The Tyranny of Tears Part 20

[With much gravity.] Don't jest, old man, over so sacred a thing.

Parbury.

[After eyeing Gunning keenly for a moment.] You have changed your views since yesterday.

Gunning.

Only the unimaginative never change their views.

Parbury.

You think, then, I've been wrong?

Gunning.

Very!

Parbury.

I should have gone on putting up with the existing conditions?

Gunning.

They might have been worse.

Parbury.

Submitting to the old tyranny?

Gunning.

A wholesome discipline, believe me.

Parbury.

What of our spoilt yachting cruise?

Gunning.

I ought never to have proposed it. Think what a loving wife must suffer under the circ.u.mstances-lying awake at night listening to the wind howling in the chimneys and sobbing in the trees. It doesn't bear thinking of.

Parbury.

Quite so-quite so! And about our dear old friends whom I was obliged to drop. You may remember you made some very strong comments on my weakness yesterday.

Gunning.

I was hasty. I admit it.

Parbury.

Wybrow, for instance-an awful good chap.

Gunning.

A tavern wit-a Johnsonian spirit-eminently out of place on the domestic hearth.

Parbury.

Well, take Carson-one of the best.

Gunning.

Foolishly married a woman your wife couldn't get on with. You admitted it.

Parbury.

But Burleigh-a truly great spirit-your own words.

Gunning.

Burleigh? It isn't because a man gives you a watch that you need thrust him down your wife's throat, is it?

Parbury.

What an old fraud you are, George!

Gunning.

Not at all. One sees things more clearly in the morning.

Parbury.

Well, since you've resigned your att.i.tude of nonintervention, what do you advise?

Gunning.

Discreet surrender.

Parbury.

I'm to send for my wife?

Gunning.

Exactly.

Parbury.

Unconditionally?

Gunning.

Of course. Why impose conditions on a weak, loving, trusting woman? [Going to him.] d.a.m.n it all, old man, show a little heart.

Parbury.

You know it means the sacrifice of my secretary?

Gunning.

Well?

Parbury.

Well?

Gunning.

[A little embarra.s.sed; he drops his cigarette and places his foot on it.] It's obvious that Miss Woodward can't stay on here in your wife's absence.

Parbury.

I've thought of that.

Gunning.

You heard what Evans said. The servants are talking already-and if the servants are talking this morning the neighbours will be talking this afternoon, and the entire north-west of London by the evening.

Parbury.

Quite true-quite true!

Gunning.

I suppose you don't wish to compromise the girl?

Parbury.

Certainly not-certainly not! [He goes slowly over to Gunning, and looks him in the face, smiling.] And so that's your secret.

Gunning.

What do you mean?

Parbury.

All this solicitude for my happiness-this sudden change of your point of view-this miraculous conversion of the cynic into the peacemaker-all inspired by a pair of blue eyes. An arrow from Cupid's bow has winged its way into this wooden heart-[Tapping Gunning's chest]-and "Earth has won her child again," as Goethe puts it.

Gunning.

Don't talk rot!

Parbury.

Don't be offended. I like it. It pleases me. Think of it! One dull evening in a suburban home, one morning's encounter in a rose-garden, and the thing's done-the sage melts into the man, the onlooker into the soldier. I tell you I like it. It's so natural, so human-so splendidly unlike you. Let me help. What can I do? She's coming here now with some letters for me to sign. "Were it ever so airy a tread, your heart would hear her and beat." Isn't it so? Shall I speak to her for you? Better still, shall I leave you alone together?

Gunning.

[Fixing his hat on more firmly and taking his stick.] I'm going. You bore me.

Enter Miss Woodward, L. She carries some typewritten letters and pen and ink. She goes to the table and stands waiting for Parbury.

Parbury.

One moment, old man. [He looks in Gunning's face, then speaks in a lower voice.] Don't let it pa.s.s unrecorded. You have permitted yourself a blush.

Gunning.

[Trying to pa.s.s him.] Don't be an idiot.

Parbury.

[Restraining him.] It's a beautiful, touching truth. The philosopher-the man who has gained perspective-the student who sits perched on a lofty ledge and looks down pityingly on the rest of us, is actually blushing-blushing a poor, simple, human blush!

[Laughs loudly.

Gunning.

Go to the devil!

[Exit Gunning, R.

Parbury.

[Turning to Miss Woodward. He goes to her.] Forgive my laughter, Miss Woodward, but it isn't often one surprises a philosopher in a blush. Now, let us see! [He sits and takes the letters. Miss Woodward remains standing by him. He reads. Interrupting himself after a moment, he laughs slightly.] Dear old George! [He continues reading, then signs the letter. He looks over another and says "Excellent!" and signs it. Then he quickly signs the other letters, sits back in his chair, and says] Thank you! [Miss Woodward gathers up the letters.] I'm afraid that's all the work I can do to-day. I'd like to have gone on with the novel, but it seems the mood won't come.

Miss Woodward.

I'm very sorry.

Parbury.

The day is out of joint.

Miss Woodward.

I wish I could do something.