MARY. That’s the new Easterhead Bay Hotel. It was only finished last year—isn’t it a horror? (She closes the window.) Lady Tressilian doesn’t like this window opened, she’s always afraid that someone might fall out. Yes, Easterhead Bay is a terrific resort, you know, nowadays. (She crosses to the chaise, picks up Kay’s towel and tidies the cushions.) I suppose when you came here as a boy there was nothing the other side of the estuary except a few fishermen’s cottages. (She pauses.) You did come here for your school holidays, didn’t you? (She puts the towel tidily on the end of the chaise.)
ROYDE. Yes, old Sir Mortimer used to take me out sailing—he was mad keen on sailing.
MARY. Yes. He was drowned out there.
ROYDE. Lady Tressilian saw it happen, I wonder she can go on living here.
MARY. I think she preferred to remain with her memories. But she won’t have any boat kept here—she even had the boathouse pulled down.
ROYDE. So if I want to sail or go for a row, I’ve got to go to the ferry.
MARY. (Crossing to the butler’s tray) Or cross to the Easterhead side. That’s where all the boats are nowadays.
ROYDE. (Moving above the chaise.) I hate changes. Always have. (Rather self-consciously.) May I ask who else is staying here?
MARY. Old Mr. Treves—you know him? (Royde nods.) And the Stranges.
ROYDE. (Moving to R of her.) The Stranges? You mean—Audrey Strange, Nevile’s first wife?
MARY. Audrey, yes. But Nevile Strange and his—new wife are here, too.
ROYDE. Isn’t that a bit odd?
MARY. Lady Tressilian thinks it very odd indeed.
ROYDE. Bit awkward—what? (Mathew Treves enters by the French windows R., fanning himself with an old-fashioned panama hat. He is an elderly and distinguished lawyer of ripe experience and great shrewdness. He has retired from his London firm some years ago and is now a keen observer of human nature. His voice is dry and precise.)
TREVES. (As he enters.) Rather too much glare on the terrace today . . . (He sees Royde.) Ah, Thomas. Nice to see you after all these years. (He stands up L. of the chaise.)
ROYDE. (Moving to Treves.) I’m very glad to be here. (He shakes hands with Treves.)
MARY. (Moving to Royde’s suitcase.) Shall I take your things up to your room?
ROYDE. (Crossing quickly to Mary.) No, no, I can’t let you do that. (He picks up his suitcase and golf clubs. Mary leads the way to the door L., sees the sweeper and picks it up.)
MARY. (With a vexed exclamation.) Really! Mrs. Barrett . . . These daily women are impossible. It makes Lady Tressilian very angry when things are left all over the place.
ROYDE. (Following Mary to the door L.) I think my sudden arrival on the terrace frightened the poor woman. (He looks towards Treves. Treves smiles.)
MARY. Oh, I see. (Mary and Royde exit L. Treves turns to the bureau, sees the torn photograph in the wastepaper basket, stoops with a little difficulty and picks up the pieces. His eyebrows rise and he makes a little sound like “Tut, tut.”)
KAY. (Off L.; calling.) Where are you going to, Nevile?
NEVILE. (Off L.) Only into the house for a moment. (Treves puts the pieces of the photograph into the wastepaper basket. Nevile Strange enters by the French windows L. He wears tennis kit and carries the remains of a glass of lemonade. He crosses to the coffee table and puts the glass on it.) Isn’t Audrey here?
TREVES. No.
NEVILE. Where is she? Do you know?
TREVES. I have no idea.
KAY. (Off, calling.) Nevile—Nevile. (Treves moves down R. of the chaise.)
NEVILE. (Frowning.) Oh, damn!
KAY. (Off, nearer.) Nevile.
NEVILE. (Crossing to the French windows and calling.) Coming—coming. (Royde enters L.)
ROYDE. (Moving to L. of the coffee table.) Nevile.
NEVILE. (Moving to R. of the coffee table.) Hullo, Thomas. (They shake hands above the coffee table.) What time did you get here?
ROYDE. Just now.
NEVILE. Must be quite a long time since I saw you last. When was it you were home, three years ago?
ROYDE. Seven.
NEVILE. Good Lord, is it, really? How time flies.
KAY. (Off.) Nevile!
NEVILE. (Moving above the chaise.) All right, Kay. (Kay enters by the French windows R.)
KAY. (Moving to R. of Nevile.) Why can’t you come? Ted and I are waiting.
