?

JOAN—I've been trying to persuade him ever since last winter in New York. Like him?

MRS. DINGLE—[Thoughtfully.] He's a foreigner.

JOAN—Oh, Mrs. Dingle, how British!

MRS. DINGLE—He's worse than a foreigner. He's a Russian. But he can play the piano. I'll say that for him. He makes it talk.

JOAN—Sing, Mrs. Dingle. He makes it sing! [Motor is heard approaching again. This time, JOAN doesn't stir.]

MRS. DINGLE—[Excited again.] Miss Joan, maybe . . .

JOAN—They don't fool me again!

MRS. DINGLE—But maybe . . .

JOAN—I don't care if it is! [Motor stops with a squeak of brakes.]

MRS. DINGLE—They've stopped! They've stopped! [MRS. DINGLE rushes out.]

JOAN—Really? [She rushes to the piano and again strikes up the triumphant theme from "Heldenleben." RAND enters, followed by his elder brother HOBART ELDRIDGE. RAND ELDRIDGE is a little over thirty, a Southern American and very attractive. The most attractive thing about him is a kind of shyness, a slightly uncomfortable awareness that he radiates an aura of fame which makes him conspicuous when really he would prefer to be unobserved. HOBART ELDRIDGE, at least fifteen years older than RAND, has none of his younger brother's reticence. He understands completely the sources of his own power and is determined to insure their inexhaustibility. It is impossible for him to visualize a cosmos in which he and his kind are not the central suns. JOAN rushes to her UNCLE RAND.] Hello! Hello!

RAND—[With his arms around her.] Joan! How nice! How very nice!

JOAN—[To her father.] Hello, Father.

HOBART—[Annoyed that she is here.] I didn't know you knew Lady Wyngate, Joan!

JOAN—Oh, yes! We're great friends—met her in New York—She asked me down here to help entertain Uncle Rand!

RAND—Where is Lael?

JOAN—She had to run up to London. She left me to do the honors.

HOBART—Run up to London! Didn't she know? . . .

JOAN—It's a long story, Father. She said she'd explain to Uncle Rand. [She smiles bewitchingly at her uncle.]

RAND—It's quite all right. I appreciate Lael's not treating me as guest.

HOBART—[Grimly.] If it's informality you're after, you'll get it all right here!

RAND—[Looking round.] Sweet place!

JOAN—Wait till you see the garden! [To her father.] Shall I show him the garden?

MRS. DINGLE—Perhaps Captain Eldridge would like to go to his room?

RAND—No, thank you.

JOAN—This is Mrs. Dingle. [MRS. DINGLE bobs.]

RAND— [To MRS. DINGLE.] No, thank you, Mrs. Dingle. I'll just stretch here and talk to my brother for a bit. Seems we can't get talked out, doesn't it, Bart? [He takes his older brother affectionately by the shoulder.]

JOAN—[To MRS. DINGLE.] You might see that Rand's bags are put in his room.

MRS. DINGLE—Certainly, miss, I'll see to it. [She goes out.]

RAND—[To JOAN, affectionately.] Well, Joan, well! Well! It certainly was a great idea of Lael's to have you here.

JOAN—[With real admiration.] You're looking wonderful. Very, very handsome.

RAND—You, on the other hand, are quite repulsive.

JOAN—Wherever did you get that beautiful tan? I thought it was freezing up there in the Antarctic.

RAND—It's not up there—it's down there. And coming back I passed through the tropics.

JOAN—[Amazed.] Tropics!

RAND—[Laughing, to HOBART.] Geographically, Joan seems a little vague.

HOBART—Vagueness is a charm she inherits from her mother.

RAND—[To JOAN.] I'm a little hurt you didn't wait for me in New York. [Drily.] Seen the reception I had. Might have impressed you.

JOAN—I wish I had! How I should have loved to see you drive up Fifth Avenue. How was it? Were you thrilled?

RAND—Well, as you see, I survived that too. [They laugh.]

HOBART—[Breaking into this.] What's the inn like here, Joan?

JOAN—Very comfortable. Well, quite comfortable.

HOBART—You might ring up and reserve me some rooms. It's getting so late, I believe I'll stay the night.

RAND—Do, please.

JOAN—There's no telephone in this house. But I'll walk over . . .

HOBART—And while you're about it—would you mind telephoning your mother—she's at Wechsley, you know—ask her to pick me up at the White Hart because I shan't be able to get to Wechsley for her.

JOAN—Right!

HOBART—Thank you very much.

JOAN—[As she runs out.] So long, Rand. Be seeing you.

RAND—Oh, Joan.

JOAN—[Stopping.] Yes?

RAND—How is she? Lael? Is she all right?

JOAN—Oh, grand! Top of her form. Wait till you see . . .

RAND—[Smiling.] I can't!

JOAN—[To her father.] I'll get you the Royal Suite. The Royal Suite in the White Hart! [She runs off through the house. There is a long pause. RAND takes a turn about the room. He is sorry LAEL hasn't been there to meet him, not for his own sake alone but because he knows the effect on his brother will be, from his point of view, unfortunate. Nor is he wrong.]

HOBART—Well, this little incident illustrates a bit what I mean about your lady love.

RAND—[Disingenuous.] This? What?

HOBART—[Irritated at his evasion.] Well, her not being here! It's a bit thick, I must say.

RAND—I don't think so, Bart, really. She'll probably explain it perfectly. After all, she is a busy woman. She wirelessed me to come right down.

HOBART—I know! Come right down. Dying to see you. I won't be there, but come right down!

RAND—[Remonstrating mildly.] Bart . . .

HOBART—It all comes under the head of being Bohemian, I suppose.

RAND—Come now! Lael's not Bohemian.

HOBART—Artistic, then. If you're artistic, you can be rude. I must say I'm not comfortable with artists. I get on much better with people who do things.

RAND—[Shyly.] Bart . . . I . . .

HOBART—Yes, Rand.

RAND—You don't like Lael much, do you?

HOBART—Well, she's not my sort. Not your sort either, Rand—that's what I'd like to make you see.

RAND—Bart . . .

HOBART—She's all right in her place, I suppose, but . . .

RAND—Before you say any more, Bart, I want to tell you—I must tell you . . .

HOBART—Well?

