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

Clandon is between forty and fifty, with a slight tendency to soft, sedentary fat, and a fair remainder of good looks, none the worse preserved because she has evidently followed the old tribal matronly fashion of making no pretension in that direction after her marriage, and might almost be suspected of wearing a cap at home. She carries herself artificially well, as women were taught to do as a part of good manners by dancing masters and reclining boards before these were superseded by the modern artistic cult of beauty and health. Her hair, a flaxen hazel fading into white, is crimped, and parted in the middle with the ends plaited and made into a knot, from which observant people of a certain age infer that Mrs. Clandon had sufficient individuality and good taste to stand out resolutely against the now forgotten chignon in her girlhood. In short, she is distinctly old fashioned for her age in dress and manners. But she belongs to the forefront of her own period (say 1860-80) in a jealously assertive attitude of character and intellect, and in being a woman of cultivated interests rather than passionately developed personal affections. Her voice and ways are entirely kindly and humane; and she lends herself conscientiously to the occasional demonstrations of fondness by which her children mark their esteem for her; but displays of personal sentiment secretly embarrass her: passion in her is humanitarian rather than human: she feels strongly about social questions and principles, not about persons. Only, one observes that this reasonableness and intense personal privacy, which leaves her relations with Gloria and Phil much as they might be between her and the children of any other woman, breaks down in the case of Dolly. Though almost every word she addresses to her is necessarily in the nature of a remonstrance for some breach of decorum, the tenderness in her voice is unmistakable; and it is not surprising that years of such remonstrance have left Dolly hopelessly spoiled.

      Gloria, who is hardly past twenty, is a much more formidable person than her mother. She is the incarnation of haughty highmindedness, raging with the impatience of an impetuous, dominative character paralyzed by the impotence of her youth, and unwillingly disciplined by the constant danger of ridicule from her lighter-handed juniors. Unlike her mother, she is all passion; and the conflict of her passion with her obstinate pride and intense fastidiousness results in a freezing coldness of manner. In an ugly woman all this would be repulsive; but Gloria is an attractive woman. Her deep chestnut hair, olive brown skin, long eyelashes, shaded grey eyes that often flash like stars, delicately turned full lips, and compact and supple, but muscularly plump figure appeal with disdainful frankness to the senses and imagination. A very dangerous girl, one would say, if the moral passions were not also marked, and even nobly marked, in a fine brow. Her tailor-made skirt-and-jacket dress of saffron brown cloth, seems conventional when her back is turned; but it displays in front a blouse of sea-green silk which upsets its conventionality with one stroke, and sets her apart as effectually as the twins from the ordinary run of fashionable seaside humanity.

      Mrs. Clandon comes a little way into the room, looking round to see who is present. Gloria, who studiously avoids encouraging the twins by betraying any interest in them, wanders to the window and looks out with her thoughts far away. The parlor maid, instead of withdrawing, shuts the door and waits at it.

      MRS. CLANDON. Well, children? How is the toothache, Dolly?

      DOLLY. Cured, thank Heaven. I’ve had it out. (She sits down on the step of the operating chair. Mrs. Clandon takes the writing-table chair.)

      PHILIP (striking in gravely from the hearth). And the dentist, a firstrate professional man of the highest standing, is coming to lunch with us.

      MRS. CLANDON (looking round apprehensively at the servant). Phil!

      THE PARLOR MAID. Beg pardon, ma’am. I’m waiting for Mr. Valentine. I have a message for him.

      DOLLY. Who from?

      MRS. CLANDON (shocked). Dolly! (Dolly catches her lips with her finger tips, suppressing a little splutter of mirth.)

      THE PARLOR MAID. Only the landlord, ma’am.

      Valentine, in a blue serge suit, with a straw hat in his hand, comes back in high spirits, out of breath with the haste he has made. Gloria turns from the window and studies him with freezing attention.

      PHILIP. Let me introduce you, Mr. Valentine. My mother, Mrs. Lanfrey Clandon. (Mrs. Clandon bows. Valentine bows, self-possessed and quite equal to the occasion.) My sister Gloria. (Gloria bows with cold dignity and sits down on the sofa. Valentine falls in love at first sight and is miserably confused. He fingers his hat nervously, and makes her a sneaking bow.)

      MRS. CLANDON. I understand that we are to have the pleasure of seeing you at luncheon to-day, Mr. Valentine.

      VALENTINE. Thank you — er — if you don’t mind — I mean if you will be so kind — (to the parlor maid testily) What is it?

      THE PARLOR MAID. The landlord, sir, wishes to speak to you before you go out.

      VALENTINE. Oh, tell him I have four patients here. (The Clandons look surprised, except Phil, who is imperturbable.) If he wouldn’t mind waiting just two minutes, I — I’ll slip down and see him for a moment. (Throwing himself confidentially on her sense of the position.) Say I’m busy, but that I want to see him.

      THE PARLOR MAID (reassuringly). Yes, sir. (She goes.)

      MRS. CLANDON (on the point of rising). We are detaining you, I am afraid.

      VALENTINE. Not at all, not at all. Your presence here will be the greatest help to me. The fact is, I owe six week’s rent; and I’ve had no patients until to-day. My interview with my landlord will be considerably smoothed by the apparent boom in my business.

      DOLLY (vexed). Oh, how tiresome of you to let it all out! And we’ve just been pretending that you were a respectable professional man in a firstrate position.

      MRS. CLANDON (horrified). Oh, Dolly, Dolly! My dearest, how can you be so rude? (To Valentine.) Will you excuse these barbarian children of mine, Mr. Valentine?

      VALENTINE. Thank you, I’m used to them. Would it be too much to ask you to wait five minutes while I get rid of my landlord downstairs?

      DOLLY. Don’t be long. We’re hungry.

      MRS. CLANDON (again remonstrating). Dolly, dear!

      VALENTINE (to Dolly). All right. (To Mrs. Clandon.) Thank you: I shan’t be long. (He steals a look at Gloria as he turns to go. She is looking gravely at him. He falls into confusion.) I — er — er — yes — thank you (he succeeds at last in blundering himself out of the room; but the exhibition is a pitiful one).

      PHILIP. Did you observe? (Pointing to Gloria.) Love at first sight. You can add his scalp to your collection, Gloria.

      MRS. CLANDON. Sh — sh, pray, Phil. He may have heard you.

      PHILIP. Not he. (Bracing himself for a scene.) And now look here, mamma. (He takes the stool from the bench; and seats himself majestically in the middle of the room, taking a leaf out of Valentine’s book. Dolly, feeling that her position on the step of the operating chair is unworthy of the dignity of the occasion, rises, looking important and determined; crosses to the window; and stands with her back to the end of the writing-table, her hands behind her and on the table. Mrs. Clandon looks at them, wondering what is coming. Gloria becomes attentive. Philip straightens his back; places his knuckles symmetrically on his knees; and opens his case.) Dolly and I have been talking over things a good deal lately; and I don’t think, judging from my knowledge of human nature — we don’t think that you (speaking very staccato, with the words detached) quite appreciate the fact —

      DOLLY (seating herself on the end of the table with a spring). That we’ve grown up.

      MRS. CLANDON. Indeed? In what way have I given you any reason to complain?

      PHILIP. Well, there are certain matters upon which we are beginning to feel that you might take us a little more into your confidence.

      MRS. CLANDON (rising, with all the placidity of her age suddenly broken up; and a curious hard excitement, dignified but dogged, ladylike but implacable — the manner of the Old Guard of the Women’s Rights movement — coming upon her). Phil: take care. Remember what I have always taught you. There are two sorts