NEVILE. I just came to see if Audrey . . .
KAY. (Turning away.) Oh, bother Audrey—we can get on quite well . . . (Kay and Nevile exit by the French windows R. Their voices die away.)
ROYDE. And who is Kay?
TREVES. (Moving below the chaise to R. of the coffee table.) The present Mrs. Nevile Strange. (Lady Tressilian enters L. Mary assists her on. Lady Tressilian uses a walking stick. She is a white-haired, aristocratic-looking woman, a little younger than Treves. Mary carries Lady Tressilian’s sewing.) Good morning, Camilla.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Good morning, Mathew. (She greets Royde affectionately.) Well, Thomas, so here you are. I’m very glad to see you.
ROYDE. (Rather shyly.) Very glad to be here. (Mary puts the sewing in the work-box and arranges the cushion in the armchair L. C.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. Tell me all about yourself.
ROYDE. (Mumbling.) Nothing to tell.
LADY TRESSILIAN. (Studying him.) You look exactly the same as you did at fourteen. That same boiled owl look. And no more conversation now than you had then. (Treves moves up C. Mary moves to the butler’s tray.)
ROYDE. Never had the gift of the gab.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Then it’s time you learnt. Have some sherry? Mathew? Thomas?
ROYDE. Thank you. (Mary pours two glasses of sherry.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. (Indicating the sofa.) Then go and sit down. Somebody’s got to amuse me by bringing me all the gossip. (She sits in the armchair L. C.) Why can’t you be more like Adrian? I wish you’d known his brother, Mary, a really brilliant young man, witty, amusing—(Royde sits on the chaise.) all the things that Thomas isn’t. And don’t go grinning at me, Thomas Royde, as though I were praising you. I’m scolding you.
ROYDE. Adrian was certainly the show man of our family.
MARY. (Handing a glass of sherry to Treves.) Did he—was he—killed in the war?
ROYDE. No, he was killed in a motor accident two years ago.
MARY. How dreadful! (She hands a glass of sherry to Royde.)
TREVES. The impossible way young people drive cars nowadays . . . (Lady Tressilian picks up her sewing.)
ROYDE. In his case it was some fault in the steering. (He takes his pipe from his pocket and looks at Lady Tressilian.) I’m so sorry, may I? (Mary pours another glass of sherry.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. I wouldn’t know you without your pipe. But don’t think you can just sit back and puff contentedly while you’re here. You’ve got to exert yourself and help.
ROYDE. (Surprised.) Help? (Treves perches himself on the upstage end of the chaise.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. We’ve got a difficult situation on our hands. Have you been told who’s here? (Mary takes the glass of sherry to Lady Tressilian. To Mary.) No, no, much too early, pour it back into the decanter. (Mary resignedly pours the glass of sherry into the decanter.)
ROYDE. Yes, I’ve just heard.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Well, don’t you think it’s disgraceful?
ROYDE. Well . . .
TREVES. You’ll have to be a little more explicit, Camilla.
LADY TRESSILIAN. I intend to be. When I was a girl such things did not happen. Men had their affairs, naturally, but they did not allow them to break up their married life.
TREVES. Regrettable though the modern point of view may be, one has to accept it, Camilla. (Mary moves to the easy chair down L. and sits on the upstage arm of it.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. That’s not the point. We were all delighted when Nevile married Audrey. Such a sweet gentle girl. (To Royde.) You were all in love with her—you, Adrian and Nevile. Nevile won.
ROYDE. Naturally. He always wins.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Of all the defeatist . . .
ROYDE. I don’t blame her, Nevile had everything—good looks, first-class athlete—even had a shot at swimming the channel.
TREVES. And all the kudos of that early Everest attempt—never stuck up about it.
ROYDE. Mens sana in corpore sana.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Sometimes I think that’s the only bit of Latin you men ever learn in your expensive education.
TREVES. My dear Camilla, you must allow for its being invariably quoted by one’s housemaster whenever he is slightly embarrassed.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Mary, I wish you wouldn’t sit on the arms of chairs—you know how much I dislike it.
MARY. (Rising.) Sorry, Camilla. (She sits in the easy chair down L. Treves rises guiltily and quickly, then sits above Royde on the chaise.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. Now where was I?
MARY. You were saying that Audrey married Nevile.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Oh, yes. Well, Audrey married Nevile and we were all delighted. Mortimer was particularly pleased, wasn’t he, Mathew?
TREVES. Yes, yes.