RAND—I'm going to ask her to marry me. That's why I came to England.

HOBART—[After a moment.] Rand . . .

RAND—Yes, Bart.

HOBART—You know I love you. You know how proud I am of you. You know how much your career and reputation mean to me.

RAND—And you know how grateful I am to you. I never speak of it, but don't think, Bart, I don't appreciate—deeply—all the money you've spent on my expeditions . . .

HOBART—Nonsense! What's that? What's money compared to what you've done for our name—the Eldridge name. I want that name kept high, Rand—at the highest . . .

RAND—[Pleading for a clean bill.] There isn't anything against Lael, is there, Bart—nothing—serious?

HOBART—Well, it depends on what you call serious.

RAND—Well, is it anything to do with—anything to do with? . . .

HOBART—Nothing as far as I know—not in that way.

RAND—[Completely relieved.] Thank God for that! That's all I care about.

HOBART—Her private life's all right, as far as I know, it's what you may call her—public life—that bothers me.

RAND—[Ridicules idea.] Oh, if that's all!

HOBART—It's more important than you think, Rand. A little affair here and there I would forgive. . . .

RAND—[Pained.] Please, Bart!

HOBART—Sorry. But the sort of thing Lady Wyngate goes in for . . .

RAND—[Teasing him, completely relieved now and very happy—a sexual aspersion was the one thing he feared.] Well, now, big brother, what sort of thing does she go in for?

HOBART—Hardly know how to explain to you. Her reputation. . .

RAND—What is her reputation?

HOBART—Well, she's commonly considered—to put it mildly—eccentric.

RAND—How do you mean eccentric?

HOBART—For one thing her husband was little better than a fire-eater.

RAND—Did you know her husband?

HOBART—No, but I know plenty who did. I know the paper he edited—which her money supported and still supports.

RAND—She showed me a copy of it in New York. Seemed harmless—full of book reviews.

HOBART—It's communistic! That's what gets on my nerves—a woman of her class—whose fortune has been built up by a lot of hard-working manufacturers, supporting the Clarion—a Liberal weekly that's very dangerous—that wants to destroy the system that gives her her income. A woman of fine family whose father was knighted for war work, who might have her house full of the best people, surrounding herself with a lot of riff-raff.

RAND—I don't see any riff-raff.

HOBART—You will if you stay here—but I can't stop for that. What I have to convey to you is this: In the last year or so, while you've been away in the Antarctic, my mind has gradually crystallized to an important decision. I'm going to settle down permanently here in England—make my headquarters here.

RAND—Doesn't Phoebe want to live in America?

HOBART—It's got nothing to do with Phoebe! I've decided to give myself up, in a manner of speaking, to public service. I can see my way clear to becoming an influence, a power, not only here but, from here, in America as well. In fact—in fact . . .

RAND—[Intrigued by the mystery.] You're wonderfully clever, Bart—you always were!

HOBART—I've formed a connection with one of the wealthiest men in England. You'd be startled, I think, if I told you who it was.

RAND—[With perfect sincerity.] The Prime Minister!

HOBART—No, no! Lord—his name would be anathema in this house—Lord—[He whispers the name to RAND.]

RAND—[Registering the expected astonishment but still not having the faintest idea.] Really? Who is he?

HOBART—Well, I'm surprised. Don't you ever read the papers?

RAND—We don't get the papers in the Antarctic.

HOBART—Of course. Of course. Anyway, you'll soon learn about him. He admires you very much.

RAND—Admires me? Really?

HOBART—In fact—curious as it may sound—you are a factor in our schemes—an unconscious factor—but still a factor—none the less powerful because unseen—unspoken.

RAND—I? How? But how?

HOBART—Your name. Your magic name.

RAND—Really?

HOBART—Lord—[He can't bring himself to mention the sacred name. He looks around.]

RAND—[Interested.] You mean that Lord . . .

HOBART—[Stopping him before he utters the name.] Yes! He's one of the most powerful newspaper proprietors in England—in the world. Before a week is out I shall be definitely associated with him in a newspaper venture of great importance. I'm putting a good deal of money into it, but what he wants chiefly, I fancy, are my American connections. And I know you will be glad to hear that in my opinion your name, your unblemished and heroic reputation, finally turned the balance in my favor with Lord . . . [His voice hushes.] One of those imponderables that sometimes very subtly outweighs the greatest considerations. Yes, my instinct tells me you have been invaluable. You have aided me.

RAND—[With complete sincerity.] Nothing you could say to me would make me happier.

HOBART—No man ever had a more loyal brother than you are. I know that. [A moments silence.] Now you see, Rand—you understand what I am telling you is in the strictest confidence. . . .

RAND—Oh, absolutely . . .

HOBART—That includes Lady Wyngate—she's the last person I'd want to have know.

RAND—Of course, Bart. I never talk to Lael about things like that.

HOBART—Well, sometimes one thing leads to another.

RAND—[With his half-shy smile.] I hope so!

HOBART—[Clears his throat.] You see this venture I am going into with—the person I mentioned—is more than a newspaper venture. Much more important than that. The affairs of the world, as you probably know, are in a critical state.

RAND—You mean—the depression?

HOBART—Behind that—beyond that—beneath that.

RAND—[Dimly.] I see!

HOBART—[Grimly.] The line is becoming clearly marked. The issue is joined. At least we know which side we're on!

RAND—I think what you're going to do for the unemployed young men—get them interested in physical culture, give them jobs, give them something to live for—it's really wonderful, Bart—just like you—

HOBART—We've got to do something for them—or they'll drift into chaos, crime, anarchy—it's the New Crusade! [He is struck suddenly by an overwhelming idea.] My God, Rand!

RAND—[Alarmed.] Bart? What's the matter?

HOBART—Nothing. Nothing. An idea! A terrific idea! The New Crusade—a motto—a picture slogan—for our masthead—don't you see?—The New Crusade—a Crusader in an airplane—don't you see—right on the masthead!

RAND—Masthead?

HOBART—[His hands in front of his eyes to conserve the creative process.] You at the wheel!

RAND—[Delicately.] Stick!

HOBART—You at the stick—in a Crusader's costume—driving a plane over a sea of chaos—communism—decadence—into the New Order—it's magnificent—I must telephone at once to Lord . . .

RAND—Won't it look as if you were trying to publicize me?

