This is a modern-English version of How He Lied to Her Husband, originally written by Shaw, Bernard. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND

By George Bernard Shaw

PREFACE

PREFACE

Like many other works of mine, this playlet is a piece d'occasion. In 1905 it happened that Mr Arnold Daly, who was then playing the part of Napoleon in The Man of Destiny in New York, found that whilst the play was too long to take a secondary place in the evening's performance, it was too short to suffice by itself. I therefore took advantage of four days continuous rain during a holiday in the north of Scotland to write How He Lied To Her Husband for Mr Daly. In his hands, it served its turn very effectively.

Like many of my other works, this short play was created for a specific occasion. In 1905, Mr. Arnold Daly, who was playing Napoleon in The Man of Destiny in New York, realized that while the play was too lengthy to be an additional part of the evening's lineup, it was too brief to stand on its own. So, during a four-day stretch of continuous rain while on vacation in the north of Scotland, I took the opportunity to write How He Lied To Her Husband for Mr. Daly. He used it very effectively in his performance.

I print it here as a sample of what can be done with even the most hackneyed stage framework by filling it in with an observed touch of actual humanity instead of with doctrinaire romanticism. Nothing in the theatre is staler than the situation of husband, wife and lover, or the fun of knockabout farce. I have taken both, and got an original play out of them, as anybody else can if only he will look about him for his material instead of plagiarizing Othello and the thousand plays that have proceeded on Othello's romantic assumptions and false point of honor.

I’m sharing this as an example of what you can achieve with even the most overused stage setups by adding a real touch of humanity instead of sticking to outdated romantic ideas. Nothing in theater is more clichéd than the classic scenario of a husband, wife, and lover, or the antics of slapstick comedy. I've taken both concepts and created an original play from them, just like anyone else can if they take the time to observe the world around them for inspiration instead of copying Othello and the countless plays that have followed its romantic themes and misguided sense of honor.

A further experiment made by Mr Arnold Daly with this play is worth recording. In 1905 Mr Daly produced Mrs Warren's Profession in New York. The press of that city instantly raised a cry that such persons as Mrs Warren are "ordure," and should not be mentioned in the presence of decent people. This hideous repudiation of humanity and social conscience so took possession of the New York journalists that the few among them who kept their feet morally and intellectually could do nothing to check the epidemic of foul language, gross suggestion, and raving obscenity of word and thought that broke out. The writers abandoned all self-restraint under the impression that they were upholding virtue instead of outraging it. They infected each other with their hysteria until they were for all practical purposes indecently mad. They finally forced the police to arrest Mr Daly and his company, and led the magistrate to express his loathing of the duty thus forced upon him of reading an unmentionable and abominable play. Of course the convulsion soon exhausted itself. The magistrate, naturally somewhat impatient when he found that what he had to read was a strenuously ethical play forming part of a book which had been in circulation unchallenged for eight years, and had been received without protest by the whole London and New York press, gave the journalists a piece of his mind as to their moral taste in plays. By consent, he passed the case on to a higher court, which declared that the play was not immoral; acquitted Mr Daly; and made an end of the attempt to use the law to declare living women to be "ordure," and thus enforce silence as to the far-reaching fact that you cannot cheapen women in the market for industrial purposes without cheapening them for other purposes as well. I hope Mrs Warren's Profession will be played everywhere, in season and out of season, until Mrs Warren has bitten that fact into the public conscience, and shamed the newspapers which support a tariff to keep up the price of every American commodity except American manhood and womanhood.

A further experiment by Mr. Arnold Daly with this play is worth noting. In 1905, Mr. Daly produced *Mrs. Warren's Profession* in New York. The press in that city immediately cried out that people like Mrs. Warren are "filth" and shouldn't be mentioned in front of decent folks. This ugly rejection of humanity and social conscience took such hold of the New York journalists that the few among them who maintained their moral and intellectual standards couldn’t stop the widespread wave of crude language, explicit suggestions, and outrageous obscenity that erupted. The writers lost all self-control, believing they were defending virtue instead of violating it. They fueled each other’s hysteria until they became practically indecently mad. Ultimately, they pressured the police to arrest Mr. Daly and his cast, prompting the magistrate to express his disgust at the duty imposed on him to read an unmentionable and despicable play. Naturally, the uproar soon fizzled out. The magistrate, understandably a bit impatient when he realized that what he had to read was a deeply ethical play that had been freely circulating for eight years without challenge and had been accepted without protest by the entire London and New York press, gave the journalists a piece of his mind regarding their moral taste in plays. By agreement, he referred the case to a higher court, which declared the play wasn’t immoral; acquitted Mr. Daly; and put an end to the attempt to use the law to label living women as "filth," thus enforcing silence on the critical reality that you can't devalue women for industrial reasons without devaluing them for other reasons, too. I hope *Mrs. Warren's Profession* is performed everywhere, in season and out, until Mrs. Warren has instilled that truth into the public consciousness and shamed the newspapers that support a system to inflate the price of every American commodity except American manhood and womanhood.

Unfortunately, Mr Daly had already suffered the usual fate of those who direct public attention to the profits of the sweater or the pleasures of the voluptuary. He was morally lynched side by side with me. Months elapsed before the decision of the courts vindicated him; and even then, since his vindication implied the condemnation of the press, which was by that time sober again, and ashamed of its orgy, his triumph received a rather sulky and grudging publicity. In the meantime he had hardly been able to approach an American city, including even those cities which had heaped applause on him as the defender of hearth and home when he produced Candida, without having to face articles discussing whether mothers could allow their daughters to attend such plays as You Never Can Tell, written by the infamous author of Mrs Warren's Profession, and acted by the monster who produced it. What made this harder to bear was that though no fact is better established in theatrical business than the financial disastrousness of moral discredit, the journalists who had done all the mischief kept paying vice the homage of assuming that it is enormously popular and lucrative, and that I and Mr Daly, being exploiters of vice, must therefore be making colossal fortunes out of the abuse heaped on us, and had in fact provoked it and welcomed it with that express object. Ignorance of real life could hardly go further.

Unfortunately, Mr. Daly had already faced the usual consequences of drawing public attention to the profits of the sweater or the pleasures of the hedonist. He was morally lynched alongside me. Months went by before the courts cleared his name; and even then, since his vindication also meant condemning the press, which had by then sobered up and felt ashamed of its frenzy, his victory received rather resentful and reluctant coverage. In the meantime, he could hardly step into an American city, even those that had previously celebrated him as a defender of family values when he produced *Candida,* without facing articles questioning whether mothers could allow their daughters to see plays like *You Never Can Tell,* written by the notorious author of *Mrs. Warren's Profession,* and performed by the monster who produced it. What made this even harder to accept was that, while no fact is clearer in the theater business than that moral discredit is financially disastrous, the journalists who caused all the trouble kept giving vice the false honor of assuming it's incredibly popular and profitable, leading them to think that Mr. Daly and I, being exploiters of vice, must be making massive fortunes from the criticism directed at us, and that we had actually provoked and welcomed it for that very purpose. Ignorance of real life couldn't go any further.

One consequence was that Mr Daly could not have kept his financial engagements or maintained his hold on the public had he not accepted engagements to appear for a season in the vaudeville theatres [the American equivalent of our music halls], where he played How He Lied to Her Husband comparatively unhampered by the press censorship of the theatre, or by that sophistication of the audience through press suggestion from which I suffer more, perhaps, than any other author. Vaudeville authors are fortunately unknown: the audiences see what the play contains and what the actor can do, not what the papers have told them to expect. Success under such circumstances had a value both for Mr Daly and myself which did something to console us for the very unsavory mobbing which the New York press organized for us, and which was not the less disgusting because we suffered in a good cause and in the very best company.

One consequence was that Mr. Daly couldn’t have met his financial commitments or kept his connection with the public if he hadn’t accepted offers to perform for a season in the vaudeville theaters [the American equivalent of our music halls], where he acted in How He Lied to Her Husband with relatively few restrictions from press censorship or the audience's preconceived notions shaped by media, which, perhaps more than any other author, I experience severely. Vaudeville writers are fortunately not well-known: the audiences focus on the content of the play and the actor’s performance, rather than what the newspapers have led them to expect. Achieving success under these conditions brought value to both Mr. Daly and me, which somewhat consoled us for the rather unpleasant harassment organized by the New York press against us, and it was no less revolting because we endured it for a good cause and in excellent company.

Mr Daly, having weathered the storm, can perhaps shake his soul free of it as he heads for fresh successes with younger authors. But I have certain sensitive places in my soul: I do not like that word "ordure." Apply it to my work, and I can afford to smile, since the world, on the whole, will smile with me. But to apply it to the woman in the street, whose spirit is of one substance with our own and her body no less holy: to look your women folk in the face afterwards and not go out and hang yourself: that is not on the list of pardonable sins.

Mr. Daly, having survived the tough times, can maybe free himself from it as he moves toward new successes with younger authors. But I have some sensitive spots in my soul: I really dislike the word "ordure." If you apply it to my work, I can just smile, because the world, for the most part, will smile along with me. But to apply it to the woman on the street, whose spirit is connected to ours and whose body is no less sacred: to look your women in the eye afterwards and not feel like going out and hanging yourself: that is definitely not something that can be easily forgiven.

POSTSCRIPT. Since the above was written news has arrived from America that a leading New York newspaper, which was among the most abusively clamorous for the suppression of Mrs Warren's Profession, has just been fined heavily for deriving part of its revenue from advertisements of Mrs Warren's houses.

POSTSCRIPT. Since the above was written, news has come from America that a major New York newspaper, which was one of the most vocal advocates for the suppression of Mrs. Warren's Profession, has just been heavily fined for making part of its revenue from ads for Mrs. Warren's houses.

