Plays : Third Series. John Galsworthy
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like this. If it's like that, don't think about it.
CLARE. When every day and every night!—Oh! I know it's my fault for having married him, but that doesn't help.
HUNTINGDON. Look here! It's not as if George wasn't quite a decent chap. And it's no use blinking things; you are absolutely dependent on him. At home they've got every bit as much as they can do to keep going.
CLARE. I know.
HUNTINGDON. And you've got to think of the girls. Any trouble would be very beastly for them. And the poor old Governor would feel it awfully.
CLARE. If I didn't know all that, Reggie, I should have gone home long ago.
HUNTINGDON. Well, what's to be done? If my pay would run to it—but it simply won't.
CLARE. Thanks, old boy, of course not.
HUNTINGDON. Can't you try to see George's side of it a bit?
CLARE. I do. Oh! don't let's talk about it.
HUNTINGDON. Well, my child, there's just one thing you won't go sailing near the wind, will you? I mean, there are fellows always on the lookout.
CLARE. "That chap, Malise, you'd better avoid him!" Why?
HUNTINGDON. Well! I don't know him. He may be all right, but he's not our sort. And you're too pretty to go on the tack of the New Woman and that kind of thing—haven't been brought up to it.
CLARE. British home-made summer goods, light and attractive—don't wear long. [At the sound of voices in the hall] They seem 'to be going, Reggie.
[HUNTINGDON looks at her, vexed, unhappy.]
HUNTINGDON. Don't head for trouble, old girl. Take a pull. Bless you! Good-night.
CLARE kisses him, and when he has gone turns away from the door, holding herself in, refusing to give rein to some outburst of emotion. Suddenly she sits down at the untouched Bridge table, leaning her bare elbows on it and her chin on her hands, quite calm. GEORGE is coming in. PAYNTER follows him.
CLARE. Nothing more wanted, thank you, Paynter. You can go home, and the maids can go to bed.
PAYNTER. We are much obliged, ma'am.
CLARE. I ran over a dog, and had to get it seen to.
PAYNTER. Naturally, ma'am!
CLARE. Good-night.
PAYNTER. I couldn't get you a little anything, ma'am?
CLARE. No, thank you.
PAYNTER. No, ma'am. Good-night, ma'am.
[He withdraws.]
GEORGE. You needn't have gone out of your way to tell a lie that wouldn't deceive a guinea-pig. [Going up to her] Pleased with yourself to-night? [CLARE shakes her head] Before that fellow MALISE; as if our own people weren't enough!
CLARE. Is it worth while to rag me? I know I've behaved badly, but
I couldn't help it, really!
GEORGE. Couldn't help behaving like a shop-girl? My God! You were brought up as well as I was.
CLARE. Alas!
GEORGE. To let everybody see that we don't get on—there's only one word for it—Disgusting!
CLARE. I know.
GEORGE. Then why do you do it? I've always kept my end up. Why in heaven's name do you behave in this crazy way?
CLARE. I'm sorry.
GEORGE. [With intense feeling] You like making a fool of me!
CLARE. No—Really! Only—I must break out sometimes.
GEORGE. There are things one does not do.
CLARE. I came in because I was sorry.
GEORGE. And at once began to do it again! It seems to me you delight in rows.
CLARE. You'd miss your—reconciliations.
GEORGE. For God's sake, Clare, drop cynicism!
CLARE. And truth?
GEORGE. You are my wife, I suppose.
CLARE. And they twain shall be one—spirit.
GEORGE. Don't talk wild nonsense!
[There is silence.]
CLARE. [Softly] I don't give satisfaction. Please give me notice!
GEORGE. Pish!
CLARE. Five years, and four of them like this! I'm sure we've served our time. Don't you really think we might get on better together—if I went away?
GEORGE. I've told you I won't stand a separation for no real reason, and have your name bandied about all over London. I have some primitive sense of honour.
CLARE. You mean your name, don't you?
GEORGE. Look here. Did that fellow Malise put all this into your head?
CLARE. No; my own evil nature.
GEORGE. I wish the deuce we'd never met him. Comes of picking up people you know nothing of. I distrust him—and his looks—and his infernal satiric way. He can't even 'dress decently. He's not—good form.
CLARE. [With a touch of rapture] Ah-h!
GEORGE. Why do you let him come? What d'you find interesting in him?
CLARE. A mind.
GEORGE. Deuced funny one! To have a mind—as you call it—it's not necessary to talk about Art and Literature.
CLARE. We don't.
GEORGE. Then what do you talk about—your minds? [CLARE looks at him] Will you answer a straight question? Is he falling in love with you?
CLARE. You had better ask him.
GEORGE. I tell you plainly, as a man of the world, I don't believe in the guide, philosopher and friend business.
CLARE. Thank you.
A silence. CLARE suddenly clasps her hands behind her head.
CLARE. Let me go! You'd be much happier with any other woman.
GEORGE. Clare!
CLARE. I believe—I'm sure I could earn my living. Quite serious.
GEORGE. Are you mad?
CLARE. It has been done.
GEORGE. It will never be done by you—understand that!
CLARE. It really is time we parted. I'd go clean out of your life. I don't want your support unless I'm giving you something for your money.
GEORGE. Once for all, I don't mean to allow you to make fools of us both.
CLARE. But if we are already! Look at us. We go on, and on. We're a spectacle!
GEORGE. That's not my opinion; nor the opinion of anyone, so long as you behave yourself.
CLARE. That is—behave as you think right.
GEORGE. Clare, you're pretty riling.
CLARE. I don't want to be horrid. But I am in earnest this time.
GEORGE. So am I.
[CLARE turns to the curtained door.]
GEORGE. Look here! I'm sorry. God knows I don't want to be a brute. I know you're not happy.
CLARE. And you—are you happy?
GEORGE. I don't say I am. But why can't we be?
CLARE. I see no reason, except that you are you, and I am I.
GEORGE. We can try.
CLARE.