HOBART—Not a photograph of you—nothing realistic like that—an idealization—if I do say it myself, it's wonderful—how it bridges the centuries—the moral fervor of the . . . [Feels around for the century—can't remember it, compromises quickly.] Middle Ages—the science and heroism of the twentieth—it's superb!

RAND—Yes, I think it is, Bart. I think Lord . . . [He is about to say the sacred name. HOBART is terrified.]

HOBART—[Looks about room to see no one overhears them.] Sh!

RAND—Well, I think he's very lucky to have you for a partner!

HOBART—When I explain to you more clearly what it is we stand for—and when you've had a chance to observe Lady Wyngate in her own bailiwick, so to speak—you'll understand better why a marriage to her would be—well, to put it mildly—inexpedient. [Rises and starts to pace back and forth.]

RAND—[Rises.] But why? I don't see why. She's lovely. Everybody adores her.

HOBART—[Facing RAND.] The right people don't adore her. After all—what do you know about her? You met her when she was on a flying trip to New York.

RAND—When I went down to Washington to get the—the medal from the Geographic Society.

HOBART—[Turning away.] Well?

RAND—I met the British Ambassador.

HOBART—Well?

RAND—I asked him about her.

HOBART—Well?

RAND—His face lit up.

HOBART—[Indulgently.] That, my boy, might mean many things.

RAND—He said he adored her.

HOBART—When he's in Washington, it's safe for him to adore her.

RAND—[In despair.] But I don't understand—what is it—what is it that—?

HOBART—Shall I be blunt?

RAND—[Dreading it.] Please—

HOBART—For a man in your position—with your reputation—to marry Lady Wyngate . . .

RAND—[Very tense.] Well?

HOBART—[Feeling for an analogy that RAND will understand.] Well—it would . . . [Hitting on it at last and pouncing on it happily.] Well—it would be like Lindbergh marrying a young Emma Goldman! [At this point, and before RAND can protest, LAEL WYNGATE comes in. She goes at once to RAND, embraces him, kisses him.]

LAEL—Rand!

RAND—Lael, darling! 

LAEL—Can you forgive me? You must think me most unbelievably rude. I left Joan here to receive you. Did she do well by you? [HOBART clears his throat.]

RAND—This is my brother, Hobart Eldridge.

LAEL—Joan's father?

RAND—Yes.

LAEL—[Shaking hands with him.] I'm so glad to see Mr. Eldridge.

HOBART—[Formally.] How do you do?

LAEL—Such a morning! Do sit down! I went up to London to pick up a German refugee. I found him so alone and so charming that I've brought him back with me. You'll adore him.

HOBART—[Sensing illustrative material.] German refugee?

LAEL—Yes.

RAND—[Sensing it equally and to protect LAEL.] We didn't mind a bit waiting.

HOBART—What sort of refugee?

LAEL—Didn't I say? German!

HOBART—But what sort of German? Communist?

LAEL—I don't know. We didn't talk politics. He's a literary and music critic. A very prominent one. His name is Willens. Hugo Willens.

RAND—No! Willens! Not really!

LAEL—Do you know him?

RAND—I know him well. Where is he?

LAEL—He'll be down in a minute.

RAND—Well, imagine. Hugo Willens! Great chap. We used to go skiing together.

HOBART—Where was this?

RAND—Near Munich. When Phoebe was staying there.

LAEL—Phoebe?

RAND—Yes, Hobart's wife. Met him through Phoebe, as a matter of fact. Great friend of Phoebe's.

HOBART—Oh!

LAEL—Oh, then you know him too, Mr. Eldridge?

HOBART—No. I don't know all my wife's friends. Phoebe travels around quite a bit.

LAEL—Oh, I see. Well, won't it be nice for him to see you again? He hasn't the faintest idea, of course. And Mrs. Eldridge will have to come too. But, Rand, tell me! How splendid you look! How long were you gone this time?

RAND—Eight months!

LAEL—Were you? And did you have a triumphal on your return? Were they glad to see you?

RAND—They seemed to be.

LAEL—Seemed! Don't tell me. When Americans are glad, they're glad! How I adore them! And how is my dear, incomparable New York?

RAND—It's still there. Waiting to see you again.

LAEL—[Makes an impulsive engagement.] I'll go back with you.

RAND—[Eagerly.] Will you?

LAEL—[To HOBART.] You must be very proud of him, Mr. Eldridge. You're staying for the week-end, aren't you?

HOBART—It's Tuesday. I'm afraid the week-end's over.

LAEL—I mean next week-end. Do stay. You live in England, don't you, Mr. Eldridge?

HOBART—I intend to.

LAEL—It's a great compliment to us. It's so reassuring for us that we attract Americans like you.

HOBART—[Bows, and a little angrily.] Thank you.

LAEL—You know your brother is the most modest national hero I've ever met. That's why I adore him so. I'm so happy to see you again, Rand. What times we had in New York—what good times! Really, I believe I never had so much fun anywhere as I did in those two weeks. [To HOBART again.] In any case, Mr. Eldridge, whether you stay the week-end or not, you must stay for dinner.

RAND—I want you to meet Willens, Bart. How'd you corral him, Lael?

LAEL—Through Joan.

HOBART—Joan?

LAEL—When Joan's young man made his début in Berlin, Herr Willens gave him a great send-off. Yes, decidedly, it's one up for Joan.

RAND—[To HOBART.] Has Joan a young man? That's why she wouldn't wait for me in New York! Well, Bart, are you prepared for that?

HOBART—Oh, Joan's young men come and go. It's not important.

LAEL—Well, anyway, you'll meet him in a minute. He's staying here. A young Russian-American, Sascha Barashaev. Plays the piano.

HOBART—Oh, then it's certainly not important.

LAEL—Between ourselves—all technique—magnificent—but not much feeling. Not what you'd expect, is it? Do you think Latins and Slavs actually have more feeling than we have? Do you, Mr. Eldridge? They're more expressive and that gives the impression of warmth, but actually I don't think they feel more intensely than we do, do you?

HOBART—Latins and Slavs are not my specialty, Lady Wyngate.