Many people have been puzzled by the fact that whilst stage entertainments which are frankly meant to act on the spectators as aphrodisiacs, are everywhere tolerated, plays which have an almost horrifyingly contrary effect are fiercely attacked by persons and papers notoriously indifferent to public morals on all other occasions. The explanation is very simple. The profits of Mrs Warren's profession are shared not only by Mrs Warren and Sir George Crofts, but by the landlords of their houses, the newspapers which advertize them, the restaurants which cater for them, and, in short, all the trades to which they are good customers, not to mention the public officials and representatives whom they silence by complicity, corruption, or blackmail. Add to these the employers who profit by cheap female labor, and the shareholders whose dividends depend on it [you find such people everywhere, even on the judicial bench and in the highest places in Church and State], and you get a large and powerful class with a strong pecuniary incentive to protect Mrs Warren's profession, and a correspondingly strong incentive to conceal, from their own consciences no less than from the world, the real sources of their gain. These are the people who declare that it is feminine vice and not poverty that drives women to the streets, as if vicious women with independent incomes ever went there. These are the people who, indulgent or indifferent to aphrodisiac plays, raise the moral hue and cry against performances of Mrs Warren's Profession, and drag actresses to the police court to be insulted, bullied, and threatened for fulfilling their engagements. For please observe that the judicial decision in New York State in favor of the play does not end the matter. In Kansas City, for instance, the municipality, finding itself restrained by the courts from preventing the performance, fell back on a local bye-law against indecency to evade the Constitution of the United States. They summoned the actress who impersonated Mrs Warren to the police court, and offered her and her colleagues the alternative of leaving the city or being prosecuted under this bye-law.

Many people are confused by the fact that while stage shows explicitly designed to arouse the audience are widely accepted, plays that have a shockingly opposite effect are harshly criticized by individuals and publications that usually don’t care about public morals. The explanation is quite simple. The profits from Mrs. Warren's profession are not just shared between her and Sir George Crofts but also with the landlords of their venues, the newspapers that advertise them, the restaurants that serve them, and, essentially, all the businesses that benefit from them—not to mention the public officials and representatives who are silenced through complicity, corruption, or blackmail. Add to this mix the employers who take advantage of cheap female labor and the shareholders whose dividends rely on it [you can find such people everywhere, even on the judicial bench and in the highest levels of Church and State], and you have a large and influential group with a strong financial motivation to protect Mrs. Warren's profession, as well as a strong incentive to hide, from both their own consciences and the public, the actual sources of their income. These are the individuals who claim that it is women's vice, not poverty, that drives them to the streets, as if immoral women with enough money ever actually went there. These are the same people who, while being lenient or indifferent to sensual plays, raise a moral outcry against performances of Mrs. Warren's Profession and drag actresses into court to be insulted, bullied, and threatened for simply doing their jobs. Note that the court ruling in New York State in favor of the play does not resolve the issue. In Kansas City, for example, the city government, finding that the courts were preventing them from stopping the performance, turned to a local law against indecency to bypass the Constitution of the United States. They summoned the actress who played Mrs. Warren to court and gave her and her colleagues the choice of leaving the city or facing prosecution under this law.

Now nothing is more possible than that the city councillors who suddenly displayed such concern for the morals of the theatre were either Mrs Warren's landlords, or employers of women at starvation wages, or restaurant keepers, or newspaper proprietors, or in some other more or less direct way sharers of the profits of her trade. No doubt it is equally possible that they were simply stupid men who thought that indecency consists, not in evil, but in mentioning it. I have, however, been myself a member of a municipal council, and have not found municipal councillors quite so simple and inexperienced as this. At all events I do not propose to give the Kansas councillors the benefit of the doubt. I therefore advise the public at large, which will finally decide the matter, to keep a vigilant eye on gentlemen who will stand anything at the theatre except a performance of Mrs Warren's Profession, and who assert in the same breath that [a] the play is too loathsome to be bearable by civilized people, and [b] that unless its performance is prohibited the whole town will throng to see it. They may be merely excited and foolish; but I am bound to warn the public that it is equally likely that they may be collected and knavish.

Now, it’s entirely possible that the city council members who suddenly showed such concern for the morality of the theater were either Mrs. Warren's landlords, employers of women earning barely enough to survive, restaurant owners, newspaper publishers, or in some other direct or indirect way, benefiting from her business. It’s also likely that they were just foolish men who believe indecency lies not in wrongdoing itself but in mentioning it. However, I’ve been part of a municipal council and haven’t found council members to be as naive and inexperienced as that suggests. In any case, I won’t give the Kansas councillors the benefit of the doubt. I advise the general public, which will ultimately decide this issue, to keep a close watch on those gentlemen who can tolerate anything at the theater except for a showing of Mrs. Warren’s Profession, and who claim in the same breath that [a] the play is too disgusting for civilized people to endure, and [b] that if its performance isn’t banned, the entire town will rush to see it. They might just be caught up in excitement and acting foolishly; but I feel compelled to warn the public that it’s just as likely they might be scheming and dishonest.

At all events, to prohibit the play is to protect the evil which the play exposes; and in view of that fact, I see no reason for assuming that the prohibitionists are disinterested moralists, and that the author, the managers, and the performers, who depend for their livelihood on their personal reputations and not on rents, advertisements, or dividends, are grossly inferior to them in moral sense and public responsibility.

At any rate, banning the play only protects the wrongdoings that the play reveals; and given that, I see no reason to believe that those who want to prohibit it are unbiased moralists, or that the author, the producers, and the actors, who rely on their personal reputations instead of rents, ads, or profits, are somehow morally less responsible than they are.

It is true that in Mrs Warren's Profession, Society, and not any individual, is the villain of the piece; but it does not follow that the people who take offence at it are all champions of society. Their credentials cannot be too carefully examined.

It’s true that in Mrs. Warren's Profession, society, and not any one person, is the villain of the story; however, that doesn’t mean that everyone who is offended by it is a supporter of society. Their credentials should be scrutinized closely.

HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND

It is eight o'clock in the evening. The curtains are drawn and the lamps lighted in the drawing room of Her flat in Cromwell Road. Her lover, a beautiful youth of eighteen, in evening dress and cape, with a bunch of flowers and an opera hat in his hands, comes in alone. The door is near the corner; and as he appears in the doorway, he has the fireplace on the nearest wall to his right, and the grand piano along the opposite wall to his left. Near the fireplace a small ornamental table has on it a hand mirror, a fan, a pair of long white gloves, and a little white woollen cloud to wrap a woman's head in. On the other side of the room, near the piano, is a broad, square, softly up-holstered stool. The room is furnished in the most approved South Kensington fashion: that is, it is as like a show room as possible, and is intended to demonstrate the racial position and spending powers of its owners, and not in the least to make them comfortable.

It’s eight o’clock in the evening. The curtains are closed, and the lamps are on in the drawing room of her flat on Cromwell Road. Her boyfriend, a handsome eighteen-year-old in evening wear and a cape, holding a bunch of flowers and an opera hat, enters alone. The door is near the corner, and as he steps into the room, the fireplace is on the nearest wall to his right, and the grand piano is along the opposite wall to his left. Near the fireplace, there’s a small decorative table with a hand mirror, a fan, a pair of long white gloves, and a little white woolen wrap for a woman’s head. On the other side of the room, close to the piano, there’s a wide, square, softly upholstered stool. The room is furnished in the latest South Kensington style: it looks like a showroom and is designed to showcase the social status and wealth of its owners, rather than to provide comfort.

He is, be it repeated, a very beautiful youth, moving as in a dream, walking as on air. He puts his flowers down carefully on the table beside the fan; takes off his cape, and, as there is no room on the table for it, takes it to the piano; puts his hat on the cape; crosses to the hearth; looks at his watch; puts it up again; notices the things on the table; lights up as if he saw heaven opening before him; goes to the table and takes the cloud in both hands, nestling his nose into its softness and kissing it; kisses the gloves one after another; kisses the fan: gasps a long shuddering sigh of ecstasy; sits down on the stool and presses his hands to his eyes to shut out reality and dream a little; takes his hands down and shakes his head with a little smile of rebuke for his folly; catches sight of a speck of dust on his shoes and hastily and carefully brushes it off with his handkerchief; rises and takes the hand mirror from the table to make sure of his tie with the gravest anxiety; and is looking at his watch again when She comes in, much flustered. As she is dressed for the theatre; has spoilt, petted ways; and wears many diamonds, she has an air of being a young and beautiful woman; but as a matter of hard fact, she is, dress and pretensions apart, a very ordinary South Kensington female of about 37, hopelessly inferior in physical and spiritual distinction to the beautiful youth, who hastily puts down the mirror as she enters.

He is, as we’ve said before, a very handsome young man, moving like he's in a dream, walking as if he's floating. He carefully sets his flowers on the table next to the fan, takes off his cape, and since there's no room on the table for it, he puts it on the piano; places his hat on top of the cape; crosses over to the fireplace; checks his watch; puts it back up; notices the items on the table; lights up as if he's seeing heaven open up; approaches the table and picks up the cloud, cradling it in both hands, burying his nose in its softness and kissing it; kisses the gloves one by one; kisses the fan: lets out a long, shuddering sigh of ecstasy; sits down on the stool and presses his hands to his eyes to block out reality and dream for a moment; lowers his hands and shakes his head with a small smile as if to scold himself for being foolish; spots a speck of dust on his shoes and quickly brushes it off with his handkerchief; stands up and grabs the hand mirror from the table to check his tie with serious concern; and is glancing at his watch again when she enters, looking quite flustered. Since she's dressed for the theater, has spoiled, pampered ways, and is decked out in diamonds, she gives off an air of being a young and beautiful woman; but in reality, aside from her appearance and pretensions, she's just a pretty average woman from South Kensington in her late thirties, hopelessly lacking the physical and spiritual qualities of the handsome young man, who quickly sets aside the mirror when she walks in.