LADY TRESSILIAN. And they were very happy together until this creature Kay came along; how Nevile could leave Audrey for a girl like Kay I simply cannot imagine.
TREVES. I can—I’ve seen it happen so often.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Kay is quite the wrong wife for Nevile, no background.
TREVES. But a singularly attractive young woman.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Bad stock, her mother was notorious all over the Riviera.
ROYDE. What for?
LADY TRESSILIAN. Never you mind. What an upbringing for a girl. Kay made a dead set at Nevile from the moment they met, and never rested until she got him to leave Audrey and go off with her. I blame Kay entirely for the whole thing.
TREVES. (Rising and moving above the coffee table, fairly amused.) I’m sure you do. You’re very fond of Nevile.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Nevile’s a fool. Breaking up his marriage for a silly infatuation. It nearly broke poor Audrey’s heart. (To Royde.) She went to your mother at the Vicarage and practically had a nervous breakdown.
ROYDE. Er—yes—I know.
TREVES. When the divorce went through, Nevile married Kay.
LADY TRESSILIAN. If I had been true to my principles I should have refused to receive them here.
TREVES. If one sticks too rigidly to one’s principles one would hardly see anybody.
LADY TRESSILIAN. You’re very cynical, Mathew—but it’s quite true. I’ve accepted Kay as Nevile’s wife—though I shall never really like her. But I must say I was dumbfounded and very much upset, wasn’t I, Mary?
MARY. Yes, you were, Camilla.
LADY TRESSILIAN. When Nevile wrote asking if he could come home with Kay, under the pretext, if you please, that it would be nice if Audrey and Kay could be friends—(Scornfully.) friends—I said I couldn’t entertain such a suggestion for a moment and that it would be very painful for Audrey.
TREVES. (Putting his glass on the coffee table.) And what did he say to that?
LADY TRESSILIAN. He replied that he had already consulted Audrey and she thought it a good idea.
TREVES. And did Audrey think it a good idea?
LADY TRESSILIAN. Apparently, yes. (She tosses a knot of silk to Mary.) Unravel that.
MARY. Well, she said she did, quite firmly.
LADY TRESSILIAN. But Audrey is obviously embarrassed and unhappy. If you ask me, it’s just Nevile being like Henry the Eighth.
ROYDE. (Puzzled.) Henry the Eighth?
LADY TRESSILIAN. Conscience. Nevile feels guilty about Audrey and is trying to justify himself. (Mary rises, moves above the armchair L. C. and puts the silks in the work-basket.) Oh! I don’t understand any of this modern nonsense. (To Mary.) Do you? (Royde puts his glass on the coffee table.)
MARY. In a way.
LADY TRESSILIAN. And you, Thomas?
ROYDE. Understand Audrey—but I don’t understand Nevile. It’s not like Nevile.
TREVES. I agree. Not like Nevile at all, to go looking for trouble. (Mary transfers Royde’s and Treves’ glasses to the butler’s tray.)
MARY. Perhaps it was Audrey’s suggestion.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Oh, no. Nevile says it was entirely his idea.
MARY. Perhaps he thinks it was. (Treves looks sharply at Mary.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. What a fool the boy is, bringing two women together who are both in love with him. (Royde looks sharply at Lady Tressilian.) Audrey has behaved perfectly, but Nevile himself has paid far too much attention to her, and as a result Kay has become jealous, and as she has no kind of self-control, it is all most embarrassing—(To Treves.) isn’t it? (Treves, gazing towards the French windows, does not hear.) Mathew?
TREVES. There is undeniably a certain tension . . .
LADY TRESSILIAN. I’m glad you admit it. (There is a knock on the door L.) Who’s that?
MARY. (Moving to the door L.) Mrs. Barrett, I expect, wanting to know something.
LADY TRESSILIAN. (Irritably.) I wish you could teach these women that they only knock on bedroom doors. (Mary exits L.) The last so-called butler we had, actually whistled, Come into the garden, Maud, as he served at table. (Mary enters L.)
MARY. It’s only about the lunch, Camilla. I’ll see to it. (Mary exits L.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. I don’t know what I should do without Mary. She’s so self-effacing that I sometimes wonder whether she has a self of her own.
TREVES. I know. She’s been with you nearly two years now, but what’s her background?
LADY TRESSILIAN. Her father was a professor of some kind, I believe. He was an invalid and she nursed him for years. Poor Mary, she’s never had any life of her own. And now, perhaps, it’s too late. (She rises and puts her sewing in the work-box.)
