epub:type="z3998:persona">Drummle inclines his head silently. There is something of a yachting cruise in the Mediterranean too, is there not? Drummle I joined Peter Jarman’s yacht at Marseilles, in the Spring, a month before he died. Aubrey Mrs. Jarman was on board? Drummle She was a kind hostess. Aubrey And an old acquaintance? Drummle Yes. Aubrey You have told your story. Drummle With your assistance. Aubrey I have put you to the pain of telling it to show you that this is not the case of a blind man entrapped by an artful woman. Let me add that Mrs. Jarman has no legal right to that name, that she is simply Miss Ray⁠—Miss Paula Ray. Drummle After a pause. I should like to express my regret, Aubrey, for the way in which I spoke of George Orreyed’s marriage. Aubrey You mean you compare Lady Orreyed with Miss Ray? Drummle is silent. Oh, of course! To you, Cayley, all women who have been roughly treated, and who dare to survive by borrowing a little of our philosophy, are alike. You see in the crowd of the ill-used only one pattern; you can’t detect the shades of goodness, intelligence, even nobility there. Well, how should you? The crowd is dimly lighted! And, besides, yours is the way of the world. Drummle My dear Aubrey, I live in the world. Aubrey The name we give our little parish of St. James’s. Drummle Laying a hand on Aubrey’s shoulder. And you are quite prepared, my friend, to forfeit the esteem of your little parish? Aubrey I avoid mortification by shifting from one parish to another. I give up Pall Mall for the Surrey hills; leave off varnishing my boots and double the thickness of the soles. Drummle And your skin⁠—do you double the thickness of that also? Aubrey I know you think me a fool, Cayley⁠—you needn’t infer that I’m a coward into the bargain. No! I know what I’m doing, and I do it deliberately, defiantly. I’m alone; I injure no living soul by the step I’m going to take; and so you can’t urge the one argument which might restrain me. Of course, I don’t expect you to think compassionately, fairly even, of the woman whom I⁠—whom I am drawn to⁠— Drummle My dear Aubrey, I assure you I consider Mrs.⁠—Miss Jarman⁠— Mrs. Ray⁠—Miss Ray⁠—delightful. But I confess there is a form of chivalry which I gravely distrust, especially in a man of⁠—our age. Aubrey Thanks. I’ve heard you say that from forty till fifty a man is at heart either a stoic or a satyr. Drummle Protestingly. Ah! now⁠— Aubrey I am neither. I have a temperate, honourable affection for Mrs. Jarman. She has never met a man who has treated her well⁠—I intend to treat her well. That’s all. And in a few years, Cayley, if you’ve not quite forsaken me, I’ll prove to you that it’s possible to rear a life of happiness, of good repute, on a⁠—miserable foundation. Drummle Offering his hand. Do prove it! Aubrey Taking his hand. We have spoken too freely of⁠—of Mrs. Jarman. I was excited⁠—angry. Please forget it! Drummle My dear Aubrey, when we next meet I shall remember nothing but my respect for the lady who bears your name. Morse enters, closing the door behind him carefully. Aubrey What is it? Morse Hesitatingly. May I speak to you, Sir? In an undertone. Mrs. Jarman, sir. Aubrey Softly to Morse. Mrs. Jarman! Do you mean she is at the lodge in her carriage? Morse No, sir⁠—here. Aubrey looks towards Drummle, perplexed. There’s a nice fire in your⁠—in that room, sir. Glancing in the direction of the door leading to the bedroom. Aubrey Between his teeth, angrily. Very well. Morse retires. Drummle Looking at his watch. A quarter to eleven⁠—horrible! Taking up his hat and coat. Must get to bed⁠—up late every night this week. Aubrey assists Drummle with his coat. Thank you. Well, good night, Aubrey. I feel I’ve been dooced serious, quite out of keeping with myself; pray overlook it. Aubrey Kindly. Ah, Cayley! Drummle Putting on a neck-handkerchief. And remember that, after all, I’m merely a spectator in life; nothing more than a man at a play, in fact; only, like the old-fashioned playgoer, I love to see certain characters happy and comfortable at the finish. You understand? Aubrey I think I do. Drummle Then, for as long as you can, old friend, will you⁠—keep a stall for me? Aubrey Yes, Cayley. Drummle Gaily. Ah, ha! Good night! Bustling to the door. Don’t bother! I’ll let myself out! Good night! God bless yer! He goes out; Aubrey follows him. Morse enters by the other door, carrying some unopened letters which after a little consideration he places on the mantelpiece against the clock. Aubrey returns. Aubrey Yes? Morse You hadn’t seen your letters that came by the nine o’clock post, sir; I’ve put ’em where they’ll catch your eye by-and-by. Aubrey Thank you. Morse Hesitatingly. Gunter’s cook and waiter have gone, sir. Would you prefer me to go to bed? Aubrey Frowning. Certainly not. Morse Very well, sir. He goes out. Aubrey Opening the upper door. Paula! Paula! Paula enters and throws her arms round his neck. She is a young woman of about twenty-seven: beautiful, fresh, innocent-looking. She is in superb evening dress. Paula Dearest! Aubrey Why have you come here? Paula Angry? Aubrey Yes⁠—no. But it’s eleven o’clock. Paula Laughing. I know. Aubrey What on earth will Morse think? Paula Do you trouble yourself about what servants think? Aubrey Of course. Paula Goose! They’re only machines made to wait upon people⁠—and to give evidence in the Divorce Court. Looking round. Oh, indeed! A snug little dinner! Aubrey Three men. Paula Suspiciously. Men? Aubrey Men. Paula Penitently. Ah! Sitting at the table. I’m so hungry. Aubrey Let me get you some game pie, or some⁠— Paula No, no, hungry for this. What beautiful fruit! I love fruit when it’s expensive. He clears a space on the table, places a plate before her, and helps her to fruit. I haven’t dined, Aubrey dear. Aubrey My poor girl! Why? Paula In