LAEL—Oh, well. It's that I get so tired of hearing about Anglo-Saxon coldness. We're such a sloppy, sentimental race. Only yesterday I ran into Lord Abercrombie at lunch . . . [As she mentions, so casually, the dread name, RAND is visibly struck.] What's the matter, Rand? Do you know him?

RAND—[Gasping.] No! I don't.

LAEL—Very amusing, inflated, wrong-headed little man. Do you know him, Mr. Eldridge?

HOBART—[With some fervor.] He's the hope of England.

LAEL—Has he told you that too? He believes it. He actually believes it. I hate messiahs. Fake ones, charlatan ones I enjoy. It's amusing to watch them do their stuff. I met Aimee McPherson in New York—you know, the woman who was lost in the desert—I found her in a cinema theatre. Now there's the kind of blonde messiah I like. But sincere ones, zealot ones I can't abide. When they tell you they're the hope of anything—and they're not faking—they're hopeless. But I'm not persuaded entirely about Lord Abercrombie. Are you, Mr. Eldridge? Perhaps he practises before a mirror. . . .

HOBART—In my opinion, Lady Wyngate, he is the . . .

LAEL—I know! But on the side. Pretty good circulation-booster, isn't he? I haven't quite given him up. He may be—what do they call it in America—delicious word—a phony! Shall we bet on Lord Abercrombie, Mr. Eldridge? [JOAN comes in, followed by MRS. DINGLE with the tea things.]

JOAN—Oh, Lael, I'm crazy about him—I'm just mad about him!

LAEL—That's not news. Ah, tea. Thank you, Mrs. Dingle.

JOAN—Not Sascha. The new one.

LAEL—Oh! Tea! Tea! Aren't you coming, Mr. Eldridge?

HOBART—Did you see about the room in the inn, Joan?

JOAN—Yes, Dad. I've reserved the Royal Suite for you. He's so charming. . . .

HOBART—Did you telephone to your mother?

JOAN—Yes. She's meeting you. He's so distinguished! So different! And he's been in a concentration camp. [SASCHA and HUGO WILLENS come in.]

LAEL—Oh, here you are! Well, Herr Willens, I hear you're distinguished and different. How different are you, Herr Willens?

RAND—[Stepping forward.] Hello, Hugo!

HUGO—[Astonished.] No. Not really! [As they shake hands cordially, to LAEL.] Why didn't you tell me?

LAEL—I didn't know you and Rand were old friends.

RAND—This is my brother, Hobart Eldridge.

HUGO—[Shaking hands with HOBART.] How do you do?

HOBART—How do you do?

RAND—Phoebe's husband.

HUGO—How do you do? [HOBART about to sit, looks at HUGO after the double greeting.]

LAEL—And Mr. Eldridge, Mr. Barashaev.

SASCHA—How do you do?

HOBART—Oh, so you're Mr. Barashaev.

LAEL—And Captain Eldridge, Mr. Barashaev.

SASCHA—How do you do, Captain Eldridge. I've heard a lot about you.

RAND—Thank you.

LAEL—Come on, everybody! Tea! Please sit down!

RAND—Well, well, Hugo! What on earth's happened to you.

HUGO—That's a long story.

LAEL—Herr Willens has just emerged from a concentration camp.

RAND—Whatever for?

HUGO—[Still rather quietly.] It was rather boring.

RAND—I mean—what did they put you in for?

HUGO—That's part of the long story.

LAEL—What was it like?

HUGO—No luxury. Plain. Simple.

LAEL—Showers or tubs?

HUGO—Barbed wire and truncheons.

LAEL—Both! How generous! [Pours HUGO'S tea.]

SASCHA—[Gloomily.] That couldn't have been any joke.

RAND—Well, I can't conceive—Hugo, why?

LAEL—[Holding HUGO'S cup.] Before I give you tea . . . [A glance at HOBART.] We must know this—are you a Communist?

HUGO—I assure you, dear lady—I am a music critic.

LAEL—Thank heaven! Cream?

HUGO—[Standing.] Please. [LAEL pours cream into cup and hands it to HUGO, who thanks her and sits down.]

LAEL—[As she pours the second cup.] Mr. Eldridge?

HOBART—Straight, please. I beg your pardon—plain.

LAEL—Rand? I know how you take yours. [LAEL hands HOBART his cup. She pours RAND'S tea. JOAN rises and pours for SASCHA and herself. Gives SASCHA his cup then sits down again.] You know, Herr Willens, Captain Eldridge has just discovered a new world—a bright, new, fresh, untainted world.

HUGO—Yes! I know! [Quietly—to RAND.] What a let-down it must be to return to this old one!

RAND—[Quite buoyantly.] Oh, I don't know. I like it down there, but it's nice to be back too, Lael!

LAEL—[Holds out RAND'S cup for him. He rises and gets it and sits down again.] It seems to be easier to discover new worlds than to run them once you've found them.

HOBART—England has done pretty well.

LAEL—Has she? It's generous of you to say so, but some of us don't feel in the least complacent about it.

HOBART—There's plenty of strength in England. In America, too. It's not unified. It's not co-ordinated. Power not in the right hands, that's all.

LAEL—So Lord Abercrombie was telling me just the other day—his very phrase—"Power isn't in the right hands." He means to put it there.

HOBART—[To HUGO.] Tell me Herr—Herr . . .

LAEL—Willens.

HOBART—Herr Willens. You say you're a music critic.

HUGO—I was.

HOBART—You're not a political writer then?

HUGO—Not at all.

HOBART—You don't mind I hope, if I—?

HUGO—Not at all.

HOBART—Then may I ask why you were put into a concentration camp?

HUGO—I wrote a pamphlet.

HOBART—[In triumph.] Ah! Communist!

HUGO—Not at all! It was satiric.

HOBART—Making fun of the government!

LAEL—If he did make fun of the government, Mr. Eldridge, does that justify, in your opinion, his being put in a concentration camp?

HOBART—It's a government trying to make headway against tremendous odds. They're justified in putting down opposition. The Communists about whom we're so sentimental nowadays . . .

LAEL—Are we?

HOBART—They did it with bullets. They weren't sentimental. We might learn from them.

HUGO—As a matter of fact, Mr. Eldridge, my pamphlet had nothing to do with politics. It was pure fantasy.

LAEL—Really?

RAND—What was it about?

HUGO—I called it "The Last Jew."

LAEL—Where have I . . . ?