TREVES. I wonder. (He strolls to the French windows.) They’re still playing tennis. (Royde rises, moves and stands behind Treves, gazing off R.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. Nevile and Kay?
TREVES. No, Kay and that friend of hers from the Easterhead Bay Hotel—young Latimer.
LADY TRESSILIAN. That theatrical-looking young man. (She moves to L. of the coffee table.) Just the sort of friend she would have.
TREVES. One wonders what he does for a living.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Lives by his wits, I imagine.
TREVES. (Moving slowly down R.) Or by his looks. A decorative young man. (Dreamily.) Interesting shaped head. The last man I saw with a head shaped like that was at the Central Criminal Court—a case of brutal assault on an elderly jeweller.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Mathew! Do you mean to tell me . . . ?
TREVES. (Perturbed.) No, no, no, you misunderstand me. I am making no suggestion of any kind. I was only commenting on a matter of anatomical structure.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Oh, I thought . . .
TREVES. What reminded me of that was that I met a very old friend of mine this morning, Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard. He’s staying down here on holiday with his nephew who’s in the local police.
LADY TRESSILIAN. You and your interest in criminology. The truth is I am thoroughly jumpy—I feel the whole time as though something was going to happen. (She moves on to the rostrum.)
TREVES. (Crossing and standing down R. of Lady Tressilian.) Yes, there is a suggestion of gunpowder in the air. One little spark might set off an explosion.
LADY TRESSILIAN. Must you talk as though you were Guy Fawkes? Say something cheerful.
TREVES. (Turning and smiling at her.) What can I say? “Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them—but not for love.”
LADY TRESSILIAN. And he calls that cheerful. I shall go out on the terrace for a little. (Treves crosses to the French windows and looks off. She moves up L. of the chaise. To Royde, confidentially.) Don’t make a fool of yourself a second time.
ROYDE. What do you mean?
LADY TRESSILIAN. You know quite well what I mean.
Last time, you let Nevile walk off with Audrey under your nose.
ROYDE. (Moving below the chaise.) Is it likely she’d have preferred me to Nevile?
LADY TRESSILIAN. (Moving above the chaise.) She might have—if you’d asked her. (Royde moves to L. of Lady Tressilian.) Are you going to ask her this time?
ROYDE. (With sudden force.) You bet your life I am. (Audrey enters by the French windows. She is very fair and has an Undine-like look. There is something strange about her air of repressed emotion. With Royde she is natural and happy.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. (As Audrey enters.) Thank God for that. (Audrey, with hands outstretched, crosses below Treves and Lady Tressilian to R. of Royde.)
AUDREY. Thomas—dear Thomas. (Royde takes Audrey’s hands. Lady Tressilian looks for a moment at Royde and Audrey.)
LADY TRESSILIAN. Mathew, your arm. (Treves assists Lady Tressilian, and exits with her by the French windows.)
AUDREY. (After a pause.) It’s lovely to see you.
ROYDE. (Shyly.) Good to see you.
AUDREY. (Crossing below Royde to L.) It’s years since you’ve been home. Don’t they give you any leave on rubber plantations?
ROYDE. I was coming home two years ago . . . (He breaks off awkwardly.)
AUDREY. Two years ago! And then you didn’t.
ROYDE. My dear, you know—there were reasons.
AUDREY. (Sitting in the armchair L. C.; with affection) Oh, Thomas—you look just the same as when we last met—pipe and all.
ROYDE. (Moving to L. of the coffee table, after a pause) Do I?
AUDREY. Oh, Thomas—I am so glad you’ve come back. Now, at last I can talk to someone. Thomas—there’s something wrong.
ROYDE. Wrong?
AUDREY. Something’s changed about this place. Ever since I arrived I’ve felt there was something not quite right. Don’t you feel there’s something different? No—how can you, you’ve only just come. The only person who doesn’t seem to feel it is Nevile.
ROYDE. Damn Nevile!
AUDREY. You don’t like him?
ROYDE. (With intensity.) I hate his guts—always have. (He quickly recovers himself.) Sorry.
AUDREY. I—didn’t know . . .
ROYDE. Lots of things one—doesn’t know—about people.
AUDREY. (Thoughtfully.) Yes—lots of things.
ROYDE. Gather there’s a spot of bother. What made you come here at the same time as Nevile and his new wife? Did you have to agree?