HE [kissing her hand] At last!

HE [kissing her hand] Finally!

SHE. Henry: something dreadful has happened.

SHE. Henry: something terrible has happened.

HE. What's the matter?

HE. What's wrong?

SHE. I have lost your poems.

SHE. I lost your poems.

HE. They were unworthy of you. I will write you some more.

HE. They didn't deserve you. I'll write you some more.

SHE. No, thank you. Never any more poems for me. Oh, how could I have been so mad! so rash! so imprudent!

SHE. No, thanks. No more poems for me. Oh, how could I have been so crazy! So reckless! So thoughtless!

HE. Thank Heaven for your madness, your rashness, your imprudence!

HE. Thank goodness for your madness, your recklessness, your lack of caution!

SHE [impatiently] Oh, be sensible, Henry. Can't you see what a terrible thing this is for me? Suppose anybody finds these poems! what will they think?

SHE [impatiently] Oh, come on, Henry. Can't you see how awful this is for me? What if someone finds these poems? What will they think?

HE. They will think that a man once loved a woman more devotedly than ever man loved woman before. But they will not know what man it was.

HE. They will believe that a man once loved a woman more deeply than any man has ever loved a woman before. But they won't know who that man was.

SHE. What good is that to me if everybody will know what woman it was?

SHE. What’s the point if everyone will know who the woman was?

HE. But how will they know?

HE. But how will they find out?

SHE. How will they know! Why, my name is all over them: my silly, unhappy name. Oh, if I had only been christened Mary Jane, or Gladys Muriel, or Beatrice, or Francesca, or Guinevere, or something quite common! But Aurora! Aurora! I'm the only Aurora in London; and everybody knows it. I believe I'm the only Aurora in the world. And it's so horribly easy to rhyme to it! Oh, Henry, why didn't you try to restrain your feelings a little in common consideration for me? Why didn't you write with some little reserve?

SHE. How will they know! My name is all over them: my silly, unhappy name. Oh, if only I had been named Mary Jane, or Gladys Muriel, or Beatrice, or Francesca, or Guinevere, or something totally common! But Aurora! Aurora! I'm the only Aurora in London; and everyone knows it. I think I’m the only Aurora in the world. And it’s so ridiculously easy to rhyme with! Oh, Henry, why couldn't you hold back your feelings a bit out of consideration for me? Why didn’t you write with some restraint?

HE. Write poems to you with reserve! You ask me that!

HE. Write poems to you with restraint? You ask me that!

SHE [with perfunctory tenderness] Yes, dear, of course it was very nice of you; and I know it was my own fault as much as yours. I ought to have noticed that your verses ought never to have been addressed to a married woman.

SHE [with a casual tenderness] Yes, dear, of course it was really sweet of you; and I know it was just as much my fault as yours. I should have realized that your poems shouldn't have been directed to a married woman.

HE. Ah, how I wish they had been addressed to an unmarried woman! how I wish they had!

HE. Ah, how I wish they had been sent to a single woman! How I wish they had!

SHE. Indeed you have no right to wish anything of the sort. They are quite unfit for anybody but a married woman. That's just the difficulty. What will my sisters-in-law think of them?

SHE. You really have no right to wish for anything like that. They are completely unsuitable for anyone except a married woman. That's the issue. What will my sisters-in-law think of them?

HE [painfully jarred] Have you got sisters-in-law?

HE [painfully jarred] Do you have sisters-in-law?

SHE. Yes, of course I have. Do you suppose I am an angel?

SHE. Yes, of course I have. Do you think I'm an angel?

HE [biting his lips] I do. Heaven help me, I do—or I did—or [he almost chokes a sob].

HE [biting his lips] I do. God help me, I do—or I did—or [he almost chokes on a sob].

SHE [softening and putting her hand caressingly on his shoulder] Listen to me, dear. It's very nice of you to live with me in a dream, and to love me, and so on; but I can't help my husband having disagreeable relatives, can I?

SHE [softening and placing her hand gently on his shoulder] Listen to me, dear. It's really sweet of you to share this dream with me and to love me, but I can't do anything about my husband's unpleasant relatives, can I?

HE [brightening up] Ah, of course they are your husband's relatives: I forgot that. Forgive me, Aurora. [He takes her hand from his shoulder and kisses it. She sits down on the stool. He remains near the table, with his back to it, smiling fatuously down at her].

HE [brightening up] Ah, of course they’re your husband’s relatives: I forgot about that. Sorry, Aurora. [He takes her hand from his shoulder and kisses it. She sits down on the stool. He stands near the table, with his back to it, smiling foolishly down at her].

SHE. The fact is, Teddy's got nothing but relatives. He has eight sisters and six half-sisters, and ever so many brothers—but I don't mind his brothers. Now if you only knew the least little thing about the world, Henry, you'd know that in a large family, though the sisters quarrel with one another like mad all the time, yet let one of the brothers marry, and they all turn on their unfortunate sister-in-law and devote the rest of their lives with perfect unanimity to persuading him that his wife is unworthy of him. They can do it to her very face without her knowing it, because there are always a lot of stupid low family jokes that nobody understands but themselves. Half the time you can't tell what they're talking about: it just drives you wild. There ought to be a law against a man's sister ever entering his house after he's married. I'm as certain as that I'm sitting here that Georgina stole those poems out of my workbox.

SHE. The truth is, Teddy only has relatives. He has eight sisters and six half-sisters, plus a bunch of brothers—but I don’t mind his brothers. If you knew even a tiny bit about the world, Henry, you’d realize that in a big family, even though the sisters argue with each other constantly, if one of the brothers gets married, they all turn against their poor sister-in-law and spend the rest of their lives trying to convince him that his wife isn’t good enough for him. They can do this right in front of her without her noticing because there are always a bunch of dumb inside jokes that only they get. Half the time you can’t even tell what they’re talking about: it just drives you crazy. There should be a law against a man’s sister coming to his house after he’s married. I’m as sure as I’m sitting here that Georgina took those poems out of my workbox.

HE. She will not understand them, I think.

HE. I don’t think she’ll understand them.

SHE. Oh, won't she! She'll understand them only too well. She'll understand more harm than ever was in them: nasty vulgar-minded cat!

SHE. Oh, she definitely will! She'll get them all too well. She'll understand more bad stuff than there ever was in them: nasty, vulgar-minded cat!

HE [going to her] Oh don't, don't think of people in that way. Don't think of her at all. [He takes her hand and sits down on the carpet at her feet]. Aurora: do you remember the evening when I sat here at your feet and read you those poems for the first time?

HE [going to her] Oh, please don't think about people like that. Just forget about her. [He takes her hand and sits down on the carpet at her feet]. Aurora: Do you remember the night I sat here at your feet and read you those poems for the first time?

SHE. I shouldn't have let you: I see that now. When I think of Georgina sitting there at Teddy's feet and reading them to him for the first time, I feel I shall just go distracted.

SHE. I shouldn’t have allowed it: I realize that now. When I think of Georgina sitting there at Teddy’s feet and reading to him for the first time, I feel like I'm going to lose my mind.

HE. Yes, you are right. It will be a profanation.

HE. Yes, you're right. It will be a desecration.

SHE. Oh, I don't care about the profanation; but what will Teddy think? what will he do? [Suddenly throwing his head away from her knee]. You don't seem to think a bit about Teddy. [She jumps up, more and more agitated].

SHE. Oh, I don't care about the disrespect; but what will Teddy think? What will he do? [Suddenly throwing his head away from her knee]. You don’t seem to think at all about Teddy. [She jumps up, increasingly agitated].

HE [supine on the floor; for she has thrown him off his balance] To me Teddy is nothing, and Georgina less than nothing.

HE [lying on the floor; because she has thrown him off his balance] To me Teddy means nothing, and Georgina means even less.

SHE. You'll soon find out how much less than nothing she is. If you think a woman can't do any harm because she's only a scandalmongering dowdy ragbag, you're greatly mistaken. [She flounces about the room. He gets up slowly and dusts his hands. Suddenly she runs to him and throws herself into his arms]. Henry: help me. Find a way out of this for me; and I'll bless you as long as you live. Oh, how wretched I am! [She sobs on his breast].

SHE. You’re about to see just how worthless she really is. If you think a woman can’t cause any trouble just because she’s a gossiping, frumpy mess, you’re seriously wrong. [She paces around the room. He gets up slowly and wipes his hands. Suddenly, she rushes to him and throws herself into his arms.] Henry: please help me. Find a way out of this for me, and I’ll be grateful to you forever. Oh, how miserable I am! [She cries on his chest].

HE. And oh! how happy I am!

SHE [whisking herself abruptly away] Don't be selfish.

SHE [whisking herself abruptly away] Stop being selfish.

HE [humbly] Yes: I deserve that. I think if I were going to the stake with you, I should still be so happy with you that I could hardly feel your danger more than my own.

HE [humbly] Yes: I deserve that. I think if I were going to be executed alongside you, I would still be so happy to be with you that I could hardly feel your danger more than my own.

SHE [relenting and patting his hand fondly] Oh, you are a dear darling boy, Henry; but [throwing his hand away fretfully] you're no use. I want somebody to tell me what to do.

SHE [relenting and patting his hand fondly] Oh, you’re such a sweet boy, Henry; but [throwing his hand away in annoyance] you’re no help. I need someone to tell me what to do.

HE [with quiet conviction] Your heart will tell you at the right time. I have thought deeply over this; and I know what we two must do, sooner or later.

HE [with quiet certainty] Your heart will let you know when the time is right. I've given this a lot of thought, and I know what we both need to do, sooner or later.

SHE. No, Henry. I will do nothing improper, nothing dishonorable. [She sits down plump on the stool and looks inflexible].

