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

(no longer scornful). You need not be afraid. I think you are sentimental, and a little foolish; but I like you.

      VALENTINE (dropping into the iron chair as if crushed). Then it’s all over. (He becomes the picture of despair.)

      GLORIA (puzzled, approaching him). But why?

      VALENTINE. Because liking is not enough. Now that I think down into it seriously, I don’t know whether I like you or not.

      GLORIA (looking down at him with wondering concern). I’m sorry.

      VALENTINE (in an agony of restrained passion). Oh, don’t pity me. Your voice is tearing my heart to pieces. Let me alone, Gloria. You go down into the very depths of me, troubling and stirring me — I can’t struggle with it — I can’t tell you —

      GLORIA (breaking down suddenly). Oh, stop telling me what you feel: I can’t bear it.

      VALENTINE (springing up triumphantly, the agonized voice now solid, ringing, and jubilant). Ah, it’s come at last — my moment of courage. (He seizes her hands: she looks at him in terror.) Our moment of courage! (He draws her to him; kisses her with impetuous strength; and laughs boyishly.) Now you’ve done it, Gloria. It’s all over: we’re in love with one another. (She can only gasp at him.) But what a dragon you were! And how hideously afraid I was!

      PHILIP’S VOICE (calling from the beach). Valentine!

      DOLLY’S VOICE. Mr. Valentine!

      VALENTINE. Goodbye. Forgive me. (He rapidly kisses her hands, and runs away to the steps, where he meets Mrs. Clandon, ascending. Gloria, quite lost, can only start after him.)

      MRS. CLANDON. The children want you, Mr. Valentine. (She looks anxiously around.) Is he gone?

      VALENTINE (puzzled). He? (Recollecting.) Oh, Crampton. Gone this long time, Mrs. Clandon. (He runs off buoyantly down the steps.)

      GLORIA (sinking upon the seat). Mother!

      MRS. CLANDON (hurrying to her in alarm). What is it, dear?

      GLORIA (with heartfelt, appealing reproach). Why didn’t you educate me properly?

      MRS. CLANDON (amazed). My child: I did my best.

      GLORIA. Oh, you taught me nothing — nothing.

      MRS. CLANDON. What is the matter with you?

      GLORIA (with the most intense expression). Only shame — shame — shame. (Blushing unendurably, she covers her face with her hands and turns away from her mother.)

      END OF ACT II.

      ACT III

       Table of Contents

      The Clandon’s sitting room in the hotel. An expensive apartment on the ground floor, with a French window leading to the gardens. In the centre of the room is a substantial table, surrounded by chairs, and draped with a maroon cloth on which opulently bound hotel and railway guides are displayed. A visitor entering through the window and coming down to this central table would have the fireplace on his left, and a writing table against the wall on his right, next the door, which is further down. He would, if his taste lay that way, admire the wall decoration of Lincrusta Walton in plum color and bronze lacquer, with dado and cornice; the ormolu consoles in the corners; the vases on pillar pedestals of veined marble with bases of polished black wood, one on each side of the window; the ornamental cabinet next the vase on the side nearest the fireplace, its centre compartment closed by an inlaid door, and its corners rounded off with curved panes of glass protecting shelves of cheap blue and white pottery; the bamboo tea table, with folding shelves, in the corresponding space on the other side of the window; the pictures of ocean steamers and Landseer’s dogs; the saddlebag ottoman in line with the door but on the other side of the room; the two comfortable seats of the same pattern on the hearthrug; and finally, on turning round and looking up, the massive brass pole above the window, sustaining a pair of maroon rep curtains with decorated borders of staid green. Altogether, a room well arranged to flatter the occupant’s sense of importance, and reconcile him to a charge of a pound a day for its use.

      Mrs. Clandon sits at the writing table, correcting proofs. Gloria is standing at the window, looking out in a tormented revery.

      The clock on the mantelpiece strikes five with a sickly clink, the bell being unable to bear up against the black marble cenotaph in which it is immured.

      MRS. CLANDON. Five! I don’t think we need wait any longer for the children. The are sure to get tea somewhere.

      GLORIA (wearily). Shall I ring?

      MRS. CLANDON. Do, my dear. (Gloria goes to the hearth and rings.) I have finished these proofs at last, thank goodness!

      GLORIA (strolling listlessly across the room and coming behind her mother’s chair). What proofs?

      MRS. CLANDON The new edition of Twentieth Century Women.

      GLORIA (with a bitter smile). There’s a chapter missing.

      MRS. CLANDON (beginning to hunt among her proofs). Is there? Surely not.

      GLORIA. I mean an unwritten one. Perhaps I shall write it for you — when I know the end of it. (She goes back to the window.)

      MRS. CLANDON. Gloria! More enigmas!

      GLORIA. Oh, no. The same enigma.

      MRS. CLANDON (puzzled and rather troubled; after watching her for a moment). My dear.

      GLORIA (returning). Yes.

      MRS. CLANDON. You know I never ask questions.

      GLORIA (kneeling beside her chair). I know, I know. (She suddenly throws her arms about her mother and embraces her almost passionately.)

      MRS. CLANDON. (gently, smiling but embarrassed). My dear: you are getting quite sentimental.

      GLORIA (recoiling). Ah, no, no. Oh, don’t say that. Oh! (She rises and turns away with a gesture as if tearing herself.)

      MRS. CLANDON (mildly). My dear: what is the matter? What — (The waiter enters with the tea tray.)

      WAITER (balmily). This was what you rang for, ma’am, I hope?

      MRS. CLANDON. Thank you, yes. (She turns her chair away from the writing table, and sits down again. Gloria crosses to the hearth and sits crouching there with her face averted.)

      WAITER (placing the tray temporarily on the centre table). I thought so, ma’am. Curious how the nerves seem to give out in the afternoon without a cup of tea. (He fetches the tea table and places it in front of Mrs. Cladon, conversing meanwhile.) the young lady and gentleman have just come back, ma’am: they have been out in a boat, ma’am. Very pleasant on a fine afternoon like this — very pleasant and invigorating indeed. (He takes the tray from the centre table and puts it on the tea table.) Mr. McComas will not come to tea, ma’am: he has gone to call upon Mr. Crampton. (He takes a couple of chairs and sets one at each end of the tea table.)

      GLORIA (looking round with an impulse of terror). And the other gentleman?

      WAITER (reassuringly, as he unconsciously drops for a moment into the measure of “I’ve been roaming,” which he sang as a boy.) Oh, he’s coming, miss, he’s coming. He has been rowing the boat, miss, and has just run down the road to the chemist’s for something to put on the blisters. But he will be here directly, miss — directly. (Gloria, in ungovernable apprehension, rises and hurries towards the door.)

      MRS. CLANDON. (half rising). Glo — (Gloria goes out. Mrs. Clandon looks perplexedly at the waiter, whose composure is unruffled.)

      WAITER (cheerfully). Anything more, ma’am?

      MRS. CLANDON. Nothing, thank you.

      WAITER. Thank you, ma’am. (As he withdraws, Phil and Dolly, in the highest spirits, come tearing in. He holds the door