HUGO—They did me the honor to burn it—[Deprecatingly.] with other important works.

LAEL—Hugo Willens! Of course! I remember reading the title in the—fire list. "The Last Jew"—Hugo Willens. I remember thinking: Now who is Will—? I beg your pardon.

HUGO—Well, now, you know. I thought it amusing, really. As a writer on music I had, as a matter of course, innumerable Jewish friends. I was touched personally by their sudden misfortunes. Also, as a lover of music, I was devastated by what the Aryan standardization was doing to my world. I resented this gratuitous disturbance of my professional routine—so I sat down and wrote this pamphlet.

LAEL—What was it about?

HUGO—Well—

LAEL—Oh, do tell us, we want to know.

RAND—Yes, do.

HUGO—With the extermination of the Jews, the millennium has been promised the people. And with the efficiency of a well-organized machine the purpose is all but accomplished. They are all dead—but one—the last Jew. He is about to commit suicide when an excited deputation from the All-Highest comes to see him. There has been a meeting in the sanctum of the Minister of Propaganda. This expert and clever man has seen that the surviving Jew is the most valuable man in the Kingdom. He points out to the Council their dilemma. Let this man die and their policy is bankrupt. They are left naked, without an issue, without a programme, without a scapegoat. The Jews gone and still no millennium. They are in a panic—till finally a committee is dispatched—and the last Jew is given a handsome subsidy to propagate—

LAEL—[Claps her hands in delight, jumps up.] Where is it? I must get my hands on it. I want to publish it in my magazine.

HOBART—[Maliciously.] The Jew accepts the subsidy, I suppose!

HUGO—[Calmly.] Not only does he accept it—he makes them double it. You see, Mr. Eldridge, he is not an idealist—he is a practical man. Idealism he leaves to his interlocutors.

LAEL—Why not? A subsidy to propagate for destruction. As an Imperialist Fascist, Mr. Eldridge, you must understand that perfectly. Where is your pamphlet, Herr Willens?

HUGO—It is destroyed. I have no copy.

LAEL—You must rewrite it—from memory.

HUGO—Why? Why should I be the Jewish apologist? I'm not a Jew. That is to say—

LAEL—Oh! Oh!

HUGO—I had a Jewish great-grandmother.

LAEL—But what an indiscretion! What an indulgence!

RAND—[To HUGO, sympathetically.] Well, I never heard such nonsense! Do you mean to say they actually—

HUGO—Yes, and my father was a minister in the Protestant Church.

LAEL—[Inexorable.] Still—that speck—that unfortunate—speck.

HUGO—Curiously enough, I was rather proud of that speck—when I thought of it—which wasn't often—it was not unpleasant to remember I had it. This odd and mysterious strain—did it give me sympathy and flavor, intellectual audacity, impudence and intensity? You see, Mr. Eldridge, it was rather like being left gold bonds in a vault—bonds which couldn't be touched but which, nevertheless, paid one an unseen and incalculable dividend. That's how I felt about—the speck. I was a Nordic with an interesting racial fillip. I was secretly vain about it—until it began!

LAEL—The chromosome-hunt!

HUGO—The chromosome-hunt! A curious experience—to find myself overnight a marked person, a special person. Curious discomfort. I kept saying to myself: What is it? What is it you feel? You are the same—in spite of these looks, these sudden stillnesses in conversation, this restraint—you are the same. But within forty-eight hours, it was not the same. Spiritually, I was in the ghetto.

HOBART—Imagination, of course!

HUGO—[After a look at him—agreeing.] Of course—imagination—the only reality. The world in which one really lives and feels. And then the strangest thing happened. I cannot—still I cannot understand it. Atavism? The—speck—took possession of me. I became its creature. I moved under its ordering. I began to ask myself whether subconsciously I hadn't written the pamphlet to defend my antecedents.

LAEL—But—how absurd! Really, do you have to go to Freud to explain an act of simple humanity? You wrote the pamphlet because you are a generous human being. Don't you think—don't you really think—that the subconscious has been done to death and that it's high time some one re-discovered the conscious?

HUGO—[Amused.] I admit that leaving the Fatherland has restored my balance a bit. I am quite over this aberration. I've returned to my Aryan inheritance.

LAEL—And very welcome you are.

RAND—[Rises and puts down cup on tray. Warmly.] You bet you are! It's grand seeing you, old boy!

LAEL—Joan, will you like him even if he is an Aryan?

JOAN—I'll try. Sascha, come and play for me now, will you? I want to hear music.

LAEL—What's the matter with this piano?

JOAN—Sascha likes the tone of the upstairs one better.

LAEL—[Realizing that they might want to be alone.] Oh.

JOAN—[To SASCHA.] Come on.

SASCHA—[Surly.] What if I don't feel like playing?

HUGO—Sascha, I'd love some Bach.

SASCHA—[Capitulating at once.] Of course.

HUGO—[Rising.] If Lady Wyngate will excuse us?

LAEL—Certainly.

JOAN—He'll play for you, Herr Willens. I'm jealous. [She slips her arm through SASCHA'S.]

LAEL—How did you get this hold on Sascha, Herr Willens?

HUGO—[Quizzically.] By appreciating him—publicly.

SASCHA—[Eagerly.] You know, I still carry that notice around with me. Whenever I get depressed, I read it.

LAEL—Where is it now?

SASCHA—[Taking a German newspaper clipping from his breast pocket.] Right here!

LAEL—Really!

HUGO—Let me see it! [HUGO hands it to LAEL.]

LAEL—May I see it?

JOAN—[Wearily.] He's read it to me fifty times. [HUGO and LAEL look at the yellowed clipping. In it he sees epitomized his vanished career, and another life. After a moment he gives the clipping back to SASCHA.]

HUGO—Thank you. [A moment's pause. Then in a bantering tone.] I wanted to assure myself that I had actually once had an identity. I must have had. I told people to go to concerts and they went. I told them to stay away—they stayed away. Quite incredible, but it seems to be true!

SASCHA—My next appearance after that notice was sold out.

JOAN—Yes, but what about the Bach?

SASCHA—I'm out of practice.

JOAN—Are pianists ever in practice, Herr Willens?

HUGO—Not good ones.