SHE. No, Henry. I won’t do anything inappropriate, nothing dishonorable. [She sits down firmly on the stool and looks unwavering].

HE. If you did, you would no longer be Aurora. Our course is perfectly simple, perfectly straightforward, perfectly stainless and true. We love one another. I am not ashamed of that: I am ready to go out and proclaim it to all London as simply as I will declare it to your husband when you see—as you soon will see—that this is the only way honorable enough for your feet to tread. Let us go out together to our own house, this evening, without concealment and without shame. Remember! we owe something to your husband. We are his guests here: he is an honorable man: he has been kind to us: he has perhaps loved you as well as his prosaic nature and his sordid commercial environment permitted. We owe it to him in all honor not to let him learn the truth from the lips of a scandalmonger. Let us go to him now quietly, hand in hand; bid him farewell; and walk out of the house without concealment and subterfuge, freely and honestly, in full honor and self-respect.

HE. If you did, you wouldn’t be Aurora anymore. Our path is completely clear, totally straightforward, and perfectly honest. We love each other. I’m not ashamed of that; I’m ready to go out and shout it to all of London, just as I’ll tell your husband when you realize—just as you will soon—that this is the only honorable way for you to go. Let’s leave together for our own home this evening, without hiding it or feeling ashamed. Remember! We owe something to your husband. We are his guests here; he’s a good man; he has treated us kindly; he has probably loved you as much as his ordinary nature and his dull, commercial world would allow. We owe it to him to ensure he doesn’t hear the truth from some gossip. Let’s go to him now quietly, hand in hand; say goodbye, and leave the house openly and without deceit, freely and honestly, with full honor and self-respect.

SHE [staring at him] And where shall we go to?

SHE [staring at him] So, where are we headed?

HE. We shall not depart by a hair's breadth from the ordinary natural current of our lives. We were going to the theatre when the loss of the poems compelled us to take action at once. We shall go to the theatre still; but we shall leave your diamonds here; for we cannot afford diamonds, and do not need them.

HE. We won't stray even a little from the usual flow of our lives. We were heading to the theater when losing the poems forced us to act immediately. We're still going to the theater; however, we'll leave your diamonds here because we can't afford diamonds and don't need them.

SHE [fretfully] I have told you already that I hate diamonds; only Teddy insists on hanging me all over with them. You need not preach simplicity to me.

SHE [fretfully] I've already told you that I hate diamonds; it's just that Teddy insists on draping me with them. You don’t need to lecture me about simplicity.

HE. I never thought of doing so, dearest: I know that these trivialities are nothing to you. What was I saying—oh yes. Instead of coming back here from the theatre, you will come with me to my home—now and henceforth our home—and in due course of time, when you are divorced, we shall go through whatever idle legal ceremony you may desire. I attach no importance to the law: my love was not created in me by the law, nor can it be bound or loosed by it. That is simple enough, and sweet enough, is it not? [He takes the flower from the table]. Here are flowers for you: I have the tickets: we will ask your husband to lend us the carriage to show that there is no malice, no grudge, between us. Come!

HE. I never thought about doing that, my dear: I know these little things mean nothing to you. What was I saying—oh right. Instead of heading back here from the theater, you’ll come with me to my place—now and forever our place—and when the time is right, after you’re divorced, we can go through any legal formality you want. I don’t care about the law: my love wasn’t created by it, and it can’t be restricted or released by it. That’s pretty straightforward and sweet, isn’t it? [He picks up the flower from the table]. Here are some flowers for you: I have the tickets: we’ll ask your husband to lend us the carriage to show that there’s no hard feelings or resentment between us. Come!

SHE [spiritlessly, taking the flowers without looking at them, and temporizing] Teddy isn't in yet.

SHE [dully, taking the flowers without looking at them, and avoiding the issue] Teddy isn't here yet.

HE. Well, let us take that calmly. Let us go to the theatre as if nothing had happened, and tell him when we come back. Now or three hours hence: to-day or to-morrow: what does it matter, provided all is done in honor, without shame or fear?

HE. Well, let's stay calm. Let's go to the theater as if nothing has happened, and we'll tell him when we get back. Now or in three hours: today or tomorrow: what does it matter, as long as everything is done with honor, without shame or fear?

SHE. What did you get tickets for? Lohengrin?

SHE. What tickets did you get? Lohengrin?

HE. I tried; but Lohengrin was sold out for to-night. [He takes out two Court Theatre tickets].

HE. I tried, but Lohengrin is sold out for tonight. [He takes out two Court Theatre tickets].

SHE. Then what did you get?

SHE. So, what did you get?

HE. Can you ask me? What is there besides Lohengrin that we two could endure, except Candida?

HE. Can you ask me? What is there besides Lohengrin that we can handle together, except Candida?

SHE [springing up] Candida! No, I won't go to it again, Henry [tossing the flower on the piano]. It is that play that has done all the mischief. I'm very sorry I ever saw it: it ought to be stopped.

SHE [jumping up] Candida! No, I won't watch it again, Henry [throwing the flower on the piano]. That play is responsible for all the trouble. I really regret ever seeing it; it should be banned.

HE [amazed] Aurora!

He [amazed] Aurora!

SHE. Yes: I mean it.

SHE. Yes, I really mean it.

HE. That divinest love poem! the poem that gave us courage to speak to one another! that revealed to us what we really felt for one another! That—

HE. That most beautiful love poem! The poem that gave us the courage to talk to each other! That showed us what we truly felt for each other! That—

SHE. Just so. It put a lot of stuff into my head that I should never have dreamt of for myself. I imagined myself just like Candida.

SHE. Exactly. It filled my mind with ideas that I should never have envisioned for myself. I pictured myself just like Candida.

HE [catching her hands and looking earnestly at her] You were right. You are like Candida.

HE [catching her hands and looking earnestly at her] You were right. You are just like Candida.

SHE [snatching her hands away] Oh, stuff! And I thought you were just like Eugene. [Looking critically at him] Now that I come to look at you, you are rather like him, too. [She throws herself discontentedly into the nearest seat, which happens to be the bench at the piano. He goes to her].

SHE [pulling her hands back] Oh, come on! I thought you were just like Eugene. [Looking at him critically] Now that I really look at you, you are kind of like him, too. [She sits down in the nearest seat, which is the bench at the piano, looking unhappy. He approaches her].

HE [very earnestly] Aurora: if Candida had loved Eugene she would have gone out into the night with him without a moment's hesitation.

HE [very earnestly] Aurora: if Candida had truly loved Eugene, she would have gone out into the night with him without a second thought.

SHE [with equal earnestness] Henry: do you know what's wanting in that play?

SHE [with equal seriousness] Henry: do you know what's missing in that play?

HE. There is nothing wanting in it.

HE. There is nothing missing in it.

SHE. Yes there is. There's a Georgina wanting in it. If Georgina had been there to make trouble, that play would have been a true-to-life tragedy. Now I'll tell you something about it that I have never told you before.

SHE. Yes, there is. There’s a Georgina involved. If Georgina had been there to cause chaos, that play would have been a real-life tragedy. Now I’m going to share something about it that I’ve never told you before.

HE. What is that?

HE. What's that?

SHE. I took Teddy to it. I thought it would do him good; and so it would if I could only have kept him awake. Georgina came too; and you should have heard the way she went on about it. She said it was downright immoral, and that she knew the sort of woman that encourages boys to sit on the hearthrug and make love to her. She was just preparing Teddy's mind to poison it about me.

SHE. I took Teddy to it. I thought it would be good for him, and it would have been if I could have kept him awake. Georgina came too, and you should have heard how she went on about it. She said it was totally immoral and that she knew the type of woman who encourages boys to sit on the rug and make advances. She was just trying to poison Teddy's mind against me.

HE. Let us be just to Georgina, dearest

HE. Let's be fair to Georgina, my dear

SHE. Let her deserve it first. Just to Georgina, indeed!

SHE. She should earn it first. Just to Georgina, really!

HE. She really sees the world in that way. That is her punishment.

HE. She truly views the world like that. That's her punishment.

SHE. How can it be her punishment when she likes it? It'll be my punishment when she brings that budget of poems to Teddy. I wish you'd have some sense, and sympathize with my position a little.

SHE. How can it be her punishment when she enjoys it? It'll be my punishment when she takes that collection of poems to Teddy. I wish you'd use some common sense and understand my situation a bit.

HE. [going away from the piano and beginning to walk about rather testily] My dear: I really don't care about Georgina or about Teddy. All these squabbles belong to a plane on which I am, as you say, no use. I have counted the cost; and I do not fear the consequences. After all, what is there to fear? Where is the difficulty? What can Georgina do? What can your husband do? What can anybody do?

HE. [walking away from the piano and pacing a bit irritably] My dear, I honestly don't care about Georgina or Teddy. All these arguments are on a level where, as you say, I am no help at all. I've weighed the options, and I'm not worried about the outcomes. After all, what is there to be afraid of? Where's the challenge? What can Georgina do? What can your husband do? What can anyone do?

SHE. Do you mean to say that you propose that we should walk right bang up to Teddy and tell him we're going away together?

SHE. Are you really suggesting that we should just walk up to Teddy and tell him we're leaving together?

HE. Yes. What can be simpler?

HE. Yeah. What could be easier?

SHE. And do you think for a moment he'd stand it, like that half-baked clergyman in the play? He'd just kill you.

SHE. And do you really think he’d put up with that, like that clueless clergyman in the play? He’d just take you out.

HE [coming to a sudden stop and speaking with considerable confidence] You don't understand these things, my darling, how could you? In one respect I am unlike the poet in the play. I have followed the Greek ideal and not neglected the culture of my body. Your husband would make a tolerable second-rate heavy weight if he were in training and ten years younger. As it is, he could, if strung up to a great effort by a burst of passion, give a good account of himself for perhaps fifteen seconds. But I am active enough to keep out of his reach for fifteen seconds; and after that I should be simply all over him.

