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SHEBA.
Oh, the presumption! Open the window and dare them to enter!
[_SALOME unfastens the window._
DARBEY.
[_Outside._] Thank you. Don't be shocked when you see Tarver.
_TARVER and DARBEY enter, dressed for the Races, but DARBEY is supporting TARVER, who looks extremely weakly._
TARVER.
Pardon this informal method of presenting ourselves.
SALOME.
You do well, gentlemen, to intrude upon two feeble women at a moment of sorrow.
SHEBA.
One step further, and I shall ask Major Tarver, who is nearest the bell, to ring for help.
[_TARVER sinks into a chair._
DARBEY.
[_Standing by the side of TARVER._] There now. The fact is. Miss Jedd, that Tarver is in an exceedingly critical condition. Feeling that he has incurred your displeasure he has failed even in the struggle to gain the race-course. I have taken him to Dr. Middleton and I explained that Major Tarver loved with a pa.s.sion [_looking at SHEBA_]
second only to my own.
SALOME.
[_Sitting comfortably on the settee._] Oh, we cannot listen to you, Mr. Darbey.
SHEBA.
Go on, sir, if you can.
[_The two girls exchange looks._
DARBEY.
The Doctor made a searching examination of the Major's tongue and diagnosed that, unless the Major at once proposed to the lady in question and was accepted, three weeks or a month at the seaside would be absolutely imperative. Shall I continue?
SALOME.
Oh, certainly. I am helpless.
SHEBA.
We are curious to see to what lengths you will go.
DARBEY.
The pitiable condition of my poor friend speaks for itself.
SALOME.
I beg your pardon--it does nothing of the kind.
TARVER.
[_Rising with difficulty and approaching SALOME._] Salome--I have loved you distractedly for upwards of eight weeks.
SALOME.
[_Going to him._] Oh, Major Tarver, let me pa.s.s; [_holding his coat firmly_] let me pa.s.s, I say.
TARVER.
Unless you push me, never!
SHEBA.
Spare me this scene, Mr. Darbey.
[_DARBEY follows SHEBA across the room._
TARVER.
To a man in my condition love is either a rapid and fatal malady, or it is an admirable digestive. Accept me, and my merry laugh once more rings through the Mess Room. Reject me, and my collection of vocal music, loose and in volumes, will be brought to the hammer, and the bird, as it were, will trill no more.
SALOME.
And is it really I who would hush the little throaty songster?
TARVER.
Certainly. [_Taking a sheet of paper from his pocket._] I have the Doctor's certificate to that effect.
[_Both reading the certificate they walk into Library._
SHEBA.
Oh, Mr. Darbey, I have never thought of marriage seriously.
DARBEY.
People never do till they _are_ married.