LAEL—[As they go out.] I'll join you presently. [To RAND and HOBART.] Now then! Isn't he nice?

RAND—Oh, he's swell!

LAEL—Imagine your knowing him!

HOBART—[Rises.] If you'll excuse me, I'll walk down to the post office. I have to send a telegram.

LAEL—I can give Robert the message and he can . . .

HOBART—Thank you. As a matter of fact, Phoebe—my wife . . .

LAEL—Where is she?

HOBART—She's picking me up at the White Hart. We were driving on to Boxwood.

LAEL—You'll bring her back to dine, of course. I'd love to meet her.

RAND—She'll probably want to see Hugo.

LAEL—Yes, of course.

RAND—Be sure you tell her he's here.

HOBART—I will.

RAND—She and Hugo were great pals.

LAEL—Oh, were they? Do make her come then. It will be so nice bringing them together again.

HOBART—I'll do my best. Thank you very much! I'm sure she'll be delighted. Besides, Mrs. Eldridge hasn't seen Rand yet. In his eagerness to come here he stopped for nothing—for nobody. [Piano is heard from upstairs—"Organ Fugue in G Minor."]

LAEL—I'm very flattered.

HOBART—[Heavily facetious.] The bridegroom runneth to his chambers.

LAEL—Now you're committing him and you don't want to be committed, do you, Rand? I'll expect you both for dinner. Tell Mrs. Eldridge she needn't fuss.

HOBART—[Grimly.] She loves to fuss. Thank you very much. Goodbye.

LAEL—Good-bye.

HOBART—See you later, Rand. [He goes out. In the moment that follows LAEL and RAND turn and face each other.]

LAEL—Well, Rand . . .

RAND—Awfully good of you to invite my entire . . . [They are in each other's arms. After a bit, from this close embrace emerges a whispered conversation.] Why did you run away from me?

LAEL—[Muffled.] Had to.

RAND—It was hateful of you . . .

LAEL—It was. But I had to . . .

RAND—You won't again.

LAEL—I will again. I'll have to again.

RAND—Why? Why?

LAEL—If you give me a chance I'll tell you . . .

RAND—My dearest! I'll never let you go again—never let you go again! [They stand in silence a moment longer, locked in each other's arms. Then they separate—still standing quite close, looking at each other.]

LAEL—Tell me now—what was it like?

RAND—What?

LAEL—Your triumphal return. I saw pictures in the news-films. How I wish I could have been there! How I wish I could have fluttered telephone books at you! I'd have given anything—I adore parades.

RAND—Shall I tell you how it was? It was incomplete. It didn't mean much—because you weren't there. I'll never forgive you—for not being there.

LAEL—How very sweet of you! I've never had a nicer compliment.

RAND—It's true.

LAEL—What was it like? What were you thinking about? I'm enormously interested in fame. What is it like to be famous? To know—to be aware—that when you enter a room, its temperature alters? To be the Prince of Wales or Einstein—or yourself?

RAND—[Embarrassed.] I never think of it.

LAEL—Not even when you're shaving? [They laugh.] Oh, come now, you must think of it when you're shaving. As a matter of fact I've never—and I've known very many famous people—I've never met anyone so genuinely modest, so unconscious of being haloed, as you.

RAND—[Quite unaffectedly.] It bewilders me. I don't understand it. You know—I was thinking in New York—riding up Fifth Avenue—when they were making all that fuss—I was thinking—I remembered . . .

LAEL—That's just what I'd love to know—what does one think of on climactic occasions like that?

RAND—I remembered—it'll sound foolish. . . .

LAEL—Please tell me!

RAND—When I was a kid—I hated school—I simply couldn't study. . . .

LAEL—Did you like mathematics?

RAND—I loathed it.

LAEL—Do you know, Rand, that to this day I can't add or subtract? And these days with the papers full of that awful rigamarole about inflated currencies and what not I'm very unhappy—when I read about frozen assets I really shiver—and the very idea of earmarking gold makes my nerves tingle, like gears grinding. But go on—tell me.

RAND—There was a hill—Mount Wachusett—it wasn't much more than that—I could see it out of the window of the little country schoolhouse, misty blue and very far away. One spring morning, when I should have been studying, I found myself looking at it—I had such a wish to climb it—to climb it, to discover it, for myself. I've never understood what came over me. But I just put down my book, left the schoolhouse and made for it.

LAEL—How old were you?

RAND—I was eight. It was farther away than I thought. When I got to it, it was nightfall. I spent the night in a barn. At sunrise I got up and climbed to the top. I'll never forget that instant—when I got to the summit and looked around at what seemed to me the whole world.

LAEL—How glorious! Like finding a Pole.

RAND—Much more thrilling because more definite. You wouldn't know you were at the Pole if your instruments didn't tell you so. When I got to the top of Mount Wachusett, I knew! But what I didn't know was that my poor mother, frantic with anxiety, was scouring the countryside for me.

LAEL—Did you catch it?

RAND—Did I? That's what I remembered—that incident—riding up Fifth Avenue. And it seemed so funny—all this acclaim for doing what I'd been spanked for as a kid—the same thing exactly—for having fun—it was fun for me then—it is still—I don't know what they make all that fuss over—I honestly don't.

LAEL—[Sincerely and tenderly.] I'm really frightfully flattered—that you should have left all that adulation and come to see me.

RAND—[Hating to confess it.] And all the time I was remembering that I felt bitter against you—for not being there.

LAEL—I'm sorry. [A moment's pause.]

RAND—[To reassure her.] I kept your photograph in my cabin on the Odyssey.

LAEL—Did I give you a photograph?

RAND—I cut it out of the rotogravure section in a New York newspaper.

LAEL—Did I behold those awful vastnesses? Did I share those lonely vigils?

RAND—[Laughing a bit.] We both did.

LAEL—Do you know, when I was a young girl, I met Admiral Scott?

RAND—[Excited.] Did you really? What was he like?

LAEL—Well, rather like you. Very good-looking.

RAND—You'll give me a swelled head.

LAEL—I don't think so. Did you ever read Scott "Diaries"?

RAND—Yes.

LAEL—Do you remember that passage about the death of Captain Oates? [Quoting from memory.] "We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death, but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman. We all hope to meet the end with a similar spirit and assuredly the end is not far."

RAND—Think of your knowing that—by heart. You're wonderful!

