MRS. CLANDON (firmly). Sit down, Fergus. There is no occasion at all for this outburst. You must remember that Dolly is just like a foreigner here. Pray sit down.
CRAMPTON (subsiding unwillingly). I doubt whether I ought to sit here and countenance all this. I doubt it.
WAITER. Cheese, sir; or would you like a cold sweet?
CRAMPTON (take aback). What? Oh! — cheese, cheese.
DOLLY. Bring a box of cigarettes, William.
WAITER. All ready, miss. (He takes a box of cigarettes from the service table and places them before Dolly, who selects one and prepares to smoke. He then returns to his table for a box of vestas.)
CRAMPTON (staring aghast at Dolly). Does she smoke?
DOLLY (out of patience). Really, Mr. Crampton, I’m afraid I’m spoiling your lunch. I’ll go and have my cigarette on the beach. (She leaves the table with petulant suddenness and goes down the steps. The waiter attempts to give her the matches; but she is gone before he can reach her.)
CRAMPTON (furiously). Margaret: call that girl back. Call her back, I say.
McCOMAS (trying to make peace). Come, Crampton: never mind. She’s her father’s daughter: that’s all.
MRS. CLANDON (with deep resentment). I hope not, Finch. (She rises: they all rise a little.) Mr. Valentine: will you excuse me: I am afraid Dolly is hurt and put out by what has passed. I must go to her.
CRAMPTON. To take her part against me, you mean.
MRS. CLANDON (ignoring him). Gloria: will you take my place whilst I am away, dear. (She crosses to the steps. Crampton’s eyes follow her with bitter hatred. The rest watch her in embarrassed silence, feeling the incident to be a very painful one.)
WAITER (intercepting her at the top of the steps and offering her a box of vestas). Young lady forgot the matches, ma’am. If you would be so good, ma’am.
MRS. CLANDON (surprised into grateful politeness by the witchery of his sweet and cheerful tones). Thank you very much. (She takes the matches and goes down to the beach. The waiter shepherds his assistant along with him into the hotel by the kitchen entrance, leaving the luncheon party to themselves.)
CRAMPTON (throwing himself back in his chair). There’s a mother for you, McComas! There’s a mother for you!
GLORIA (steadfastly). Yes: a good mother.
CRAMPTON. And a bad father? That’s what you mean, eh?
VALENTINE (rising indignantly and addressing Gloria). Miss Clandon: I —
CRAMPTON (turning on him). That girl’s name is Crampton, Mr. Valentine, not Clandon. Do you wish to join them in insulting me?
VALENTINE (ignoring him). I’m overwhelmed, Miss Clandon. It’s all my fault: I brought him here: I’m responsible for him. And I’m ashamed of him.
CRAMPTON. What d’y’ mean?
GLORIA (rising coldly). No harm has been done, Mr. Valentine. We have all been a little childish, I am afraid. Our party has been a failure: let us break it up and have done with it. (She puts her chair aside and turns to the steps, adding, with slighting composure, as she passes Crampton.) Goodbye, father.
(She descends the steps with cold, disgusted indifference. They all look after her, and so do not notice the return of the waiter from the hotel, laden with Crampton’s coat, Valentine’s stick, a couple of shawls and parasols, a white canvas umbrella, and some camp stools.)
CRAMPTON (to himself, staring after Gloria with a ghastly expression). Father! Father!! (He strikes his fist violently on the table.) Now —
WAITER (offering the coat). This is yours, sir, I think, sir. (Crampton glares at him; then snatches it rudely and comes down the terrace towards the garden seat, struggling with the coat in his angry efforts to put it on. McComas rises and goes to his assistance; then takes his hat and umbrella from the little iron table, and turns towards the steps. Meanwhile the waiter, after thanking Crampton with unruffled sweetness for taking the coat, offers some of his burden to Phil.) The ladies’ sunshades, sir. Nasty glare off the sea to-day, sir: very trying to the complexion, sir. I shall carry down the camp stools myself, sir.
PHILIP. You are old, Father William; but you are the most considerate of men. No: keep the sunshades and give me the camp stools (taking them).
WAITER (with flattering gratitude). Thank you, sir.
PHILIP. Finch: share with me (giving him a couple). Come along. (They go down the steps together.)
VALENTINE (to the waiter). Leave me something to bring down — one of these. (Offering to take a sunshade.)
WAITER (discreetly). That’s the younger lady’s, sir. (Valentine lets it go.) Thank you, sir. If you’ll allow me, sir, I think you had better have this. (He puts down the sunshades on Crampton’s chair, and produces from the tail pocket of his dress coat, a book with a lady’s handkerchief between the leaves, marking the page.) The eldest young lady is reading it at present. (Valentine takes it eagerly.) Thank you, sir. Schopenhauer, sir, you see. (He takes up the sunshades again.) Very interesting author, sir: especially on the subject of ladies, sir. (He goes down the steps. Valentine, about to follow him, recollects Crampton and changes his mind.)
VALENTINE (coming rather excitedly to Crampton). Now look here, Crampton: are you at all ashamed of yourself?
CRAMPTON (pugnaciously). Ashamed of myself! What for?
VALENTINE. For behaving like a bear. What will your daughter think of me for having brought you here?
CRAMPTON. I was not thinking of what my daughter was thinking of you.
VALENTINE. No, you were thinking of yourself. You’re a perfect maniac.
CRAMPTON (heartrent). She told you what I am — a father — a father robbed of his children. What are the hearts of this generation like? Am I to come here after all these years — to see what my children are for the first time! to hear their voices! — and carry it all off like a fashionable visitor; drop in to lunch; be Mr. Crampton — M i s t e r Crampton! What right have they to talk to me like that? I’m their father: do they deny that? I’m a man, with the feelings of our common humanity: have I no rights, no claims? In all these years who have I had round me? Servants, clerks, business acquaintances. I’ve had respect from them — aye, kindness. Would one of them have spoken to me as that girl spoke? — would one of them have laughed at me as that boy was laughing at me all the time? (Frantically.) My own children! M i s t e r Crampton! My —
VALENTINE. Come, come: they’re only children. The only one of them that’s worth anything called you father.
CRAMPTON (wildly). Yes: “goodbye, father.” Oh, yes: she got at my feelings — with a stab!
VALENTINE (taking this in very bad part). Now look here, Crampton: you just let her alone: she’s treated you very well. I had a much worse time of it at lunch than you.
CRAMPTON. You!
VALENTINE (with growing impetuosity). Yes: I. I sat next to her; and I never said a single thing to her the whole time — couldn’t think of a blessed word. And not a word did she say to me.
CRAMPTON. Well?
VALENTINE. Well? Well??? (Tackling him very seriously and talking faster and faster.) Crampton: do you know what’s been the matter with me to-day? You don’t suppose, do you, that I’m in the habit of playing such tricks on my patients as I played on you?
CRAMPTON. I hope not.
VALENTINE. The explanation is that I’m stark mad, or rather that I’ve never been in my real senses before. I’m capable of anything: I’ve grown up at last: I’m a Man; and it’s your daughter that’s