One-Act Plays Part 38

You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates poor people.

RICHARD [_viciously_]. d.a.m.n money!

VIOLA [_thoughtfully_]. I think that's what father means by spiritual instability.

RICHARD. Viola! [_He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes to him and_--] Oh, Lord, look out!

VIOLA [_reaching across to the mantelpiece_]. Matches?

RICHARD. Thanks very much. [_He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW comes in. CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed mustache and whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he undoubtedly is._]

CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?

RICHARD. Good-morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at breakfasts?

CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?

VIOLA [_making for the door_]. I don't know, father; do you want her?

CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her.

VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [_She goes out. RICHARD picks up "The Times" and sits down again._]

CRAWSHAW [_sitting down in a business-like way at his desk_]. Richard, why don't you get something to do?

RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.

CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--work in the House.

RICHARD [_a trifle cool_]. I have something to do.

CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a directorship or something in the City.

RICHARD. I hate the City.

CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke.

RICHARD [_dryly_]. Yes, so Viola was telling me.

CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing personal. [_Clearing his throat._] It is justly one of the proudest boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed to interfere with his private friendships.

RICHARD [_carelessly_]. Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.

_Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for twenty-five years, the last twenty-four years from habit. She is small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear._

MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all right.

RICHARD. Excellent, thank you.

MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?

CRAWSHAW [_obviously uncomfortable_].

Yes--er--h'r'm--Richard--er--what are your--er--plans?

RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?

MARGARET. Of course not. [_To ROBERT._] Are you, dear?

CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can leave Richard here with the paper.

RICHARD. No, no; I'm going.

CRAWSHAW [_going to the door with him_]. I have some particular business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to consult you in the matter afterwards.

RICHARD. Right. [_He goes out._ ]

CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for you.

MARGARET [_sitting down_]. Yes, Robert?

CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. [_He reads it._] "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of 50,000."

MARGARET. Robert!

CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery."

MARGARET. Robert!

CRAWSHAW. "I have the honor to be, your obedient servant, Denis Clifton." [_He folds the letter up and puts it away._]

MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the money?

CRAWSHAW [_calmly_]. I have not the slightest idea, Margaret.

Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis Clifton to come and see me.

MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy!

CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery!

MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so much more--more Cabinety.

CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street--I don't know what _that_ sounds like.

MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear. They can't really expect us to change our name to--Wurzley-Fothergill.

CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery.

MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk the solicitor round--this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't matter to _him_ what we call ourselves. Write him one of your letters, dear.