LAEL—[Quietly.] Anyone can memorize a heroic bit of prose, Rand. To live that sort of thing—as you do—is much more difficult. [He is embarrassed. She laughs.] Sorry! You can't bear praise, can you? I won't do it again. Promise! [A pause. He is hung up. He wants to make love to her; he doesn't know how to bridge the gap. She shifts into a less delicate field. She hesitates, herself, to approach the explanation she must give him.] Your brother doesn't like me much, does he? I shock him, don't I? And, I must tell you, Rand, I don't mind a bit shocking him. I enjoy shocking him. What did he say to you about me? I wager he's frightened to death.

RAND—[Very uncomfortable.] Well, you know Bart; he's a little strict.

LAEL—Oh, that's what it is. Strict!

RAND—He's the kindest brother a fellow ever had, only . . .

LAEL—Rand?

RAND—What?

LAEL—'Fess up. Are you afraid of your older brother? You are! It's too delicious! Never mind, Rand, I'll do my best to protect you. Tell me, what did he say about me?

RAND—He didn't say anything.

LAEL—[Very severe with him.] Rand! What did he say?

RAND—[Miserably.] Well, he thinks your friends are a little peculiar.

LAEL—Peculiar. He thinks my friends are peculiar. Well, did you defend me? What did you say?

RAND—Oh, that you were just kind-hearted—that you didn't mean anything, no matter whom you associated with. . . .

LAEL—[Understanding perfectly.] Amiable but misguided.

RAND—I want you to know, Lael—anything you do is all right with me.

LAEL—Please don't idolize me, Rand. I'm not worth it.

RAND—[Simply.] I love you.

LAEL—Rand—

RAND—I want to marry you, and I'm going to.

LAEL—Rand—

RAND—That's why I came over here.

LAEL—[Overwhelmed, doesn't know how to explain to him, worried about herself.] Oh, dear!

RAND—Are you in love with anybody else?

LAEL—I wish I were!

RAND—What does that mean?

LAEL—That would make it simple.

RAND—Why did you run away from me in New York?

LAEL—That is precisely what I did. I ran away from you in New York. I ran away from you this morning. I'm going to stop running away from you. I'm going to face you, Rand. [She looks at him squarely.]

RAND—What is it? What is it, Lael?

LAEL—How can I tell you? I must make it plain to you.

RAND—What?

LAEL—I've thought of marrying you, Rand, I've thought of it often.

RAND—[Overjoyed.] Lael!

LAEL—No—wait. It's not as simple as that—I've been greatly tempted to marry you—but it's a temptation I've finally managed to put aside—and it's not been easy to put aside.

RAND—But, Lael, you're crazy—if you love me—and I love you—

LAEL—We should marry and be happy forever after, eh?

RAND—Yes!

LAEL—That's what we shouldn't be!

RAND—But why—why? We have everything to go on with!

LAEL—No, we haven't. That's just the point. We have very little. What we have would soon exhaust itself and—"Two opinions do not accord well on the same bolster."

RAND—What are you talking about?

LAEL—That's a saying by an old English worthy named John Aubrey. It's profoundly true. Hasn't it occurred to you, Rand, that there's hardly anything in the world—hardly one single important thing—that you and I agree about?

RAND—No—it hasn't. We've never discussed anything—How can you tell?

LAEL—[Laughs.] We haven't discussed anything because I've steered clear—I knew if we discussed things—important things—we should quarrel and I couldn't bear to quarrel. It's so uncharacteristic of me, Rand, all this. I don't understand it myself—it's an aberration.

RAND—But why? What's the matter with me?

LAEL—I'm not—in a sense—I'm not up to you, Rand.

RAND—[Hurt.] Don't make fun of me.

LAEL—I mean it literally. You're direct and sincere. You have an adorable simplicity—I'm involved and—compared to you—I'm—Machiavellian.

RAND—I don't believe it.

LAEL—It's true. For instance, just now, with your brother—I was having him on!

RAND—Really? How?

LAEL—I see a few people. I know about his scheme to start a paper with Lord Abercrombie—to enlist the Anglo-American youth for Fascism.

RAND—Well, what's wrong with that?

LAEL—From my point of view, a good deal. Do you know, Rand, I think, with practice, I could work up a first-rate feud with your brother.

RAND—Please don't. I can't tell you how much I want you two to like each other.

LAEL—[Unable to resist.] Do you want us, as you say at home, to get together?

RAND—[Literally.] Yes. I do.

LAEL—Oh, Rand, you make me ashamed of myself. You'd probably always make me a little bit ashamed of myself.

RAND—[Miserably.] I don't know what you mean—really I don't—we like each other
and . . .

LAEL—[Determined to be ruthless.] But don't you see—We're worlds apart.

RAND—Simply because you imagine we disagree theoretically—

LAEL—Your defense of me to your brother was touching but it only proves how little you know me. What did you say? I'm good-hearted and mean nothing by what I do. But I do, Rand—I try to mean a great deal. I'm a determined woman. Are you terrified?

RAND—No.

LAEL—How can I put you off? How can I finally put you off?

RAND—Do you want to?

LAEL—No!

RAND—There you are!

LAEL—[Self-reproachful.] You bring out the worst in me, Rand—the most feminine. I haven't had this kind of conversation since before I married, when I lived in Heartbreak House.

RAND—Where?

LAEL—It's a fancy by Mr. Shaw. I'd like you to meet him. He'll probably put you in a play. Being a sedentary vegetarian he adores men who fly to unknown worlds and administer torrid continents. You and Lawrence . . .

RAND—Lawrence . . .

LAEL—Colonel, not D. H. . . . I refer to the exploit with Arabia—not with Lady Chatterley.

RAND—[Laughs.] I don't mind. Usually I'm uncomfortable with brilliant people, but I'm not with you.

LAEL—You make me though!

RAND—[Very skeptical.] Oh, yes! I'm sure I do!

LAEL—You do. Also you make me feel a little—horrid. [RAND, stung by this, suddenly takes her in his arms and kisses her passionately.]

RAND—Do I! Do I! Do I!

LAEL—[After recovery.] It is pleasanter off the pedestal, I admit. [Sighs.] Oh dear!

RAND—What is it now?