HE [coming to a sudden stop and speaking with considerable confidence] You don't get these things, my love, how could you? In one way, I'm different from the poet in the play. I've embraced the Greek ideal and haven't ignored my physical fitness. Your husband might manage to be a decent second-rate heavyweight if he trained and were ten years younger. As it stands, he could, driven by a surge of passion, hold his own for maybe fifteen seconds. But I'm agile enough to stay out of his way for those fifteen seconds; after that, I would completely have the upper hand.

SHE [rising and coming to him in consternation] What do you mean by all over him?

SHE [standing up and approaching him, looking worried] What do you mean by all over him?

HE [gently] Don't ask me, dearest. At all events, I swear to you that you need not be anxious about me.

HE [gently] Don't worry about it, my dear. I promise you, you don't need to be concerned about me.

SHE. And what about Teddy? Do you mean to tell me that you are going to beat Teddy before my face like a brutal prizefighter?

SHE. And what about Teddy? Are you seriously saying that you plan to beat Teddy in front of me like a savage boxer?

HE. All this alarm is needless, dearest. Believe me, nothing will happen. Your husband knows that I am capable of defending myself. Under such circumstances nothing ever does happen. And of course I shall do nothing. The man who once loved you is sacred to me.

HE. All this worry is unnecessary, my dear. Trust me, nothing will happen. Your husband knows I can take care of myself. In situations like this, nothing ever occurs. And of course, I won’t do anything. The man who once loved you is important to me.

SHE [suspiciously] Doesn't he love me still? Has he told you anything?

SHE [suspiciously] Doesn’t he still love me? Has he said anything to you?

HE. No, no. [He takes her tenderly in his arms]. Dearest, dearest: how agitated you are! how unlike yourself! All these worries belong to the lower plane. Come up with me to the higher one. The heights, the solitudes, the soul world!

HE. No, no. [He takes her gently in his arms]. My dearest, my dearest: how upset you are! This isn’t like you at all! All these worries are on a lower level. Come up with me to a higher one. The heights, the solitude, the world of the soul!

SHE [avoiding his gaze] No: stop: it's no use, Mr Apjohn.

SHE [looking away] No: stop: it's pointless, Mr. Apjohn.

HE [recoiling] Mr Apjohn!!!

He recoiled, Mr. Apjohn!!!

SHE. Excuse me: I meant Henry, of course.

SHE. Sorry: I meant Henry, of course.

HE. How could you even think of me as Mr Apjohn? I never think of you as Mrs Bompas: it is always Cand— I mean Aurora, Aurora, Auro—

HE. How could you even think of me as Mr. Apjohn? I never think of you as Mrs. Bompas; it's always Cand—I mean Aurora, Aurora, Auro—

SHE. Yes, yes: that's all very well, Mr Apjohn [He is about to interrupt again: but she won't have it] no: it's no use: I've suddenly begun to think of you as Mr Apjohn; and it's ridiculous to go on calling you Henry. I thought you were only a boy, a child, a dreamer. I thought you would be too much afraid to do anything. And now you want to beat Teddy and to break up my home and disgrace me and make a horrible scandal in the papers. It's cruel, unmanly, cowardly.

SHE. Yes, yes: that’s all well and good, Mr. Apjohn [He is about to interrupt again: but she won't let him] no: it’s pointless: I’ve suddenly started thinking of you as Mr. Apjohn; and it’s ridiculous to keep calling you Henry. I thought you were just a boy, a child, a dreamer. I thought you’d be too scared to do anything. And now you want to beat Teddy, break up my home, disgrace me, and create a terrible scandal in the papers. That’s cruel, unmanly, and cowardly.

HE [with grave wonder] Are you afraid?

HE [with serious curiosity] Are you scared?

SHE. Oh, of course I'm afraid. So would you be if you had any common sense. [She goes to the hearth, turning her back to him, and puts one tapping foot on the fender].

SHE. Oh, of course I'm afraid. You would be too if you had any sense. [She walks over to the fireplace, turning her back to him, and puts one tapping foot on the edge].

HE [watching her with great gravity] Perfect love casteth out fear. That is why I am not afraid. Mrs Bompas: you do not love me.

HE [watching her seriously] Perfect love casts out fear. That’s why I’m not afraid. Mrs. Bompas: you don’t love me.

SHE [turning to him with a gasp of relief] Oh, thank you, thank you! You really can be very nice, Henry.

SHE [turning to him with a gasp of relief] Oh, thank you, thank you! You really can be super nice, Henry.

HE. Why do you thank me?

HE. Why are you thanking me?

SHE [coming prettily to him from the fireplace] For calling me Mrs Bompas again. I feel now that you are going to be reasonable and behave like a gentleman. [He drops on the stool; covers his face with his hand; and groans]. What's the matter?

SHE [walking over to him from the fireplace] For calling me Mrs. Bompas again. I can tell now that you’re going to be reasonable and act like a gentleman. [He sits down on the stool, covers his face with his hand, and groans]. What’s wrong?

HE. Once or twice in my life I have dreamed that I was exquisitely happy and blessed. But oh! the misgiving at the first stir of consciousness! the stab of reality! the prison walls of the bedroom! the bitter, bitter disappointment of waking! And this time! oh, this time I thought I was awake.

HE. Once or twice in my life, I've dreamed that I was incredibly happy and fortunate. But oh! the doubt that hits as I first become aware! the jolt of reality! the confines of the bedroom! the deep, deep disappointment of waking up! And this time! oh, this time I really thought I was awake.

SHE. Listen to me, Henry: we really haven't time for all that sort of flapdoodle now. [He starts to his feet as if she had pulled a trigger and straightened him by the release of a powerful spring, and goes past her with set teeth to the little table]. Oh, take care: you nearly hit me in the chin with the top of your head.

SHE. Listen to me, Henry: we really don't have time for all that nonsense right now. [He jumps up as if she had pulled a trigger and straightened him with the release of a powerful spring, and moves past her with clenched teeth to the little table]. Oh, watch out: you almost hit me in the chin with the top of your head.

HE [with fierce politeness] I beg your pardon. What is it you want me to do? I am at your service. I am ready to behave like a gentleman if you will be kind enough to explain exactly how.

HE [with fierce politeness] I’m sorry. What do you want me to do? I’m here to help. I’m ready to act like a gentleman if you could kindly explain how.

SHE [a little frightened] Thank you, Henry: I was sure you would. You're not angry with me, are you?

SHE [a little scared] Thank you, Henry: I knew you would. You're not mad at me, are you?

HE. Go on. Go on quickly. Give me something to think about, or I will—I will—[he suddenly snatches up her fan and it about to break it in his clenched fists].

HE. Go on. Hurry up. Give me something to think about, or I will—I will—[he suddenly grabs her fan and is about to break it in his clenched fists].

SHE [running forward and catching at the fan, with loud lamentation] Don't break my fan—no, don't. [He slowly relaxes his grip of it as she draws it anxiously out of his hands]. No, really, that's a stupid trick. I don't like that. You've no right to do that. [She opens the fan, and finds that the sticks are disconnected]. Oh, how could you be so inconsiderate?

SHE [running forward and grabbing the fan, crying out] Don't break my fan—please, don't. [He slowly lets go as she carefully pulls it from his hands]. No, seriously, that's a silly thing to do. I don't appreciate that. You shouldn't do that. [She opens the fan and sees that the sticks are broken]. Oh, how could you be so thoughtless?

HE. I beg your pardon. I will buy you a new one.

HE. I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one.

SHE [querulously] You will never be able to match it. And it was a particular favorite of mine.

SHE [complainingly] You'll never be able to match it. It was one of my favorites.

HE [shortly] Then you will have to do without it: that's all.

HE [shortly] Then you'll have to manage without it: that's all.

SHE. That's not a very nice thing to say after breaking my pet fan, I think.

SHE. That’s not a very nice thing to say after you broke my pet fan, I think.

HE. If you knew how near I was to breaking Teddy's pet wife and presenting him with the pieces, you would be thankful that you are alive instead of—of—of howling about five shillings worth of ivory. Damn your fan!

HE. If you knew how close I was to breaking Teddy's beloved wife and handing him the pieces, you'd be grateful that you're alive instead of whining about five shillings' worth of ivory. Damn your fan!

SHE. Oh! Don't you dare swear in my presence. One would think you were my husband.

SHE. Oh! Don't you even think about swearing in front of me. You'd think you were my husband.

HE [again collapsing on the stool] This is some horrible dream. What has become of you? You are not my Aurora.

HE [again collapsing on the stool] This is such a terrible dream. What happened to you? You’re not my Aurora.

SHE. Oh, well, if you come to that, what has become of you? Do you think I would ever have encouraged you if I had known you were such a little devil?

SHE. Oh, well, if we're getting into that, what happened to you? Do you really think I would have ever supported you if I had known you were such a little troublemaker?

HE. Don't drag me down—don't—don't. Help me to find the way back to the heights.

HE. Don't pull me down—don't—don't. Help me find my way back to the top.

SHE [kneeling beside him and pleading] If you would only be reasonable, Henry. If you would only remember that I am on the brink of ruin, and not go on calmly saying it's all quite simple.

SHE [kneeling beside him and pleading] If you could just be reasonable, Henry. If you could just remember that I’m on the edge of disaster, and stop calmly insisting it’s all so simple.

HE. It seems so to me.

HE. It seems that way to me.

SHE [jumping up distractedly] If you say that again I shall do something I'll be sorry for. Here we are, standing on the edge of a frightful precipice. No doubt it's quite simple to go over and have done with it. But can't you suggest anything more agreeable?

SHE [jumping up distractedly] If you say that again, I’ll regret it. Here we are, standing on the edge of a terrifying cliff. Sure, it’s pretty easy to just jump and end it all. But can’t you think of something better?

