Complete Plays of John Galsworthy
Chapter 171 : WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! yes![He gives them money; then something seems to strike him, and he

WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! yes!

[He gives them money; then something seems to strike him, and he exhibits certain signs of vexation. Suddenly he recovers, looks from one to the other, and then at the tea things. A faint smile comes on his face.]

WELLWYN. You can finish the decanter.

[He goes out in haste.]

CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN. [Clinking the coins.] Third time of arskin'!

April fool! Not 'arf! Good old pigeon!

SECOND HUMBLE-MAN. 'Uman being, I call 'im.

CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN. [Taking the three gla.s.ses from the last packing-case, and pouring very equally into them.] That's right.

Tell you wot, I'd never 'a touched this unless 'e'd told me to, I wouldn't--not with 'im.

SECOND HUMBLE-MAN. Ditto to that! This is a bit of orl right!

[Raising his gla.s.s.] Good luck!

THIRD HUMBLE-MAN. Same 'ere!

[Simultaneously they place their lips smartly against the liquor, and at once let fall their faces and their gla.s.ses.]

CHIEF HUMBLE-MAN. [With great solemnity.] Crikey! Bill! Tea!

.....'E's got us!

[The stage is blotted dark.]

Curtain.

THE END

THE MOB

A Play in Four Acts

PERSONS OF THE PLAY

STEPHEN MORE, Member of Parliament KATHERINE, his wife OLIVE, their little daughter THE DEAN OF STOUR, Katherine's uncle GENERAL SIR JOHN JULIAN, her father CAPTAIN HUBERT JULIAN, her brother HELEN, his wife EDWARD MENDIP, editor of "The Parthenon"

ALAN STEEL, More's secretary JAMES HOME, architect CHARLES SHELDER, Solicitor A deputation of More's MARK WACE, bookseller const.i.tuents WILLIAM BANNING, manufacturer NURSE WREFORD WREFORD (her son), Hubert's orderly HIS SWEETHEART THE FOOTMAN HENRY A DOORKEEPER SOME BLACK-COATED GENTLEMEN A STUDENT A GIRL

A MOB

ACT I. The dining-room of More's town house, evening.

ACT II. The same, morning.

ACT III. SCENE I. An alley at the back of a suburban theatre.

SCENE II. Katherine's bedroom.

ACT IV. The dining-room of More's house, late afternoon.

AFTERMATH. The corner of a square, at dawn.

Between ACTS I and II some days elapse.

Between ACTS II and III three months.

Between ACT III SCENE I and ACT III SCENE II no time.

Between ACTS III and IV a few hours.

Between ACTS IV and AFTERMATH an indefinite period.

ACT I

It is half-past nine of a July evening. In a dining-room lighted by sconces, and apparelled in wall-paper, carpet, and curtains of deep vivid blue, the large French windows between two columns are open on to a wide terrace, beyond which are seen trees in darkness, and distant shapes of lighted houses. On one side is a bay window, over which curtains are partly drawn.

Opposite to this window is a door leading into the hall. At an oval rosewood table, set with silver, flowers, fruit, and wine, six people are seated after dinner. Back to the bay window is STEPHEN MORE, the host, a man of forty, with a fine-cut face, a rather charming smile, and the eyes of an idealist; to his right, SIR, JOHN JULIAN, an old soldier, with thin brown features, and grey moustaches; to SIR JOHN's right, his brother, the DEAN OF STOUR, a tall, dark, ascetic-looking Churchman: to his right KATHERINE is leaning forward, her elbows on the table, and her chin on her hands, staring across at her husband; to her right sits EDWARD MENDIP, a pale man of forty-five, very bald, with a fine forehead, and on his clear-cut lips a smile that shows his teeth; between him and MORE is HELEN JULIAN, a pretty dark-haired young woman, absorbed in thoughts of her own. The voices are tuned to the pitch of heated discussion, as the curtain rises.

THE DEAN. I disagree with you, Stephen; absolutely, entirely disagree.

MORE. I can't help it.

MENDIP. Remember a certain war, Stephen! Were your chivalrous notions any good, then? And, what was winked at in an obscure young Member is anathema for an Under Secretary of State. You can't afford----

MORE. To follow my conscience? That's new, Mendip.

MENDIP. Idealism can be out of place, my friend.

THE DEAN. The Government is dealing here with a wild lawless race, on whom I must say I think sentiment is rather wasted.

MORE. G.o.d made them, Dean.

MENDIP. I have my doubts.