Lady Francis.
Are you really under the impression things are going to pass off in that way?
Etchingham.
Why not?
Lady Francis.
They say it’s a wise man who knows his own father, but it’s apparently a wiser man still who knows his own daughter.
Etchingham.
Angela, for goodness’ sake don’t try to be bright and amusing.
Lady Francis.
Do you know so little of Kate as to imagine she would have taken a step of this kind without having quite made up her mind?
Etchingham.
You don’t mean to say you think Kate will refuse to go back to her husband?
Lady Francis.
I do.
Etchingham.
But what reasons does she give? Why did she say she left him?
Lady Francis.
She gave no reasons. She merely stated the fact and asked if I could put her up.
Etchingham.
Well, she must go back to her husband.
Lady Francis.
[As if it were the most innocent question.] Why?
Etchingham.
Because a woman’s place is by her husband’s side, Angela. You know just as well as I do that I can’t afford to quarrel with George Winter. I’m chairman of half a dozen of his companies. The position would be intolerable. I should be expected to take Kate’s side if she were right or wrong.
Lady Francis.
I suppose you owe him money?
Etchingham.
No, not exactly.
Lady Francis.
Ah! [With a shrewd look at him and a smile.] And how much is it that you—don’t exactly owe him?
Etchingham.
We’re mixed up together in any number of business undertakings, and naturally we have a sort of running account. If we settled up I dare say I should have to find something like fifteen thousand pounds.
Lady Francis.
Good heavens, I thought you’d been making money.
Etchingham.
Yes, I did, but the fact is, we’ve been very badly hit lately. Practically all our interests are in Central America, and we couldn’t foresee that there’d be a revolution there.
Lady Francis.
The possibility might have crossed your mind.
Etchingham.
Oh, I knew you’d blame me. And I suppose you’ll blame me because a confounded earthquake smashed up one of our railways.
Lady Francis.
And how d’you propose to raise fifteen thousand pounds?
Etchingham.
That’s just it. It would be devilish awkward. And George is in a confounded tight place too.
Lady Francis.
You’d better talk to Kate. I’ll send for her.
[She touches a bell, and gives her order down a speaking tube.
Lady Francis.
Ask Mrs. Winter to be good enough to come to the drawing room.
Etchingham.
You must talk to her seriously, Angela. You must tell her that her behaviour is outrageous.
Lady Francis.
[With a chuckle.] No, my dear. You are going to talk to her.
[Catherine Winter comes in. She is a graceful woman, with a strong, passionate face; and her expression, rather tired but self-contained and resolute, suggests that she has endured great trouble and is now making a desperate effort to escape. She is very simply dressed and wears no jewellery but her wedding ring.
Catherine.
Good-morning, father.
[She goes up to Lord Francis and kisses his cheek.
Etchingham.
[With elaborate politeness.] Be so good as to sit down, Catherine.
[Catherine exchanges with her mother a glance of faint amusement and takes a seat.
Etchingham.
[With a fine assumption of paternal authority.] I want to talk to you. Your mother and I have sent for you. … [Breaking out.] Now what does all this mean? It’s ridiculous nonsense. You’re surely old enough to have learnt a little self-control.
Catherine.
[Calmly.] I’ve shown a good deal of self-control during the four years of my married life, father. I was afraid it was growing into a habit.
Etchingham.
Am I to understand that what your mother tells me is true?
Catherine.
[Quietly.] I lived with George as long as I could. I put up with more than any woman I know would have done. But there are some things no one should suffer who has any self-respect.
Etchingham.
You’ve never complained before of George’s behaviour.
Catherine.
No.
Etchingham.
Why have you never said a word to your mother about it? I can’t imagine why you shouldn’t get on with George. I don’t suppose you’ve ever expressed a whim that he hasn’t gratified. Your allowance is princely. Your pearls are the envy of every woman in London.
Catherine.
Oh, yes, he’s generous. My pearls have been a splendid advertisement.
Etchingham.
[Ignoring the second sentence and pouncing on the admission.] Then what have you got to complain of?
Catherine.
I dare say my mother knows what half London is chattering about.
Etchingham.
Well, Angela?
Lady Francis.
Oh, my dear, I hoped it was idle gossip. A man as much in the public eye as George Winter—the most prominent financier of the moment—is certain to be talked about.
Etchingham.
I suppose he’s been flirting with two or three pretty women.
Lady Francis.
I understand things are supposed to have gone rather further than that.
Etchingham.
That’s the kind of thing a tactful woman must close her eyes to. You’re a woman of the world, Kate. You know what men are. You must extend a certain degree of licence to a man of George Winter’s temperament.
Catherine.
You don’t understand, father. I bore my life till I couldn’t bear it any longer. I’m not the sort of woman to make scenes. I held my tongue, I closed my