HE. I can suggest nothing now. A chill black darkness has fallen: I can see nothing but the ruins of our dream. [He rises with a deep sigh].

HE. I can't suggest anything right now. A cold dark silence has fallen: all I can see are the ruins of our dream. [He stands up with a deep sigh].

SHE. Can't you? Well, I can. I can see Georgina rubbing those poems into Teddy. [Facing him determinedly] And I tell you, Henry Apjohn, that you got me into this mess; and you must get me out of it again.

SHE. Can’t you? Well, I can. I can see Georgina pushing those poems onto Teddy. [Facing him firmly] And I’m telling you, Henry Apjohn, that you got me into this situation, and you need to help me get out of it again.

HE [polite and hopeless] All I can say is that I am entirely at your service. What do you wish me to do?

HE [polite and hopeless] All I can say is that I'm completely at your service. What do you want me to do?

SHE. Do you know anybody else named Aurora?

SHE. Do you know anyone else named Aurora?

HE. No.

Nope.

SHE. There's no use in saying No in that frozen pigheaded way. You must know some Aurora or other somewhere.

SHE. There's no point in saying No like that, all stubborn and cold. You must know some Aurora around here somewhere.

HE. You said you were the only Aurora in the world. And [lifting his clasped fists with a sudden return of his emotion] oh God! you were the only Aurora in the world to me. [He turns away from her, hiding his face].

HE. You said you were the only Aurora in the world. And [lifting his clasped fists with a sudden wave of emotion] oh God! you were the only Aurora in the world to me. [He turns away from her, hiding his face].

SHE [petting him] Yes, yes, dear: of course. It's very nice of you; and I appreciate it: indeed I do; but it's not reasonable just at present. Now just listen to me. I suppose you know all those poems by heart.

SHE [petting him] Yes, yes, dear: of course. It's really sweet of you; and I appreciate it—truly I do—but it's not a good time for that right now. Now just listen to me. I assume you have all those poems memorized.

HE. Yes, by heart. [Raising his head and looking at her, with a sudden suspicion] Don't you?

SHE. Well, I never can remember verses; and besides, I've been so busy that I've not had time to read them all; though I intend to the very first moment I can get: I promise you that most faithfully, Henry. But now try and remember very particularly. Does the name of Bompas occur in any of the poems?

SHE. Well, I can never remember lines; and besides, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to read them all; though I plan to as soon as I can: I promise you that most sincerely, Henry. But now please try to remember clearly. Does the name Bompas come up in any of the poems?

HE [indignantly] No.

He [indignantly] No.

SHE. You're quite sure?

SHE. Are you sure?

HE. Of course I am quite sure. How could I use such a name in a poem?

HE. Of course I'm sure. How could I use that name in a poem?

SHE. Well, I don't see why not. It rhymes to rumpus, which seems appropriate enough at present, goodness knows! However, you're a poet, and you ought to know.

SHE. Well, I don't see why not. It rhymes with rumpus, which feels quite fitting right now, that's for sure! But since you're a poet, you should know better.

HE. What does it matter—now?

SHE. It matters a lot, I can tell you. If there's nothing about Bompas in the poems, we can say that they were written to some other Aurora, and that you showed them to me because my name was Aurora too. So you've got to invent another Aurora for the occasion.

SHE. It’s really important, I can tell you. If there’s nothing about Bompas in the poems, we can say they were written about some other Aurora, and that you showed them to me because my name is Aurora too. So you need to create another Aurora for the occasion.

HE [very coldly] Oh, if you wish me to tell a lie—

HE [very coldly] Oh, if you want me to lie—

SHE. Surely, as a man of honor—as a gentleman, you wouldn't tell the truth, would you?

SHE. Surely, as a man of honor—as a gentleman, you wouldn't be honest, would you?

HE. Very well. You have broken my spirit and desecrated my dreams. I will lie and protest and stand on my honor: oh, I will play the gentleman, never fear.

HE. Alright. You have crushed my spirit and ruined my dreams. I will lie and protest and maintain my honor: oh, I will act like a gentleman, don’t worry.

SHE. Yes, put it all on me, of course. Don't be mean, Henry.

SHE. Yeah, just lay it all on me, of course. Don’t be harsh, Henry.

HE [rousing himself with an effort] You are quite right, Mrs Bompas: I beg your pardon. You must excuse my temper. I have got growing pains, I think.

HE [forcing himself to wake up] You're absolutely right, Mrs. Bompas: I apologize. Please forgive my mood. I think I'm having growing pains.

SHE. Growing pains!

HE. The process of growing from romantic boyhood into cynical maturity usually takes fifteen years. When it is compressed into fifteen minutes, the pace is too fast; and growing pains are the result.

HE. The journey from romantic boyhood to jaded adulthood usually takes about fifteen years. When it’s rushed into just fifteen minutes, it moves too quickly, leading to growing pains.

SHE. Oh, is this a time for cleverness? It's settled, isn't it, that you're going to be nice and good, and that you'll brazen it out to Teddy that you have some other Aurora?

SHE. Oh, is this the moment for being clever? It's decided, right? You're going to be kind and decent, and you'll just face Teddy and tell him you have another Aurora?

HE. Yes: I'm capable of anything now. I should not have told him the truth by halves; and now I will not lie by halves. I'll wallow in the honor of a gentleman.

HE. Yes: I'm capable of anything now. I shouldn't have told him just part of the truth; and now I won't lie partially. I'll embrace the honor of a gentleman.

SHE. Dearest boy, I knew you would. I—Sh! [she rushes to the door, and holds it ajar, listening breathlessly].

SHE. Sweetheart, I knew you would. I—Sh! [she rushes to the door, and holds it slightly open, listening intently].

HE. What is it?

What’s up?

SHE [white with apprehension] It's Teddy: I hear him tapping the new barometer. He can't have anything serious on his mind or he wouldn't do that. Perhaps Georgina hasn't said anything. [She steals back to the hearth]. Try and look as if there was nothing the matter. Give me my gloves, quick. [He hands them to her. She pulls on one hastily and begins buttoning it with ostentatious unconcern]. Go further away from me, quick. [He walks doggedly away from her until the piano prevents his going farther]. If I button my glove, and you were to hum a tune, don't you think that—

SHE [pale with worry] It's Teddy: I can hear him tapping the new barometer. He can't be thinking about anything serious or he wouldn't be doing that. Maybe Georgina hasn't said anything. [She sneaks back to the fireplace]. Try to look like there's nothing wrong. Give me my gloves, quick. [He hands them to her. She hastily puts one on and starts buttoning it with exaggerated carelessness]. Get further away from me, quick. [He trudges away from her until the piano blocks his path]. If I button my glove, and you hum a tune, don't you think that—

HE. The tableau would be complete in its guiltiness. For Heaven's sake, Mrs Bompas, let that glove alone: you look like a pickpocket.

HE. The scene would be fully guilty. For heaven's sake, Mrs. Bompas, put that glove down: you look like a thief.

Her husband comes in: a robust, thicknecked, well groomed city man, with a strong chin but a blithering eye and credulous mouth. He has a momentous air, but shows no sign of displeasure: rather the contrary.

Her husband walks in: a strong, thick-necked, well-groomed city guy, with a firm chin but a wandering eye and gullible mouth. He has an important presence, but shows no signs of annoyance; quite the opposite.

HER HUSBAND. Hallo! I thought you two were at the theatre.

HER HUSBAND. Hey! I thought you both were at the theater.

SHE. I felt anxious about you, Teddy. Why didn't you come home to dinner?

SHE. I was worried about you, Teddy. Why didn't you come home for dinner?

HER HUSBAND. I got a message from Georgina. She wanted me to go to her.

HER HUSBAND. I received a message from Georgina. She asked me to come see her.

SHE. Poor dear Georgina! I'm sorry I haven't been able to call on her this last week. I hope there's nothing the matter with her.

SHE. Poor dear Georgina! I'm sorry I haven't been able to check in on her this past week. I hope everything is okay with her.

HER HUSBAND. Nothing, except anxiety for my welfare and yours. [She steals a terrified look at Henry]. By, the way, Apjohn, I should like a word with you this evening, if Aurora can spare you for a moment.

HER HUSBAND. Nothing, except worry about your well-being and mine. [She takes a scared glance at Henry]. By the way, Apjohn, I’d like to talk to you this evening, if Aurora can let you go for a moment.

HE [formally] I am at your service.

I’m here to support you.

HER HUSBAND. No hurry. After the theatre will do.

HER HUSBAND. No rush. After the theater is fine.

HE. We have decided not to go.

HE. We've decided not to go.

HER HUSBAND. Indeed! Well, then, shall we adjourn to my snuggery?

HER HUSBAND. Really! Well, shall we move to my cozy spot?

SHE. You needn't move. I shall go and lock up my diamonds since I'm not going to the theatre. Give me my things.

SHE. You don’t need to get up. I’ll go lock up my diamonds since I’m not going to the theater. Hand me my stuff.

HER HUSBAND [as he hands her the cloud and the mirror] Well, we shall have more room here.

HER HUSBAND [as he hands her the cloud and the mirror] Well, we'll have more space here.

HE [looking about him and shaking his shoulders loose] I think I should prefer plenty of room.

HE [looking around and loosening his shoulders] I think I'd prefer a lot of space.

HER HUSBAND. So, if it's not disturbing you, Rory—?

HER HUSBAND. So, if it’s not bothering you, Rory—?

SHE. Not at all. [She goes out].

SHE. Not at all. [She exits].

When the two men are alone together, Bompas deliberately takes the poems from his breast pocket; looks at them reflectively; then looks at Henry, mutely inviting his attention. Henry refuses to understand, doing his best to look unconcerned.

