The Benefit of the Doubt; a Comedy in Three Acts. Arthur Wing Pinero

Emptage.

      [After glancing at the card.] Oh——!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Eh?

      Justina.

      What’s up?

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [To Horton.] Where is Mrs. Cloys?

      [Sir Fletcher, Justina and Claude rise precipitately.

      Horton.

      In the morning-room, ma’am. She preferred——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Taking the card.] I—I—some one will come to her.

      [Horton retires.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Harriet here!

      Justina.

      By Jove!

      Claude.

      [Making for the door.] No; she is too impossible.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Intercepting him.] Claude, I dare you to leave the house!

      [Sir Fletcher also moves towards the door.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Stopping him.] Fletcher, you mustn’t!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Muriel, I distinctly prefer not to meet——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      But I must havehave every support; I am unequal to it otherwise. Who will fetch her upstairs? Fletcher, dear!——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      In your establishment! Singularly inappropriate!

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Turning to Justina.] Justina——

      Justina.

      No thanks, ma.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Brutes, all of you!

      [She hurries out.

      Justina.

      Confound her!

      Claude.

      I shall submit to none of her airs. What is a bishop?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Why does she select this occasion——?

      Justina.

      It’s nearly ten years since she washed her hands of us.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Exactly eleven years have elapsed since my sister Harriet placed it out of my power to continue on a footing of brotherly intercourse with her.

      Claude.

      [To Mrs. Twelves, in a whisper.] I know the story.

      Justina.

      [To him.] Sssh!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Her behaviour on that one memorable afternoon proved that her marriage to a dignitary of the Church was something worse than a fluke—a sacrilege.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Quietly to Claude.] What is it?

      Claude.

      [Quietly to her.] She called him a Bore.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Going to Justina.] Do you think I could steal downstairs and get away? She used to tell me I was an empty-headed little fool.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Outrageous!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      And predicted I should end badly.

      Justina.

      Well, you haven’t.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      No, but there’s time, she’d say. [Going towards the doors.] I’m off.

      Justina.

      Sneak!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Returning hastily.] They’re coming up!

      Justina.

      Let ’em!

      Mrs. Cloys enters, and stands surveying the room. Mrs. Emptage follows her. Mrs. Cloys is about fifty-three, handsome, dignified in bearing, richly but soberly dressed, in manner a mixture of sweetness and acerbity.

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Justina—is it?

      Justina.

      [Going to her.] How do you do, Aunt Harriet?

      Mrs. Cloys.

      [Kissing her, then eyeing her keenly.] H’m! you’re not married yet, I believe?

      Justina.

      No, I haven’t the slightest inclination that way.

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Oh, my dear, you still tell fibs, then?

      Justina.

      Indeed, aunt?

      [Justina retires; Sir Fletcher advances. Mrs. Cloys kisses him, then looks him up and down.

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Well, Fletcher, so they’ve knighted you, have they?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Lord Cranbery was gracious enough to recommend——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      How much did it cost you?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Cost me!

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Well, you’ve made money; I suppose you could afford it.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Pray let us——!

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Don’t puff yourself out at me, Fletcher.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      I am doing nothing of the kind, Harriet.

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Then don’t.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Er—how is the bishop?

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Old.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Old? Let me see—my marvellous head for figures should serve me——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Very old.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Born in——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      We’re all getting old; that’s why you have the pleasure of seeing me amongst you once more. [Turning to Claude, who bows stiffly.] My nephew? [Shaking hands with him and looking him in the face searchingly.] You’re rather old too. [Sharply.] Who’s that there?

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Who has been hidden by the flowers on the piano-forte, advancing, with a nervous outburst.] Oh, I hope you remember me, dear Mrs. Cloys—Kitty Twelves. I was Kitty Powis, if you recollect.