60 Plays: The George Bernard Shaw Edition (Illustrated). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

Twentieth Century Cooking.

      PHILIP. Twentieth Century Creeds.

      DOLLY. Twentieth Century Clothing.

      PHILIP. Twentieth Century Conduct.

      DOLLY. Twentieth Century Children.

      PHILIP. Twentieth Century Parents.

      DOLLY. Cloth limp, half a dollar.

      PHILIP. Or mounted on linen for hard family use, two dollars. No family should be without them. Read them, Mr. Valentine: they’ll improve your mind.

      DOLLY. But not till we’ve gone, please.

      PHILIP. Quite so: we prefer people with unimproved minds. Our own minds are in that fresh and unspoiled condition.

      VALENTINE (dubiously). Hm!

      DOLLY (echoing him inquiringly). Hm? Phil: he prefers people whose minds are improved.

      PHILIP. In that case we shall have to introduce him to the other member of the family: the Woman of the Twentieth Century; our sister Gloria!

      DOLLY (dithyrambically). Nature’s masterpiece!

      PHILIP. Learning’s daughter!

      DOLLY. Madeira’s pride!

      PHILIP. Beauty’s paragon!

      DOLLY (suddenly descending to prose). Bosh! No complexion.

      VALENTINE (desperately). May I have a word?

      PHILIP (politely). Excuse us. Go ahead.

      DOLLY (very nicely). So sorry.

      VALENTINE (attempting to take them paternally). I really must give a hint to you young people —

      DOLLY (breaking out again). Oh, come: I like that. How old are you?

      PHILIP. Over thirty.

      DOLLY. He’s not.

      PHILIP (confidently). He is.

      DOLLY (emphatically). Twenty-seven.

      PHILIP (imperturbably). Thirty-three.

      DOLLY. Stuff!

      PHILIP (to Valentine). I appeal to you, Mr. Valentine.

      VALENTINE (remonstrating). Well, really — (resigning himself.) Thirty-one.

      PHILIP (to Dolly). You were wrong.

      DOLLY. So were you.

      PHILIP (suddenly conscientious). We’re forgetting our manners, Dolly.

      DOLLY (remorseful). Yes, so we are.

      PHILIP (apologetic). We interrupted you, Mr. Valentine.

      DOLLY. You were going to improve our minds, I think.

      VALENTINE. The fact is, your —

      PHILIP (anticipating him). Our appearance?

      DOLLY. Our manners?

      VALENTINE (ad misericordiam). Oh, do let me speak.

      DOLLY. The old story. We talk too much.

      PHILIP. We do. Shut up, both. (He seats himself on the arm of the opposing chair.)

      DOLLY. Mum! (She sits down in the writing-table chair, and closes her lips tight with the tips of her fingers.)

      VALENTINE. Thank you. (He brings the stool from the bench in the corner; places it between them; and sits down with a judicial air. They attend to him with extreme gravity. He addresses himself first to Dolly.) Now may I ask, to begin with, have you ever been in an English seaside resort before? (She shakes her head slowly and solemnly. He turns to Phil, who shakes his head quickly and expressively.) I thought so. Well, Mr. Clandon, our acquaintance has been short; but it has been voluble; and I have gathered enough to convince me that you are neither of you capable of conceiving what life in an English seaside resort is. Believe me, it’s not a question of manners and appearance. In those respects we enjoy a freedom unknown in Madeira. (Dolly shakes her head vehemently.) Oh, yes, I assure you. Lord de Cresci’s sister bicycles in knickerbockers; and the rector’s wife advocates dress reform and wears hygienic boots. (Dolly furtively looks at her own shoe: Valentine catches her in the act, and deftly adds) No, that’s not the sort of boot I mean. (Dolly’s shoe vanishes.) We don’t bother much about dress and manners in England, because, as a nation we don’t dress well and we’ve no manners. But — and now will you excuse my frankness? (They nod.) Thank you. Well, in a seaside resort there’s one thing you must have before anybody can afford to be seen going about with you; and that’s a father, alive or dead. (He looks at them alternately, with emphasis. They meet his gaze like martyrs.) Am I to infer that you have omitted that indispensable part of your social equipment? (They confirm him by melancholy nods.) Them I’m sorry to say that if you are going to stay here for any length of time, it will be impossible for me to accept your kind invitation to lunch. (He rises with an air of finality, and replaces the stool by the bench.)

      PHILIP (rising with grave politeness). Come, Dolly. (He gives her his arm.)

      DOLLY. Good morning. (They go together to the door with perfect dignity.)

      VALENTINE (overwhelmed with remorse). Oh, stop, stop. (They halt and turn, arm in arm.) You make me feel a perfect beast.

      DOLLY. That’s your conscience: not us.

      VALENTINE (energetically, throwing off all pretence of a professional manner). My conscience! My conscience has been my ruin. Listen to me. Twice before I have set up as a respectable medical practitioner in various parts of England. On both occasions I acted conscientiously, and told my patients the brute truth instead of what they wanted to be told. Result, ruin. Now I’ve set up as a dentist, a five shilling dentist; and I’ve done with conscience forever. This is my last chance. I spent my last sovereign on moving in; and I haven’t paid a shilling of rent yet. I’m eating and drinking on credit; my landlord is as rich as a Jew and as hard as nails; and I’ve made five shillings in six weeks. If I swerve by a hair’s breadth from the straight line of the most rigid respectability, I’m done for. Under such a circumstance, is it fair to ask me to lunch with you when you don’t know your own father?

      DOLLY. After all, our grandfather is a canon of Lincoln Cathedral.

      VALENTINE (like a castaway mariner who sees a sail on the horizon). What! Have you a grandfather?

      DOLLY. Only one.

      VALENTINE. My dear, good young friends, why on earth didn’t you tell me that before? A cannon of Lincoln! That makes it all right, of course. Just excuse me while I change my coat. (He reaches the door in a bound and vanishes. Dolly and Phil stare after him, and then stare at one another. Missing their audience, they droop and become commonplace at once.)

      PHILIP (throwing away Dolly’s arm and coming illhumoredly towards the operating chair). That wretched bankrupt ivory snatcher makes a compliment of allowing us to stand him a lunch — probably the first square meal he has had for months. (He gives the chair a kick, as if it were Valentine.)

      DOLLY. It’s too beastly. I won’t stand it any longer, Phil. Here in England everybody asks whether you have a father the very first thing.

      PHILIP. I won’t stand it either. Mamma must tell us who he was.

      DOLLY. Or who he is. He may be alive.

      PHILIP. I hope not. No man alive shall father me.

      DOLLY. He might have a lot of money, though.

      PHILIP. I doubt it. My knowledge of human nature leads me to believe that if he had a lot of money he wouldn’t have got rid of his affectionate family so easily. Anyhow, let’s look at the bright side of things. Depend on it, he’s dead. (He goes to the hearth and stands with his back to the fireplace, spreading himself. The parlor maid appears. The twins, under observation, instantly shine out again with their former brilliancy.)

      THE PARLOR MAID. Two ladies for you, miss. Your mother and sister, miss, I think.

      Mrs.