When the two men are alone together, Bompas intentionally takes the poems out of his breast pocket; he looks at them thoughtfully; then he looks at Henry, silently signaling for his attention. Henry pretends not to notice, doing his best to seem indifferent.

HER HUSBAND. Do these manuscripts seem at all familiar to you, may I ask?

HER HUSBAND. Do these manuscripts look familiar to you, if I may ask?

HE. Manuscripts?

HE. Drafts?

HER HUSBAND. Yes. Would you like to look at them a little closer? [He proffers them under Henry's nose].

HER HUSBAND. Yeah. Do you want to take a closer look? [He holds them out in front of Henry].

HE [as with a sudden illumination of glad surprise] Why, these are my poems.

HE [with a sudden flash of happy surprise] Wow, these are my poems.

HER HUSBAND. So I gather.

HER HUSBAND. Got it.

HE. What a shame! Mrs Bompas has shown them to you! You must think me an utter ass. I wrote them years ago after reading Swinburne's Songs Before Sunrise. Nothing would do me then but I must reel off a set of Songs to the Sunrise. Aurora, you know: the rosy fingered Aurora. They're all about Aurora. When Mrs Bompas told me her name was Aurora, I couldn't resist the temptation to lend them to her to read. But I didn't bargain for your unsympathetic eyes.

HE. What a shame! Mrs. Bompas showed them to you! You must think I'm a complete idiot. I wrote them years ago after reading Swinburne's Songs Before Sunrise. Back then, I was determined to write a collection of Songs to the Sunrise. Aurora, you know: the rosy-fingered Aurora. They're all about Aurora. When Mrs. Bompas told me her name was Aurora, I couldn't help but lend them to her to read. But I didn't expect your unsympathetic gaze.

HER HUSBAND [grinning] Apjohn: that's really very ready of you. You are cut out for literature; and the day will come when Rory and I will be proud to have you about the house. I have heard far thinner stories from much older men.

HER HUSBAND [grinning] Apjohn: that’s really impressive. You have a talent for literature, and one day Rory and I will be proud to have you around the house. I’ve heard much weaker stories from guys who are a lot older.

HE [with an air of great surprise] Do you mean to imply that you don't believe me?

HE [looking very surprised] Are you saying that you don't believe me?

HER HUSBAND. Do you expect me to believe you?

HER HUSBAND. Do you really think I’m going to believe you?

HE. Why not? I don't understand.

HE. Why not? I don't get it.

HER HUSBAND. Come! Don't underrate your own cleverness, Apjohn. I think you understand pretty well.

HER HUSBAND. Come on! Don’t sell yourself short, Apjohn. I think you get it pretty well.

HE. I assure you I am quite at a loss. Can you not be a little more explicit?

HE. I promise I'm really confused. Can you be a bit clearer?

HER HUSBAND. Don't overdo it, old chap. However, I will just be so far explicit as to say that if you think these poems read as if they were addressed, not to a live woman, but to a shivering cold time of day at which you were never out of bed in your life, you hardly do justice to your own literary powers—which I admire and appreciate, mind you, as much as any man. Come! own up. You wrote those poems to my wife. [An internal struggle prevents Henry from answering]. Of course you did. [He throws the poems on the table; and goes to the hearthrug, where he plants himself solidly, chuckling a little and waiting for the next move].

HER HUSBAND. Don't overdo it, my friend. But I’ll be clear enough to say that if you think these poems sound like they were written not to a real woman, but to a chilly time of day when you’ve never been out of bed, you’re not giving your own writing skills the credit they deserve—which I admire and appreciate, by the way, just as much as any man. Come on! Admit it. You wrote those poems for my wife. [An internal struggle keeps Henry from responding]. Of course you did. [He throws the poems on the table and moves to the hearthrug, planting himself firmly, chuckling a bit and waiting for the next move].

HE [formally and carefully] Mr Bompas: I pledge you my word you are mistaken. I need not tell you that Mrs Bompas is a lady of stainless honor, who has never cast an unworthy thought on me. The fact that she has shown you my poems—

HE [formally and carefully] Mr. Bompas: I promise you, you are mistaken. I don’t need to tell you that Mrs. Bompas is a woman of impeccable honor, who has never entertained an unworthy thought about me. The fact that she has shared my poems with you—

HER HUSBAND. That's not a fact. I came by them without her knowledge. She didn't show them to me.

HER HUSBAND. That's not true. I got them without her knowing. She didn't reveal them to me.

HE. Does not that prove their perfect innocence? She would have shown them to you at once if she had taken your quite unfounded view of them.

HE. Doesn't that prove their complete innocence? She would have shown them to you right away if she had taken your completely unfounded perspective on them.

HER HUSBAND [shaken] Apjohn: play fair. Don't abuse your intellectual gifts. Do you really mean that I am making a fool of myself?

HER HUSBAND [shaken] Apjohn: play fair. Don't misuse your intellect. Are you seriously saying that I'm embarrassing myself?

HE [earnestly] Believe me, you are. I assure you, on my honor as a gentleman, that I have never had the slightest feeling for Mrs Bompas beyond the ordinary esteem and regard of a pleasant acquaintance.

HE [earnestly] Believe me, you are. I promise you, on my honor as a gentleman, that I have never felt anything for Mrs. Bompas beyond the usual respect and regard of a pleasant acquaintance.

HER HUSBAND [shortly, showing ill humor for the first time] Oh, indeed. [He leaves his hearth and begins to approach Henry slowly, looking him up and down with growing resentment].

HER HUSBAND [briefly, showing irritation for the first time] Oh, really. [He steps away from the fireplace and starts to walk toward Henry slowly, examining him with increasing annoyance].

HE [hastening to improve the impression made by his mendacity] I should never have dreamt of writing poems to her. The thing is absurd.

HE [hurrying to enhance the impression caused by his lies] I would have never thought of writing poems to her. It's just ridiculous.

HER HUSBAND [reddening ominously] Why is it absurd?

HER HUSBAND [turning red with anger] Why is that ridiculous?

HE [shrugging his shoulders] Well, it happens that I do not admire Mrs Bompas—in that way.

HE [shrugging his shoulders] Well, I don’t actually admire Mrs. Bompas—in that way.

HER HUSBAND [breaking out in Henry's face] Let me tell you that Mrs Bompas has been admired by better men than you, you soapy headed little puppy, you.

HER HUSBAND [breaking out in Henry's face] Let me tell you that Mrs. Bompas has been admired by better men than you, you silly little fool, you.

HE [much taken aback] There is no need to insult me like this. I assure you, on my honor as a—

HE [surprised] There's no need to insult me like this. I promise you, on my honor as a—

HER HUSBAND [too angry to tolerate a reply, and boring Henry more and more towards the piano] You don't admire Mrs Bompas! You would never dream of writing poems to Mrs Bompas! My wife's not good enough for you, isn't she. [Fiercely] Who are you, pray, that you should be so jolly superior?

HER HUSBAND [too angry to tolerate a reply, and pushing Henry more and more towards the piano] You don’t admire Mrs. Bompas! You would never think of writing poems to Mrs. Bompas! My wife isn’t good enough for you, is she? [Fiercely] Who do you think you are, acting so superior?

HE. Mr Bompas: I can make allowances for your jealousy—

HE. Mr Bompas: I can understand your jealousy—

HER HUSBAND. Jealousy! do you suppose I'm jealous of YOU? No, nor of ten like you. But if you think I'll stand here and let you insult my wife in her own house, you're mistaken.

HER HUSBAND. Jealousy! Do you think I’m jealous of you? No, not at all, not even of ten like you. But if you think I’ll just stand here and let you disrespect my wife in her own home, you’re wrong.

HE [very uncomfortable with his back against the piano and Teddy standing over him threateningly] How can I convince you? Be reasonable. I tell you my relations with Mrs Bompas are relations of perfect coldness—of indifference—

HE [very uncomfortable with his back against the piano and Teddy standing over him threateningly] How can I convince you? Be reasonable. I assure you that my relationship with Mrs. Bompas is completely cold—indifferent—

HER HUSBAND [scornfully] Say it again: say it again. You're proud of it, aren't you? Yah! You're not worth kicking.

HER HUSBAND [scornfully] Say it again: say it again. You're proud of it, aren't you? Yeah! You're not worth the trouble.

Henry suddenly executes the feat known to pugilists as dipping, and changes sides with Teddy, who it now between Henry and the piano.

Henry suddenly pulls off the move known to boxers as dipping, and switches places with Teddy, who is now between Henry and the piano.

HE. Look here: I'm not going to stand this.

HE. Look, I'm not going to put up with this.

HER HUSBAND. Oh, you have some blood in your body after all! Good job!

HER HUSBAND. Oh, you actually have some blood in you after all! Well done!

HE. This is ridiculous. I assure you Mrs. Bompas is quite—

HE. This is ridiculous. I assure you, Mrs. Bompas is completely—

HER HUSBAND. What is Mrs Bompas to you, I'd like to know. I'll tell you what Mrs Bompas is. She's the smartest woman in the smartest set in South Kensington, and the handsomest, and the cleverest, and the most fetching to experienced men who know a good thing when they see it, whatever she may be to conceited penny-a-lining puppies who think nothing good enough for them. It's admitted by the best people; and not to know it argues yourself unknown. Three of our first actor-managers have offered her a hundred a week if she'd go on the stage when they start a repertory theatre; and I think they know what they're about as well as you. The only member of the present Cabinet that you might call a handsome man has neglected the business of the country to dance with her, though he don't belong to our set as a regular thing. One of the first professional poets in Bedford Park wrote a sonnet to her, worth all your amateur trash. At Ascot last season the eldest son of a duke excused himself from calling on me on the ground that his feelings for Mrs Bompas were not consistent with his duty to me as host; and it did him honor and me too. But [with gathering fury] she isn't good enough for you, it seems. You regard her with coldness, with indifference; and you have the cool cheek to tell me so to my face. For two pins I'd flatten your nose in to teach you manners. Introducing a fine woman to you is casting pearls before swine [yelling at him] before SWINE! d'ye hear?

