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

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Yes. Isn’t this interesting? Quinton, my husband, was confirmed by the Bishop of St. Olpherts! I never discovered it till we’d been married for ages—I mean, weeks and weeks—[gradually quailing under Mrs. Cloys’s gaze]—and then one day—he—he happened to see me kissing the sweetest photograph of you—and and—and——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Mrs. Twills, I understood from my sister there was a purely family gathering here this afternoon——

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Offering her hand.] I—I have to go on elsewhere——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      [Detaining her hand.] My dear, you were extremely old when I last saw you, during your first season, in eighty-something; I pray, now you’re married, that you are—younger.

      [They look at each other for a moment longer, then Mrs. Twelves withdraws her hand, and, after nodding to the others in a scared way, goes out silently. Claude follows her.

      Mrs. Cloys.

      [Sitting on the settee.] Muriel. [Mrs. Emptage comes to her.] We have been on bad terms for many years; let us have done with it. I suggest mutual concessions to disposition and temper.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Sitting.] I am sure I have been more than desirous——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      You have brought up your children abominably; that was always our most serious point of dissension——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      I may remind you, Harriet, that Muriel’s cheerful method of training her children has received my sympathy and sanction. On the death of the late Mr. Emptage——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      My poor dear Herbert——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      It naturally devolved upon me——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Sssh!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      I am not one of those——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Sssh, sssh, sssh!

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Your twenty years of married life may have taught you how to manage a husband, Harriet, but——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Heaven has blessed you with no offspring.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      And the world isn’t all deans, and canons, and bishops and things——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      A department of society you were thrown headlong into——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      By the merest chance, as you well know——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Without, I fear, possessing every qualification for the—ah—the exalted station which—which——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      And—and—and——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      [To Mrs. Emptage.] There, there! Don’t, I say. Have done with it? At any rate, we’re grey-haired women now—I am, and you ought to be——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Now, Harriet——!

      Mrs. Cloys.

      And judgment has overtaken you——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Judgment!

      Mrs. Cloys.

      This terrible calamity that has befallen your girl Theophila. Oh, how is it going to end?

      Mrs. Emptage.

      My dear Harriet, it has ended.

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Has the case——?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Mrs. Allingham’s petition is dismissed—dismissed.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      My daughter has emerged triumphantly——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Thank God! [Rising.] Muriel——

      [Mrs. Emptage rises; Mrs. Cloys kisses her on both cheeks, then turns away.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      You will see Theo and her husband in a few minutes. They are staying with me just now. “Weak, giddy mother,” am I, Harriet? My child flies to me in her trouble, nevertheless.

      Mrs. Cloys.

      [Wiping her eyes.] The dear bishop will be so rejoiced. Not a newspaper has been taken at the Palace this week. [Resuming her seat.] It has hit us hard. How did it all come about?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      In this way. I——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Sitting again.] Why, we’ve all known Jack Allingham for years——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      [Sitting.] A good fellow—little dull, perhaps—little prosy——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      [Glancing at Justina.] At one time we thought he was rather inclined to pay ’Tina——

      Justina.

      What rot, mother!

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Oh!

      Mrs. Emptage.

      However, he married this creature, Olive Harker—daughter of a Major Harker——

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      “Crummy” Harker—stout man——

      Justina.

      Four years ago this month.

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Yes, in the summer of the year in which Theo was married to Fraser of Locheen.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      My extraordinary chronological faculty ought to serve me here. Theophila and Locheen were married in the March, Jack Allingham and Miss Harker in the following June; I took the chair that year at no less than three public dinners——

      Mrs. Emptage.

      Of course, when the two couples settled down in London the usual exchange of visits began. But from the first it was quite evident that Mrs. Allingham resented her husband’s friendship for Theo.

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Why should Mrs. Allingham have resented it?

      Justina.

      Olive was always a jealous cat—person.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      John is some months younger than his wife, I may tell you. No marriage can turn out happily when the balance of age drops ever so slightly on the woman’s side. My observation——

      Mrs. Cloys.

      Rubbish!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      I know my world, Harriet.

      Justina.

      What