Misalliance

Johnny Tarleton, an ordinary young business man of thirty or less, is taking his weekly Friday to Tuesday in the house of his father, John Tarleton, who has made a great deal of money out of Tarleton’s Underwear. The house is in Surrey, on the slope of Hindhead; and Johnny, reclining, novel in hand, in a swinging chair with a little awning above it, is enshrined in a spacious half hemisphere of glass which forms a pavilion commanding the garden, and, beyond it, a barren but lovely landscape of hill profile with fir trees, commons of bracken and gorse, and wonderful cloud pictures.

The glass pavilion springs from a bridgelike arch in the wall of the house, through which one comes into a big hall with tiled flooring, which suggests that the proprietor’s notion of domestic luxury is founded on the lounges of weekend hotels.

Returning to the pavilion. Of course not. That’s why one loves her for doing it. Look here: chuck away your silly weekend novel, and talk to a chap. After a week in that filthy office my brain is simply blue-mouldy. Lets argue about something intellectual. He throws himself into the wicker chair on Johnny’s right.

Johnny

Straightening up in the swing with a yell of protest. No. Now seriously, Bunny, I’ve come down here to have a pleasant weekend; and I’m not going to stand your confounded arguments. If you want to argue, get out of this and go over to the Congregationalist minister’s. He’s a nailer at arguing. He likes it.

Bentley

You can’t argue with a person when his livelihood depends on his not letting you convert him. And would you mind not calling me Bunny. My name is Bentley Summerhays, which you please.

Johnny

What’s the matter with Bunny?

Bentley

It puts me in a false position. Have you ever considered the fact that I was an afterthought?

Johnny

An afterthought? What do you mean by that?

Bentley

I⁠—

Johnny

No, stop: I don’t want to know. It’s only a dodge to start an argument.

Bentley

Don’t be afraid: it won’t overtax your brain. My father was 44 when I was born. My mother was 41. There was twelve years between me and the next eldest. I was unexpected. I was probably unintentional.

Bentley

Mind where you’re coming. He’ll save it. No: they’re down.

An appalling crash of breaking glass is heard. Everybody shrieks.

Mrs. Tarleton

Oh, are they killed? John: are they killed?

Lord Summerhays

Are you hurt? Is anything broken? Can you stand?

Hypatia

Oh, you must be hurt. Are you sure? Shall I get you some water? Or some wine?

Tarleton

Are you all right? Sure you won’t have some brandy just to take off the shock.

The Aviator

No, thank you. Quite right. Not a scratch. I assure you I’m all right.

Bentley

What luck! And what a smash! You are a lucky chap, I can tell you.

The Aviator and Tarleton come in through the pavilion, followed by Lord Summerhays and Bentley, the Aviator on Tarleton’s right. Bentley passes the Aviator and turns to have an admiring look at him. Lord Summerhays overtakes Tarleton less pointedly on the opposite side with the same object.

The Aviator

I’m really very sorry. I’m afraid I’ve knocked your vinery into a cocked hat. Effusively. You don’t mind, do you?

Tarleton

Not a bit. Come in and have some tea. Stay to dinner. Stay over the weekend. All my life I’ve wanted to fly.

Lina

Thank you.

Lord Summerhays goes out through the vestibule door.

Tarleton

Going to her. Listen to me. She turns quickly. What you said just now was beautiful. You touch chords. You appeal to the poetry in a man. You inspire him. Come now! You’re a woman of the world: you’re independent: you must have driven lots of men crazy. You know the sort of man I am, don’t you? See through me at a glance, eh?

Lina

Yes. She sits down quietly in the chair Lord Summerhays has just left.

Tarleton

Good. Well, do you like me? Don’t misunderstand me: I’m perfectly aware that you’re not going to fall in love at first sight with a ridiculous old shopkeeper. I can’t help that ridiculous old shopkeeper. I have to carry him about with me whether I like it or not. I have to pay for his clothes, though I hate the cut of them: especially the waistcoat. I have to look at him in the glass while I’m shaving. I loathe him because he’s a living lie. My soul’s not like that: it’s like yours. I want to make a fool of myself. About you. Will you let me?

Lina

Very calm. How much will you pay?

Tarleton

Nothing. But I’ll throw as many sovereigns as you like into the sea to show you that I’m in earnest.

Lina

Are those your usual terms?

Tarleton

No. I never made that bid before.

Lina

Producing a dainty little book and preparing to write in it. What did you say your name was?

The Man

Coming out of the bath, pistol in hand. Another sound; and you’re a dead man.

Tarleton

Braced. Am I? Well, you’re a live one: that’s one comfort. I thought you were a ghost. He sits down, quite undisturbed by the pistol. Who are you; and what the devil were you doing in my new Turkish bath?

The Man

With tragic intensity. I am the son of Lucinda Titmus.

Tarleton

The name conveying nothing to him. Indeed? And how is she? Quite well, I hope, eh?

The Man

She is dead. Dead, my God! and you’re alive.

Tarleton

Unimpressed by the tragedy, but sympathetic. Oh! Lost your mother? That’s sad. I’m sorry. But we can’t all have the luck to survive our mothers, and be nursed out of the world by the hands that nursed us into it.