HER HUSBAND. What does Mrs. Bompas mean to you? Let me tell you what Mrs. Bompas is. She's the smartest woman in the most sophisticated social circle in South Kensington, and she's the most beautiful, the most intelligent, and the most attractive to seasoned men who recognize a good thing when they see it, no matter what she may be to arrogant wannabes who think nothing is worthy of them. The best people all agree; not knowing that makes you look out of touch. Three of our top theater managers have offered her a hundred a week if she would perform when they start a repertory theater; and I think they know what they’re doing just as well as you do. The only good-looking member of the current Cabinet has ignored his duties to dance with her, even though he doesn’t usually hang out with our group. One of the leading poets in Bedford Park wrote a sonnet for her, which is worth all your amateur nonsense. At Ascot last season, the eldest son of a duke declined to visit me because his feelings for Mrs. Bompas conflicted with his obligations to me as a host; and that reflected well on both of us. But [with growing anger] apparently, she’s not good enough for you. You look at her with indifference and you have the audacity to tell me that to my face. For two cents, I’d knock your nose flat to teach you some manners. Introducing a wonderful woman to you is like casting pearls before swine [yelling at him] before SWINE! Do you hear me?

HE [with a deplorable lack of polish] You call me a swine again and I'll land you one on the chin that'll make your head sing for a week.

HE [with a seriously rough demeanor] You call me a pig again and I'll hit you one on the jaw that'll make your head ring for a week.

HER HUSBAND [exploding] What—!

HER HUSBAND [exploding] What the—!

He charges at Henry with bull-like fury. Henry places himself on guard in the manner of a well taught boxer, and gets away smartly, but unfortunately forgets the stool which is just behind him. He falls backwards over it, unintentionally pushing it against the shins of Bompas, who falls forward over it. Mrs Bompas, with a scream, rushes into the room between the sprawling champions, and sits down on the floor in order to get her right arm round her husband's neck.

He charges at Henry with wild anger. Henry gets into a defensive stance like a well-trained boxer and manages to evade the attack, but unfortunately, he forgets about the stool right behind him. He trips over it and falls backward, accidentally knocking it into Bompas's shins, causing him to stumble forward. Mrs. Bompas, screaming, rushes into the room between the two sprawled fighters and sits on the floor to wrap her right arm around her husband’s neck.

SHE. You shan't, Teddy: you shan't. You will be killed: he is a prizefighter.

SHE. You can't, Teddy: you can't. You will get hurt: he's a fighter.

HER HUSBAND [vengefully] I'll prizefight him. [He struggles vainly to free himself from her embrace].

HER HUSBAND [angrily] I'll fight him in the ring. [He struggles unsuccessfully to get away from her hold].

SHE. Henry: don't let him fight you. Promise me that you won't.

SHE. Henry: don’t let him fight you. Promise me you won’t.

HE [ruefully] I have got a most frightful bump on the back of my head. [He tries to rise].

HE [ruefully] I've got a really bad bump on the back of my head. [He tries to get up].

SHE [reaching out her left hand to seize his coat tail, and pulling him down again, whilst keeping fast hold of Teddy with the other hand] Not until you have promised: not until you both have promised. [Teddy tries to rise: she pulls him back again]. Teddy: you promise, don't you? Yes, yes. Be good: you promise.

SHE [grabbing his coat tail with her left hand and pulling him down again, while holding onto Teddy with her other hand] Not until you promise: not until you both promise. [Teddy tries to get up: she yanks him back down]. Teddy: you promise, right? Yeah, yeah. Be good: you promise.

HER HUSBAND. I won't, unless he takes it back.

HER HUSBAND. I won’t, unless he retracts it.

SHE. He will: he does. You take it back, Henry?—yes.

SHE. He will: he does. Do you take it back, Henry?—yes.

HE [savagely] Yes. I take it back. [She lets go his coat. He gets up. So does Teddy]. I take it all back, all, without reserve.

HE [savagely] Yes. I take it back. [She releases his coat. He stands up. Teddy does too]. I take it all back, everything, without reservation.

SHE [on the carpet] Is nobody going to help me up? [They each take a hand and pull her up]. Now won't you shake hands and be good?

SHE [on the carpet] Is anyone going to help me up? [They each take a hand and pull her up]. Now, will you all shake hands and be nice?

HE [recklessly] I shall do nothing of the sort. I have steeped myself in lies for your sake; and the only reward I get is a lump on the back of my head the size of an apple. Now I will go back to the straight path.

HE [recklessly] I'm not doing that at all. I've soaked myself in lies for you, and all I get in return is a bump on the back of my head the size of an apple. Now I'm going to return to the right path.

SHE. Henry: for Heaven's sake—

SHE. Henry: for goodness' sake—

HE. It's no use. Your husband is a fool and a brute—

HE. It's pointless. Your husband is an idiot and a jerk—

HER HUSBAND. What's that you say?

HER HUSBAND. What did you say?

HE. I say you are a fool and a brute; and if you'll step outside with me I'll say it again. [Teddy begins to take off his coat for combat]. Those poems were written to your wife, every word of them, and to nobody else. [The scowl clears away from Bompas's countenance. Radiant, he replaces his coat]. I wrote them because I loved her. I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world; and I told her so over and over again. I adored her: do you hear? I told her that you were a sordid commercial chump, utterly unworthy of her; and so you are.

HE. I call you a fool and a brute; and if you step outside with me, I'll say it again. [Teddy starts to take off his coat to fight]. Those poems were written for your wife, every single word, and for nobody else. [The scowl fades from Bompas's face. With a bright expression, he puts his coat back on]. I wrote them because I loved her. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and I told her that over and over. I adored her: do you understand? I told her that you were a miserable commercial loser, totally unworthy of her; and that's exactly what you are.

HER HUSBAND [so gratified, he can hardly believe his ears] You don't mean it!

HER HUSBAND [so thrilled, he can barely believe what he hears] You can't be serious!

HE. Yes, I do mean it, and a lot more too. I asked Mrs Bompas to walk out of the house with me—to leave you—to get divorced from you and marry me. I begged and implored her to do it this very night. It was her refusal that ended everything between us. [Looking very disparagingly at him] What she can see in you, goodness only knows!

HE. Yes, I really mean it, and so much more. I asked Mrs. Bompas to leave the house with me—to divorce you and marry me. I pleaded with her to do it tonight. It was her refusing that ended everything between us. [Looking very disapprovingly at him] Honestly, what she sees in you is beyond me!

HER HUSBAND [beaming with remorse] My dear chap, why didn't you say so before? I apologize. Come! Don't bear malice: shake hands. Make him shake hands, Rory.

HER HUSBAND [smiling with regret] My dear friend, why didn't you mention that earlier? I'm sorry. Come on! Don’t hold a grudge: shake hands. Get him to shake hands, Rory.

SHE. For my sake, Henry. After all, he's my husband. Forgive him. Take his hand. [Henry, dazed, lets her take his hand and place it in Teddy's].

SHE. For me, Henry. After all, he's my husband. Forgive him. Take his hand. [Henry, confused, lets her take his hand and place it in Teddy's].

HER HUSBAND [shaking it heartily] You've got to own that none of your literary heroines can touch my Rory. [He turns to her and claps her with fond pride on the shoulder]. Eh, Rory? They can't resist you: none of em. Never knew a man yet that could hold out three days.

HER HUSBAND [shaking it heartily] You've got to admit that none of your literary heroines can compete with my Rory. [He turns to her and gives her a proud pat on the shoulder]. Right, Rory? They can’t resist you: none of them. I’ve never met a man who could last three days.

SHE. Don't be foolish, Teddy. I hope you were not really hurt, Henry. [She feels the back of his head. He flinches]. Oh, poor boy, what a bump! I must get some vinegar and brown paper. [She goes to the bell and rings].

SHE. Don't be silly, Teddy. I hope you weren't really hurt, Henry. [She touches the back of his head. He flinches]. Oh, poor thing, what a bump! I need to get some vinegar and brown paper. [She goes to the bell and rings].

HER HUSBAND. Will you do me a great favor, Apjohn. I hardly like to ask; but it would be a real kindness to us both.

HER HUSBAND. Can you do me a huge favor, Apjohn? I really don’t want to ask, but it would mean a lot to both of us.

HE. What can I do?

What can I do?

HER HUSBAND [taking up the poems] Well, may I get these printed? It shall be done in the best style. The finest paper, sumptuous binding, everything first class. They're beautiful poems. I should like to show them about a bit.

HER HUSBAND [taking up the poems] So, can I get these printed? It'll be done in the best way possible. The best paper, gorgeous binding, everything top-notch. They’re beautiful poems. I’d like to share them a little.

SHE [running back from the bell, delighted with the idea, and coming between them] Oh Henry, if you wouldn't mind!

SHE [running back from the bell, excited by the thought, and stepping between them] Oh Henry, if you don't mind!

HE. Oh, I don't mind. I am past minding anything. I have grown too fast this evening.

HE. Oh, I don't care. I've moved past caring about anything. I've grown too much this evening.

SHE. How old are you, Henry?

HE. This morning I was eighteen. Now I am—confound it! I'm quoting that beast of a play [he takes the Candida tickets out of his pocket and tears them up viciously].

HE. This morning I was eighteen. Now I am—damn it! I'm quoting that awful play [he takes the Candida tickets out of his pocket and tears them up angrily].

HER HUSBAND. What shall we call the volume? To Aurora, or something like that, eh?

HER HUSBAND. What should we name the book? How about "To Aurora" or something along those lines?

HE. I should call it How He Lied to Her Husband.

HE. I should name it How He Deceived Her Husband.

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