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

a bachelor.

      VALENTINE. Then there is a Mrs. Crampton?

      CRAMPTON (wincing with a pang of resentment). Yes — damn her!

      VALENTINE (unperturbed). Hm! A father, too, perhaps, as well as a husband, Mr. Crampton?

      CRAMPTON. Three children.

      VALENTINE (politely). Damn them? — eh?

      CRAMPTON (jealously). No, sir: the children are as much mine as hers. (The parlor maid brings in a jug of hot water.)

      VALENTINE. Thank you. (He takes the jug from her, and brings it to the cabinet, continuing in the same idle strain) I really should like to know your family, Mr. Crampton. (The parlor maid goes out: and he pours some hot water into the drinking glass.)

      CRAMPTON. Sorry I can’t introduce you, sir. I’m happy to say that I don’t know where they are, and don’t care, so long as they keep out of my way. (Valentine, with a hitch of his eyebrows and shoulders, drops the forceps with a clink into the glass of hot water.) You needn’t warm that thing to use on me. I’m not afraid of the cold steel. (Valentine stoops to arrange the gas pump and cylinder beside the chair.) What’s that heavy thing?

      VALENTINE. Oh, never mind. Something to put my foot on, to get the necessary purchase for a good pull. (Crampton looks alarmed in spite of himself. Valentine stands upright and places the glass with the forceps in it ready to his hand, chatting on with provoking indifference.) And so you advise me not to get married, Mr. Crampton? (He stoops to fit the handle on the apparatus by which the chair is raised and lowered.)

      CRAMPTON (irritably). I advise you to get my tooth out and have done reminding me of my wife. Come along, man. (He grips the arms of the chair and braces himself.)

      VALENTINE (pausing, with his hand on the lever, to look up at him and say). What do you bet that I don’t get that tooth out without your feeling it?

      CRAMPTON. Your six week’s rent, young man. Don’t you gammon me.

      VALENTINE (jumping at the bet and winding him aloft vigorously). Done! Are you ready? (Crampton, who has lost his grip of the chair in his alarm at its sudden ascent, folds his arms: sits stiffly upright: and prepares for the worst. Valentine lets down the back of the chair to an obtuse angle.)

      CRAMPTON (clutching at the arms of the chair as he falls back). Take care man. I’m quite helpless in this po —

      VALENTINE (deftly stopping him with the gag, and snatching up the mouthpiece of the gas machine). You’ll be more helpless presently. (He presses the mouthpiece over Crampton’s mouth and nose, leaning over his chest so as to hold his head and shoulders well down on the chair. Crampton makes an inarticulate sound in the mouthpiece and tries to lay hands on Valentine, whom he supposes to be in front of him. After a moment his arms wave aimlessly, then subside and drop. He is quite insensible. Valentine, with an exclamation of somewhat preoccupied triumph, throws aside the mouthpiece quickly: picks up the forceps adroitly from the glass: and — the curtain falls.)

      END OF ACT I.

      ACT II

       Table of Contents

      On the terrace at the Marine Hotel. It is a square flagged platform, with a parapet of heavy oil jar pilasters supporting a broad stone coping on the outer edge, which stands up over the sea like a cliff. The head waiter of the establishment, busy laying napkins on a luncheon table with his back to the sea, has the hotel on his right, and on his left, in the corner nearest the sea, the flight of steps leading down to the beach.

      When he looks down the terrace in front of him he sees a little to his left a solitary guest, a middleaged gentleman sitting on a chair of iron laths at a little iron table with a bowl of lump sugar and three wasps on it, reading the Standard, with his umbrella up to defend him from the sun, which, in August and at less than an hour after noon, is toasting his protended insteps. Just opposite him, at the hotel side of the terrace, there is a garden seat of the ordinary esplanade pattern. Access to the hotel for visitors is by an entrance in the middle of its facade, reached by a couple of steps on a broad square of raised pavement. Nearer the parapet there lurks a way to the kitchen, masked by a little trellis porch. The table at which the waiter is occupied is a long one, set across the terrace with covers and chairs for five, two at each side and one at the end next the hotel. Against the parapet another table is prepared as a buffet to serve from.

      The waiter is a remarkable person in his way. A silky old man, whitehaired and delicate looking, but so cheerful and contented that in his encouraging presence ambition stands rebuked as vulgarity, and imagination as treason to the abounding sufficiency and interest of the actual. He has a certain expression peculiar to men who have been extraordinarily successful in their calling, and who, whilst aware of the vanity of success, are untouched by envy.

      The gentleman at the iron table is not dressed for the seaside. He wears his London frock coat and gloves; and his tall silk hat is on the table beside the sugar bowl. The excellent condition and quality of these garments, the gold-rimmed folding spectacles through which he is reading the Standard, and the Times at his elbow overlaying the local paper, all testify to his respectability. He is about fifty, clean shaven, and close-cropped, with the corners of his mouth turned down purposely, as if he suspected them of wanting to turn up, and was determined not to let them have their way. He has large expansive ears, cod colored eyes, and a brow kept resolutely wide open, as if, again, he had resolved in his youth to be truthful, magnanimous, and incorruptible, but had never succeeded in making that habit of mind automatic and unconscious. Still, he is by no means to be laughed at. There is no sign of stupidity or infirmity of will about him: on the contrary, he would pass anywhere at sight as a man of more than average professional capacity and responsibility. Just at present he is enjoying the weather and the sea too much to be out of patience; but he has exhausted all the news in his papers and is at present reduced to the advertisements, which are not sufficiently succulent to induce him to persevere with them.

      THE GENTLEMAN (yawning and giving up the paper as a bad job). Waiter!

      WAITER. Sir? (coming down C.)

      THE GENTLEMAN. Are you quite sure Mrs. Clandon is coming back before lunch?

      WAITER. Quite sure, sir. She expects you at a quarter to one, sir. (The gentleman, soothed at once by the waiter’s voice, looks at him with a lazy smile. It is a quiet voice, with a gentle melody in it that gives sympathetic interest to his most commonplace remark; and he speaks with the sweetest propriety, neither dropping his aitches nor misplacing them, nor committing any other vulgarism. He looks at his watch as he continues) Not that yet, sir, is it? 12:43, sir. Only two minutes more to wait, sir. Nice morning, sir?

      THE GENTLEMAN. Yes: very fresh after London.

      WAITER. Yes, sir: so all our visitors say, sir. Very nice family, Mrs. Clandon’s, sir.

      THE GENTLEMAN. You like them, do you?

      WAITER. Yes, sir. They have a free way with them that is very taking, sir, very taking indeed, sir: especially the young lady and gentleman.

      THE GENTLEMAN. Miss Dorothea and Mr. Philip, I suppose.

      WAITER. Yes, sir. The young lady, in giving an order, or the like of that, will say, “Remember, William, we came to this hotel on your account, having heard what a perfect waiter you are.” The young gentleman will tell me that I remind him strongly of his father (the gentleman starts at this) and that he expects me to act by him as such. (Soothing, sunny cadence.) Oh, very pleasant, sir, very affable and pleasant indeed!

      THE GENTLEMAN. You like his father! (He laughs at the notion.)

      WAITER. Oh, we must not take what they say too seriously, sir. Of course, sir, if it were true, the young lady would have seen the resemblance, too, sir.

      THE GENTLEMAN. Did she?

      WAITER. No, sir. She thought me like the bust of Shakespear in Stratford Church, sir. That is why she calls me William,