The Fugitive. Galsworthy John

DEDMOND. That Mr. Malise.

      SIR CHARLES. Oh! That chap!

      GEORGE. Clare isn't that sort.

      LADY DEDMOND. I know. But she catches up notions very easily. I think it's a great pity you ever came across him.

      SIR CHARLES. Where did you pick him up?

      GEORGE. Italy – this Spring – some place or other where they couldn't speak English.

      SIR CHARLES. Um! That's the worst of travellin'.

      LADY DEDMOND. I think you ought to have dropped him. These literary people – [Quietly] From exchanging ideas to something else, isn't very far, George.

      SIR CHARLES. We'll make him play Bridge. Do him good, if he's that sort of fellow.

      LADY DEDMOND. Is anyone else coming?

      GEORGE. Reggie Huntingdon, and the Fullartons.

      LADY DEDMOND. [Softly] You know, my dear boy, I've been meaning to speak to you for a long time. It is such a pity you and Clare – What is it?

      GEORGE. God knows! I try, and I believe she does.

      SIR CHARLES. It's distressin' – for us, you know, my dear fellow – distressin'.

      LADY DEDMOND. I know it's been going on for a long time.

      GEORGE. Oh! leave it alone, mother.

      LADY DEDMOND. But, George, I'm afraid this man has brought it to a point – put ideas into her head.

      GEORGE. You can't dislike him more than I do. But there's nothing one can object to.

      LADY DEDMOND. Could Reggie Huntingdon do anything, now he's home? Brothers sometimes —

      GEORGE. I can't bear my affairs being messed about —

      LADY DEDMOND. Well! it would be better for you and Clare to be supposed to be out together, than for her to be out alone. Go quietly into the dining-room and wait for her.

      SIR CHARLES. Good! Leave your mother to make up something. She'll do it!

      LADY DEDMOND. That may be he. Quick!

      [A bell sounds.] GEORGE goes out into the hall, leaving the door open in his haste. LADY DEDMOND, following, calls "Paynter!" PAYNTER enters.

      LADY DEDMOND. Don't say anything about your master and mistress being out. I'll explain.

      PAYNTER. The master, my lady?

      LADY DEDMOND. Yes, I know. But you needn't say so. Do you understand?

      PAYNTER. [In polite dudgeon] Just so, my lady.

      [He goes out.]

      SIR CHARLES. By Jove! That fellow smells a rat!

      LADY DEDMOND. Be careful, Charles!

      SIR CHARLES. I should think so.

      LADY DEDMOND. I shall simply say they're dining out, and that we're not to wait Bridge for them.

      SIR CHARLES. [Listening] He's having a palaver with that man of George's.

      PAYNTER, reappearing, announces: "Captain Huntingdon." SIR CHARLES and LADY DEDMOND turn to him with relief.

      LADY DEDMOND. Ah! It's you, Reginald!

      HUNTINGDON. [A tall, fair soldier, of thirty] How d'you do? How are you, sir? What's the matter with their man?

      SHE CHARLES. What!

      HUNTINGDON. I was going into the dining-room to get rid of my cigar; and he said: "Not in there, sir. The master's there, but my instructions are to the effect that he's not."

      SHE CHARLES. I knew that fellow —

      LADY DEDMOND. The fact is, Reginald, Clare's out, and George is waiting for her. It's so important people shouldn't —

      HUNTINGDON. Rather!

      They draw together, as people do, discussing the misfortunes of members of their families.

      LADY DEDMOND. It's getting serious, Reginald. I don't know what's to become of them. You don't think the Rector – you don't think your father would speak to Clare?

      HUNTINGDON. Afraid the Governor's hardly well enough. He takes anything of that sort to heart so – especially Clare.

      SIR CHARLES. Can't you put in a word yourself?

      HUNTINGDON. Don't know where the mischief lies.

      SIR CHARLES. I'm sure George doesn't gallop her on the road. Very steady-goin' fellow, old George.

      HUNTINGDON. Oh, yes; George is all right, sir.

      LADY DEDMOND. They ought to have had children.

      HUNTINGDON. Expect they're pretty glad now they haven't. I really don't know what to say, ma'am.

      SIR CHARLES. Saving your presence, you know, Reginald, I've often noticed parsons' daughters grow up queer. Get too much morality and rice puddin'.

      LADY DEDMOND. [With a clear look] Charles!

      SIR CHARLES. What was she like when you were kids?

      HUNTINGDON. Oh, all right. Could be rather a little devil, of course, when her monkey was up.

      SIR CHARLES. I'm fond of her. Nothing she wants that she hasn't got, is there?

      HUNTINGDON. Never heard her say so.

      SIR CHARLES. [Dimly] I don't know whether old George is a bit too matter of fact for her. H'm?

      [A short silence.]

      LADY DEDMOND. There's a Mr. Malise coming here to-night. I forget if you know him.

      HUNTINGDON. Yes. Rather a thorough-bred mongrel.

      LADY DEDMOND. He's literary. [With hesitation] You – you don't think he – puts – er – ideas into her head?

      HUNTINGDON. I asked Greyman, the novelist, about him; seems he's a bit of an Ishmaelite, even among those fellows. Can't see Clare —

      LADY DEDMOND. No. Only, the great thing is that she shouldn't be encouraged. Listen! – It is her-coming in. I can hear their voices. Gone to her room. What a blessing that man isn't here yet! [The door bell rings] Tt! There he is, I expect.

      SIR CHARLES. What are we goin' to say?

      HUNTINGDON. Say they're dining out, and we're not to wait Bridge for them.

      SIR CHARLES. Good!

      The door is opened, and PAYNTER announces "Mr. Kenneth Malise." MALISE enters. He is a tall man, about thirty-five, with a strongly marked, dark, irregular, ironic face, and eyes which seem to have needles in their pupils. His thick hair is rather untidy, and his dress clothes not too new.

      LADY DEDMOND. How do you do? My son and daughter-in-law are so very sorry. They'll be here directly.

      [MALISE bows with a queer, curly smile.]

      SIR CHARLES. [Shaking hands] How d'you do, sir?

      HUNTINGDON. We've met, I think.

      He gives MALISE that peculiar smiling stare, which seems to warn the person bowed to of the sort of person he is. MALISE'S eyes sparkle.

      LADY DEDMOND. Clare will be so grieved. One of those invitations

      MALISE. On the spur of the moment.

      SIR CHARLES. You play Bridge, sir?

      MALISE. Afraid not!

      SIR CHARLES. Don't mean that? Then we shall have to wait for 'em.

      LADY DEDMOND. I forget, Mr. Malise – you write, don't you?

      MALISE. Such is my weakness.

      LADY DEDMOND. Delightful profession.

      SIR CHARLES. Doesn't tie you! What!

      MALISE. Only by the head.

      SIR CHARLES. I'm always thinkin' of writin' my experiences.

      MALISE.