[Opening her eyes.] Oh, I hope not. Why?
John.
I thought it might have slipped your memory that Basil was married about a year ago.
Hilda.
[Freezing.] What on earth d'you mean? [Calling] Mabel.
John.
One moment.... You can give me a little conversation, can't you?
Hilda.
I'm afraid you're going to bore me.
John.
[Good-humouredly.] I assure you I'm not.... Isn't Basil here rather often?
Hilda.
I wonder you haven't learnt to mind your own business, John.
John.
Don't you think it's rather rough on that poor little woman in Putney?
Hilda.
[With a suspicion of contempt.] I went down to see her. I thought she was vulgar and pretentious. I'm afraid I can't arouse any interest in her.
John.
[Gently.] She may be vulgar, but she told me her love was like music in her heart. Don't you think she must have suffered awfully to get hold of a thought like that?
Hilda.
[After a pause, changing suddenly both voice and manner.] And d'you think I've not suffered, John? I'm so unhappy.
John.
Do you really care for him?
Hilda.
[In a low voice hoarse with passion.] No, I don't care for him. I worship the very ground he treads on.
John.
[Very gravely.] Then you must do as you think best.... You're playing the most dangerous game in the world. You're playing with human hearts.... Good-bye.
Hilda.
[Taking his hand.] Good-bye, John. You're not angry with me because I was horrid.... I'm glad you told me about his wife. Now I shall know what to do.
John.
Mabel.
Mabel.
[Coming forward.] Yes, we really must be going. I've not seen my precious baby for two hours.
Hilda.
[Taking both her hands.] Good-bye, you happy child. You've got a precious baby, and you've got a husband you love. What can you want more?
Mabel.
[Flippantly.] I want a motor-car.
Hilda.
[Kissing her.] Good-bye, darling.
[Mabel and John go out.
Brackley.
I like this room, Mrs. Murray. It never seems to say to you: now it's really time for you to go away, as some drawing-rooms do.
Hilda.
[Recovering her serenity.] I suppose it's the furniture. I'm thinking of changing it.
Brackley.
[With a smile.] Upon my word, that almost suggests that I've outstayed my welcome.
Hilda.
[Gaily.] I shouldn't have said that if I didn't know that nothing would induce you to go till you wanted to.
Brackley.
[Rising.] You know me like your glove. But it really is growing monstrous late.
Hilda.
You mustn't go till you've told me who the fair charmer was I saw you with at the play last night.
Brackley.
Ah, the green-eyed monster!
Hilda.
[Laughing.] Don't be so absurd, but I thought you'd like to know her yellow hair was dyed.
[Basil looks over the pages of a book, somewhat annoyed that Hilda takes no notice of him.
Brackley.
Of course it was dyed. That was just the charm of it. Any woman can have yellow hair naturally: there's no more credit in that than in having it blue or green.
Hilda.
I've always wanted to make mine purple.
Brackley.
Don't you think women ought to be artificial? It's just as much their duty to rouge their cheeks and powder their noses as it is for them to wear nice frocks.
Hilda.
But I know many women who wear horrid frocks.
Brackley.
Oh, those are the others. I treat them as non-existent.
Hilda.
What do you mean?
Brackley.
There are only two sorts of women in the world—the women who powder their noses and the others.
Hilda.
And who are they if you please?
Brackley.
I haven't examined the matter very carefully, but I understand they are clergymen's daughters by profession.
[He shakes hands with her.
Hilda.
It's so nice of you to have come.
Brackley.
[Nodding at Basil.] Good-bye.... May I come again soon?
Hilda.
[Looking at him quickly.] Were you serious just now, or were you laughing at me?
Brackley.
I've never been more serious in my life.
Hilda.
Then perhaps I shall be in to luncheon on Thursday after all.
Brackley.
A thousand thanks. Good-bye.
[He nods to Basil and goes out. Hilda looks at Basil with a smile.
Hilda.
Is that a very interesting book?
Basil.
[Putting it down.] I thought that man was never going away.
Hilda.
[Laughing.] I suspect he thought precisely the same of you.
Basil.
[Ill-temperedly.] What an ass he is! How can you stand him?
Hilda.
I'm rather attached to him. I don't take everything he says very seriously. And young men ought to be foolish.
Basil.
He didn't strike me as so juvenile as all that.
Hilda.
He's only forty, poor thing—and I've never known a coming young man who was less than that.
Basil.
He's a young man with a very bald head.
Hilda.
[Amused.] I wonder why you dislike him!
Basil.
[With a jealous glance, icily.] I thought he wasn't admitted into decent