McCOMAS. Yes: but you made hard terms, Mrs. Clandon. You had him at your mercy: you brought him to his knees when you threatened to make the matter public by applying to the Courts for a judicial separation. Suppose he had had that power over you, and used it to take your children away from you and bring them up in ignorance of your very name, how would you feel? what would you do? Well, won’t you make some allowance for his feelings? — in common humanity.
MRS. CLANDON. I never discovered his feelings. I discovered his temper, and his — (she shivers) the rest of his common humanity.
McCOMAS (wistfully). Women can be very hard, Mrs. Clandon.
VALENTINE. That’s true.
GLORIA (angrily). Be silent. (He subsides.)
McCOMAS (rallying all his forces). Let me make one last appeal. Mrs. Clandon: believe me, there are men who have a good deal of feeling, and kind feeling, too, which they are not able to express. What you miss in Crampton is that mere veneer of civilization, the art of shewing worthless attentions and paying insincere compliments in a kindly, charming way. If you lived in London, where the whole system is one of false goodfellowship, and you may know a man for twenty years without finding out that he hates you like poison, you would soon have your eyes opened. There we do unkind things in a kind way: we say bitter things in a sweet voice: we always give our friends chloroform when we tear them to pieces. But think of the other side of it! Think of the people who do kind things in an unkind way — people whose touch hurts, whose voices jar, whose tempers play them false, who wound and worry the people they love in the very act of trying to conciliate them, and yet who need affection as much as the rest of us. Crampton has an abominable temper, I admit. He has no manners, no tact, no grace. He’ll never be able to gain anyone’s affection unless they will take his desire for it on trust. Is he to have none — not even pity — from his own flesh and blood?
DOLLY (quite melted). Oh, how beautiful, Finch! How nice of you!
PHILIP (with conviction). Finch: this is eloquence — positive eloquence.
DOLLY. Oh, mamma, let us give him another chance. Let us have him to dinner.
MRS. CLANDON (unmoved). No, Dolly: I hardly got any lunch. My dear Finch: there is not the least use in talking to me about Fergus. You have never been married to him: I have.
McCOMAS (to Gloria). Miss Clandon: I have hitherto refrained from appealing to you, because, if what Mr. Crampton told me to be true, you have been more merciless even than your mother.
GLORIA (defiantly). You appeal from her strength to my weakness!
McCOMAS. Not your weakness, Miss Clandon. I appeal from her intellect to your heart.
GLORIA. I have learnt to mistrust my heart. (With an angry glance at Valentine.) I would tear my heart and throw it away if I could. My answer to you is my mother’s answer. (She goes to Mrs. Clandon, and stands with her arm about her; but Mrs. Clandon, unable to endure this sort of demonstrativeness, disengages herself as soon as she can without hurting Gloria’s feelings.)
McCOMAS (defeated). Well, I am very sorry — very sorry. I have done my best. (He rises and prepares to go, deeply dissatisfied.)
MRS. CLANDON. But what did you expect, Finch? What do you want us to do?
McCOMAS. The first step for both you and Crampton is to obtain counsel’s opinion as to whether he is bound by the deed of separation or not. Now why not obtain this opinion at once, and have a friendly meeting (her face hardens) — or shall we say a neutral meeting? — to settle the difficulty — here — in this hotel — tonight? What do you say?
MRS. CLANDON. But where is the counsel’s opinion to come from?
McCOMAS. It has dropped down on us out of the clouds. On my way back here from Crampton’s I met a most eminent Q.C., a man whom I briefed in the case that made his name for him. He has come down here from Saturday to Monday for the sea air, and to visit a relative of his who lives here. He has been good enough to say that if I can arrange a meeting of the parties he will come and help us with his opinion. Now do let us seize this chance of a quiet friendly family adjustment. Let me bring my friend here and try to persuade Crampton to come, too. Come: consent.
MRS. CLANDON (rather ominously, after a moment’s consideration). Finch: I don’t want counsel’s opinion, because I intend to be guided by my own opinion. I don’t want to meet Fergus again, because I don’t like him, and don’t believe the meeting will do any good. However (rising), you have persuaded the children that he is not quite hopeless. Do as you please.
McCOMAS (taking her hand and shaking it). Thank you, Mrs. Clandon. Will nine o’clock suit you?
MRS. CLANDON. Perfectly. Phil: will you ring, please. (Phil rings the bell.) But if I am to be accused of conspiring with Mr. Valentine, I think he had better be present.
VALENTINE (rising). I quite agree with you. I think it’s most important.
McCOMAS. There can be no objection to that, I think. I have the greatest hopes of a happy settlement. Goodbye for the present. (He goes out, meeting the waiter; who holds the door for him to pass through.)
MRS. CLANDON. We expect some visitors at nine, William. Can we have dinner at seven instead of half-past?
WAITER (at the door). Seven, ma’am? Certainly, ma’am. It will be a convenience to us this busy evening, ma’am. There will be the band and the arranging of the fairy lights and one thing or another, ma’am.
DOLLY. The fairy lights!
PHILIP. The band! William: what mean you?
WAITER. The fancy ball, miss —
DOLLY and PHILIP (simultaneously rushing to him). Fancy ball!
WAITER. Oh, yes, sir. Given by the regatta committee for the benefit of the Lifeboat, sir. (To Mrs. Clandon.) We often have them, ma’am: Chinese lanterns in the garden, ma’am: very bright and pleasant, very gay and innocent indeed. (To Phil.) Tickets downstairs at the office, sir, five shillings: ladies half price if accompanied by a gentleman.
PHILIP (seizing his arm to drag him off). To the office, William!
DOLLY (breathlessly, seizing his other arm). Quick, before they’re all sold. (They rush him out of the room between them.)
MRS. CLANDON. What on earth are they going to do? (Going out.) I really must go and stop this — (She follows them, speaking as she disappears. Gloria stares coolly at Valentine, and then deliberately looks at her watch.)
VALENTINE. I understand. I’ve stayed too long. I’m going.
GLORIA (with disdainful punctiliousness). I owe you some apology, Mr. Valentine. I am conscious of having spoken somewhat sharply — perhaps rudely — to you.
VALENTINE. Not at all.
GLORIA. My only excuse is that it is very difficult to give consideration and respect when there is no dignity of character on the other side to command it.
VALENTINE (prosaically). How is a man to look dignified when he’s infatuated?
GLORIA (effectually unstilted). Don’t say those things to me. I forbid you. They are insults.
VALENTINE. No: they’re only follies. I can’t help them.
GLORIA. If you were really in love, it would not make you foolish: it would give you dignity — earnestness — even beauty.
VALENTINE. Do you really think it would make me beautiful? (She turns her back on him with the coldest contempt.) Ah, you see you’re not in earnest. Love can’t give any man new gifts. It can only heighten the gifts he was born with.
GLORIA (sweeping round at him again). What gifts were you born with, pray?
VALENTINE. Lightness of heart.
GLORIA. And lightness of head, and lightness