The Second Mrs. Tanqueray

Aubrey Tanqueray’s Chambers in the Albany⁠—a richly and tastefully decorated room, elegantly and luxuriously furnished: on the right a large pair of doors opening into another room, on the left at the further end of the room a small door leading to a bedchamber. A circular table is laid for a dinner for four persons which has now reached the stage of dessert and coffee. Everything in the apartment suggests wealth and refinement. The fire is burning brightly.

Aubrey Tanqueray, Misquith, and Jayne are seated at the dinner table. Aubrey is forty-two, handsome, winning in manner, his speech and bearing retaining some of the qualities of young-manhood. Misquith is about forty-seven, genial and portly. Jayne is a year or two Misquith’s senior; soft-speaking and precise⁠—in appearance a type of the prosperous town physician. Morse, Aubrey’s servant, places a little cabinet of cigars and the spirit-lamp on the table beside Aubrey, and goes out.

Misquith

Aubrey, it is a pleasant yet dreadful fact to contemplate, but it’s nearly fifteen years since I first dined with you. You lodged in Piccadilly in those days, over a hat-shop. Jayne, I met you at that dinner, and Cayley Drummle.

Jayne

Yes, yes. What a pity it is that Cayley isn’t here tonight.

Aubrey

Confound the old gossip! His empty chair has been staring us in the face all through dinner. I ought to have told Morse to take it away.

Misquith

Odd, his sending no excuse.

Aubrey

I’ll walk round to his lodgings later on and ask after him.

Misquith

I’ll go with you.

Jayne

So will I.

Aubrey

Opening the cigar-cabinet. Doctor, it’s useless to tempt you, I know. Frank⁠—Misquith and Aubrey smoke. I particularly wished Cayley Drummle to be one of us tonight. You two fellows and Cayley are my closest, my best friends⁠—

Aubrey

As you’ve got this out of me I give you leave to say all you care to say. Come, we’ll be plain with each other. You know Mrs. Jarman?

Drummle

I first met her at⁠—what does it matter?

Aubrey

Yes, yes, everything! Come!

Drummle

I met her at Homburg, two⁠—three seasons ago.

Aubrey

Not as Mrs. Jarman?

Drummle

No.

Aubrey

She was then⁠—?

Drummle

Mrs. Dartry.

Aubrey

Yes. She has also seen you in London, she says.

Drummle

Certainly.

Aubrey

In Aldford Street. Go on.

Drummle

Please!

Aubrey

I insist.

Drummle

With a slight shrug of the shoulders. Some time last year I was asked by a man to sup at his house, one night after the theatre.

Aubrey

Mr. Selwyn Ethurst⁠—a bachelor.

Drummle

Yes.

Aubrey

You were surprised therefore to find Mr. Ethurst aided in his cursed hospitality by a lady.

Drummle

I was unprepared.

Aubrey

The lady you had known as Mrs. Dartry? Drummle inclines his head silently. There is something of a yachting cruise in the Mediterranean too, is there not?

Drummle

I joined Peter Jarman’s yacht at Marseilles, in the Spring, a month before he died.

Aubrey

Mrs. Jarman was on board?

Drummle

She was a kind hostess.

Aubrey

And an old acquaintance?

Drummle

Yes.

Aubrey

You have told your story.

Drummle

With your assistance.

Aubrey

I have put you to the pain of telling it to show you that this is not the case of a blind man entrapped by an artful woman.

Aubrey

Frowning. Certainly not.

Morse

Very well, sir.

He goes out.

Aubrey

Opening the upper door. Paula! Paula!

Paula enters and throws her arms round his neck. She is a young woman of about twenty-seven: beautiful, fresh, innocent-looking. She is in superb evening dress.

Paula

Dearest!

Aubrey

Why have you come here?

Paula

Angry?

Aubrey

Yes⁠—no. But it’s eleven o’clock.

Paula

Laughing. I know.

Aubrey

What on earth will Morse think?

Paula

Do you trouble yourself about what servants think?

Aubrey

Of course.

Paula

Goose! They’re only machines made to wait upon people⁠—and to give evidence in the Divorce Court. Looking round. Oh, indeed! A snug little dinner!

Aubrey

Three men.

Paula

Suspiciously. Men?

Aubrey

Men.

Paula

Penitently. Ah! Sitting at the table. I’m so hungry.

Aubrey

Let me get you some game pie, or some⁠—

Paula

No, no, hungry for this. What beautiful fruit! I love fruit when it’s expensive. He clears a space on the table, places a plate before her, and helps her to fruit. I haven’t dined, Aubrey dear.

Aubrey

My poor girl! Why?

Paula

In the first place, I forgot to order any dinner, and my cook, who has always loathed me, thought he’d pay me out before he departed.

Aubrey

The beast!

Paula

That’s precisely what I⁠—

Aubrey

No, Paula!

Paula

What I told my maid to call him. What next will you think of me?

Aubrey

Forgive me. You must be starved.

Paula

Eating fruit. I didn’t care. As there was nothing to eat, I sat in my best frock, with my toes on the dining-room fender, and dreamt, oh, such a lovely dinner-party.

Oh! I’ve no patience with you! You’ll kill me with this life! She selects some flowers from a vase on the table, cuts and arranges them, and fastens them in her bodice. What is my existence, Sunday to Saturday? In the morning, a drive down to the village, with the groom, to give my orders to the tradespeople. At lunch, you and Ellean. In the afternoon, a novel, the newspapers; if fine, another drive⁠—if fine! Tea⁠—you and Ellean. Then two hours of dusk; then dinner⁠—you and Ellean. Then a game of Bésique, you and I, while Ellean reads a religious book in a dull corner. Then a yawn from me, another from you, a sigh from Ellean; three figures suddenly rise⁠—“Good night, good night, good night!” Imitating a kiss. “God bless you!” Ah!

Aubrey

Yes, yes, Paula⁠—yes, dearest⁠—that’s what it is now. But, by-and-by, if people begin to come round us⁠—

Paula

Hah! That’s where we’ve made the mistake, my friend Aubrey! Pointing to the window. Do you believe these people will ever come round us? Your former crony, Mrs. Cortelyon? Or the grim old vicar, or that wife of his whose huge nose is positively indecent? Or the Ullathornes, or the Gollans, or Lady William Petres? I know better! And when the young ones gradually take the place of the old, there will still remain the sacred tradition that the dreadful person who lives at the top of the hill is never, under any circumstances, to be called upon!

The windows are open, and there is moonlight in the garden.

Lady Orreyed, a pretty, affected doll of a woman with a mincing voice and flaxen hair, is sitting on the ottoman, her head resting against the drum, and her eyes closed. Paula, looking pale, worn, and thoroughly unhappy, is sitting at a table. Both are in sumptuous dinner-gowns.

Lady Orreyed

Opening her eyes. Well, I never! I dropped off! Feeling her hair. Just fancy! Where are the men?

Paula

Icily. Outside, smoking.

A Servant enters with coffee, which he hands to Lady Orreyed. Sir George Orreyed comes in by the window. He is a man of about thirty-five, with a low forehead, a receding chin, a vacuous expression, and an ominous redness about the nose.

Lady Orreyed

Taking coffee. Here’s Dodo.

Sir George

I say, the flies under the verandah make you swear. The Servant hands coffee to Paula, who declines it, then to Sir George, who takes a cup. Hi! wait a bit! He looks at the tray searchingly, then puts back his cup. Never mind. Quietly to Lady Orreyed. I say, they’re dooced sparin’ with their liqueur, ain’t they?

The Servant goes out at window.