The Tyranny of Tears Part 4

[Almost defiantly.] The day we returned from our honeymoon.

[Slightly awkward pause.

Gunning.

[Musingly.] About five years and six weeks ago.

Parbury.

Of course, I see a lot of him at the Clubs. That is to say, I used to when I was still a Club man.

Gunning.

Which now you are not?

Parbury.

Which now I am not! What does a man want with a Club when he has a home of his own?

Gunning.

Excellent sentiment; but neither the sentiment nor the words are your own, Clement. [Their eyes meet and they burst into laughter.] I know, I know; "and what does a man want with men friends when he has a wife of his own," and "the husband's old friends are the wife's worst enemies," and "what I say about Clubs is, down with them!"

[Laughs, sits on sofa, L.C.

Parbury.

[Suddenly serious.] What the devil are you laughing at, George? You don't presume-- Gunning.

I-why, of course not, my dear chap. Only now you see how wise I was not to intrude after your marriage, not to wait for my cong as the other poor boys did! I knew something.

Parbury.

You always did, you brute! I believe you were born knowing something. [Leans on back of sofa.] But seriously [lowers his voice], George, I a.s.sure you she's the best little woman in the world!

Gunning.

Why, of course; it would be impious to suggest otherwise.

[Exit Miss Woodward.

[His eyes follow her off.] A perfect wife, and a charming secretary! You're a lucky fellow, Clement!

Parbury.

Is Miss Woodward charming? On my word, I hadn't noticed it, but I'm in love with my wife, you see.

Gunning.

Of course you would be the last to discover that your secretary was personally pleasing.

Parbury.

You're a sinister scoundrel, George, and coa.r.s.e to a fault. Now, tell me what you've been doing all these years-shedding your illusions apparently.

Gunning.

I've had none to lose since I grew up. I got rid of mine about the time of measles and whooping-cough.

Parbury.

It's a pity.

Gunning.

Not at all. One can't attain the proper philosophical att.i.tude towards life while one nourishes illusions; one can never gain perspective.

Parbury.

Great man! How beautifully you talk! I suppose you have quite a nice thing in perspectives about with you now.

Gunning.

Pretty well.

Parbury.

So much for the journey of the soul. What of the body? Where have you been?

Gunning.

Round the world twice since I saw you.

Parbury.

What did you see on the other side?

Gunning.

Just what one sees on this side; there is always a man-and a woman.

Parbury.

I know you were adventuring in Upper India last year, for the papers were full of a rather fine thing you did-saved a lot of miserable lives-an ordinary, manly, commonplace, heroic, English sort of thing.

Gunning.

Oh, don't mention that; one was carried away by impulse.

Parbury.

And so we keep our impulses even when we lose our illusions; I'm glad of that anyway. [Then he comes behind Gunning's chair, takes him by the shoulder, and shakes him.] Old fool! I can't help liking you as much as ever!

Gunning.

[Looking up with genuine pleasure.] Really?

Parbury.

Honestly!

Gunning.

[Rises, puts his hands on Parbury's shoulders.] Well, I'm glad, because I've often been weak enough to regret not seeing you. As for your literary successes, I suppose I ought to congratulate you; but I always knew you'd be a great man, because you never bored me.

Parbury.

[Drily.] Thanks so much. Now tell me how you found me.

Gunning.

By means of the ill.u.s.trated press-interview with Mr. Clement Parbury-copyright. The author of the "Overthrow of Harvey something" at his pretty retreat at Hampstead-copyright. Snapshot of Mr. Parbury at work-copyright. View of the study from the garden-view of the garden from the study-copyright.

Parbury.

Shut up! You make me blush.

Gunning.

Forgive me-it's only envy. It's the envious people who call this a vulgar age, I suppose.

Enter Servant, L., places occasional table for tea in front of sofa, L.C., and exits L.

Parbury.

Now you are to see my wife. How do you imagine her? Large, I suppose, with huge hands and feet and a beetling brow?

Gunning.

I'm content to wait.

Re-enter Servant, L., with tea service.

Parbury.

When you have had tea, you will go away to dress. You will return here to dinner at eight.

Gunning.

I think not.

Parbury.

One moment. You will probably meet only my wife's father, Colonel Armitage, and your dinner will be a fairly plain one, but I promise that your palate will not be outraged.

Gunning.

I really think not, old man. I remember the fate of old Burleigh. And I never even gave you a watch.

Parbury.

George, you hurt me. [Slight pause.] Then you refuse?

Gunning.

I make conditions.

Parbury.

What are they?

Gunning.

That you come yachting with me from to-morrow till the end of the week. I've hired a charming little twenty-tonner, one after your own heart-that is, if your heart or my memory hasn't entirely changed.

Parbury.

[Enthusiastic.] Splendid! There's nothing I should like so much; and I've no special work on hand just now.

Gunning.

Then it's agreed?

Parbury.

Certainly!

Gunning.

Good; we'll drink of the Cuve 36, brush up our swearing vocabulary, and I'll teach you to gain perspective!

Parbury.

[His face suddenly falling.] Oh, the deuce!

Gunning.

What's the matter? What are you afraid of?