LAEL—I have an awful foreboding that eventually I'll succumb to you but I feel I owe it to my conscience to put up an awful fight.

RAND—I want you—forever.

LAEL—No, you don't.

RAND—I'll never want anyone else but you.

LAEL—If you thoroughly knew me, you'd be bewildered by me—you might even be horrified by me.

RAND—[His arms still around her.] You mean—darling, tell me—do you . . .

LAEL—What?

RAND—Do you have affairs with men?

LAEL—[Between annoyance and laughter.] My dear!

RAND—Do you? I must know.

LAEL—[Disengaging herself from him finally.] Well, if it's any comfort to you, I may tell you that though I'm intellectually sympathetic to any indulgence, emotionally I'm fastidious and even puritanic.

RAND—[Fervently.] Thank God!

LAEL—[Bursts out laughing.] Oh, Rand!

RAND—[Offended.] What's so funny?

LAEL—You make me feel that any progress is hopeless. How are we going to break down the indurated conservatism of men?

RAND—What's progress got to do with it?

LAEL—Imagine finding you—a great explorer, a hero—so—sex-ridden. It's disillusioning. I'm ashamed of you, Rand.

RAND—Sex-ridden? I love you!

LAEL—I mean your assumption that as long as I'm sexually monogamous, no other foible I might have could matter to you. I might be nourishing an idea to destroy the universe. I might be the incarnation of malice, a well, deep and poisonous; I might be anti-Christ, but so long as I didn't—well—you wouldn't mind, you wouldn't enquire. Your psyche, my dear Rand, is sex-ridden. It's obsessed. It's maggoty with possessive desire.

RAND—How can you say that when I want to marry you?

LAEL—How dare you marry me without knowing me! Much better if we—er—well—till you find me out!

RAND—I couldn't. You mean more to me than that.

LAEL—If I didn't know this rejection sprang from the purest chivalry, I should be humiliated.

RAND—Please don't be clever. [HOBART enters.]

LAEL—[Addressing them both.] Most men simply can't imagine any woman except in relation to themselves. Are you like that too, Mr. Eldridge? I imagine you are!

HOBART—[Wary.] I wouldn't think of answering a question like that without preparation.

LAEL—I'm sure you are. An amusing instance of it happened during the one serious quarrel I ever had with my husband. It was during the Sacco-Vanzetti trial in America. I'd read everything there was to be found about it and felt passionately. I was coming up here one day in the train—I was living here alone then—for the moment Nick and I had separated. I had just read Vanzetti's farewell letter; I sat there thinking of this man being shunted in and out of the death-house, facing ignominious death and sitting down to write this patient, forgiving, beautiful letter and I began to cry. I just sat there—crying. A stranger was in the same carriage; I had forgotten his existence—a nice old Anglo-Indian colonel. He put his hand on my arm—"My dear young lady," he said, "Come! Come! A pretty young woman like you!" Life didn't seem long enough to explain to him that I was not crying about a lost lover but about Sacco and Vanzetti. "Think of all life has in store for you," he said. I was thinking about death but I couldn't help laughing. "Do you think so?" I asked. "That is right," he answered. "Keep a stiff upper lip!"

HOBART—Maybe your soldier friend wasn't far from right. Maybe your personal unhappiness was mixed up with those tears, Lady Wyngate.

LAEL—There you are!

HOBART—Maybe it was yourself you were crying for, after all.

LAEL—I see your resemblance to your brother, Rand. I'm sure you despise women, don't you, Mr. Eldridge?

HOBART—Well, I wouldn't exactly say that.

LAEL—Have you men been so successful in running the world that you can take the position of despising us?

HOBART—Surely you can't complain of Rand on that score? He's idolatrous.

LAEL—[With a dazzling smile at RAND.] I certainly do. I complain of his idolatry more than of your contempt. He tells me, for example, that I don't mean anything at all. . . .

RAND—I didn't say that.

LAEL—You know better than that, don't you, Mr. Eldridge? You know that I mean a great deal.

HOBART—[Showing RAND how fair he is.] I think that you do mean a great deal—but—you'll forgive me—I think that you're not nearly so certain of what it is that you mean. If you could visualize the ultimate implications of your conduct, I'm sure that you'd probably . . .

LAEL—What nonsense! But that would mean foreseeing to the end of time. It's difficult enough to visualize the immediate implications—and you talk about ultimate implications. What—you will forgive me—what conceit! Where is Mrs. Eldridge? Didn't you go to fetch Mrs. Eldridge?

HOBART—She hadn't arrived at White Hart. I left word for her to join me here. I hope you won't mind.

LAEL—Of course not! That's utterly delightful! You know, I can hardly wait to know you better because I am certain that the better we know each other the less we shall agree. I foresee enchanting vistas of antagonism. I love opposition. It solidifies my own position.

HOBART—What—you will forgive me—what conceit!

LAEL—[Delighted—vamping HOBART.] I am beginning to see why you and Lord Abercrombie hit it off. He's a Puck.

HOBART—I beg your pardon!

LAEL—He's a Puck—and so are you—a malevolent Puck . . . [JOAN comes in.] Hello, Joan. What's Herr Willens doing?

JOAN—Arguing music with Sascha.

LAEL—That's one thing musicians can do. It appears music's more controversial than politics. Poor Herr Willens! What is he going to do? I have it! [To HOBART.] Why don't you let him review music for your new newspaper?

HOBART—We're not going in for that sort of thing.

LAEL—What are you going to fill it with?

HOBART—I'll send you advance sheets of the first issue.

LAEL—Please don't trouble. I can imagine. Racial solidarity and a higher tariff on wool. Rand, would you like to see the river view?

RAND—[With alacrity.] I would indeed!

LAEL—We must find something though for that poor fellow Willens. To find yourself suddenly without a job and without a country . . . I'll take you on the most enchanting walk you ever . . . [To HOBART.] Won't you come too, Mr. Eldridge? Do you mind if I call you Hobart? Even if we do disagree to the death, there is no reason we can't be friends, is there? You will come, won't you, Hobart?

HOBART—No, thank you.

LAEL—I'm so sorry. Joan, will you be a dear and go tell Herr Willens that if he's bored with Sascha he might join us? We'll be walking the river path—slowly. Come on, Rand.

Curtain

Index     I     II-I     II-II     III