The 'Mind the Paint' Girl by Arthur Wing Pinero (i am malala young readers edition TXT) 📖

party!

Gabrielle.

Dolefully. Well, don’t make a scene.

De Castro.

Thene! I’m not makin’ a thene. Walkin’ away from me in the middle of a danthe and leavin’ me thtandin’ thtarin’ after you like a detherted child! You’re makin’ the thene!

Gabrielle.

I’m very sorry.

De Castro.

I’m jutht ath good a waltzther ath anyone here, and better than motht. Waving his arms. If you’re tired of me, announthe the fact quietly. Don’t go and wipe your bootth on me in public, becauthe that hurtth my pride.

Gabrielle.

With a little twist of her body. I can’t do more than apologise. First time I’ve ever done that to a man.

De Castro.

Coming to her, mollified. I don’t athk it, Gabth; I don’t athk it. All I athk——

Gabrielle.

Sitting on the nearer settee in the centre. If I’m rude, it’s owing to my low spirits. I’m so shockingly low-spirited.

De Castro.

I know you are, and I make allowanthes for yer. I repeat, all I athk——

Gabrielle.

Gazing at vacancy. Mine’s a strange nature. On the stage, I’m liveliness itself——!

De Castro.

A perfect little lump o’ talent! I’ve been tellin’ Carlton tho—perthuadin’ him to introduthe an extra thong for you in Act Two.

Gabrielle.

Looking at de Castro. You have?

De Castro.

Yeth.

Gabrielle.

Did he promise to think it over?

De Castro.

Hith exthact wordth!

Gabrielle.

With a hollow laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Resuming her former attitude. As I was remarking, I’m a mass of inconsistency. On the stage the embodiment of elfish fun——

De Castro.

That wath in the Mail.

Gabrielle.

Nodding. In the Mail. Off the stage, I’m a sufferer from what’s called the artistic temperature—no—temperament——

De Castro.

Uncomfortably, patting her shoulder. Po’ little girl; po’ little girl!

Gabrielle.

Her melancholy increasing. Sometimes I’ve an idea that if I had a motor-car of my own I should feel easier and happier.

De Castro.

With a change of tone. What d’ye mean—motor-car of yer own? Mine’th alwayth at your dithpothal, ithn’t it?

Gabrielle.

Shaking her head. That’s not the same thing. Whenever I have yours out, I’m weighed down by a sense of borrowing.

De Castro.

Well, if I gave you a new car, you’d be weighed down by a thenthe of my havin’ paid for it.

Gabrielle.

At first I should, but not for long. Seeing my family crest on the door-panels, instead of your monogram, ’ud help me to forget you’d had anything to do with it. Gloomily. Of course, it ’ud only be an experiment. It might cheer me up, or it mightn’t.

The music ceases. A waiter carrying a tray enters at the door on the left, goes behind the counter, and mixes some drinks.

De Castro.

After a pause, loosening his collar—in a low voice. Here! We’d better dithcuth thith experiment. Glancing over his shoulder at the waiter. Let’th come and thit in the pit.

Gabrielle.

Rising. I can’t argue; my head’s too bad for that.

De Castro.

Leading her to the double-door. I don’t want to argue; I thimply want to arrive at an underthtandin’. Thuppothin’ I buy you a car, am I to be made an arth of at the nexth danthe we happen to meet at—yeth or no?——

They go out on to the landing and disappear as Fulkerson hurries in at the right-hand door at the back. His eyes are rather glassy and his utterance is a little thick.

Fulkerson.

To the waiter, joining him behind the counter. Hi! Wake up, there! Gla’sodawa’erf’misspirch’nth’stage. Distinctly. Misspirch—on th’stage—gla’—sodawa’er. I’ll have a whiskey. Wh’sthwhiskey? Which—is—the—whiskey? Than’g. Pouring some whiskey into a tumbler. You take sodaw’er t’ Misspirch; I’ll mix m’own whiskey. Loo’ sharp, sodaw’er Misspirch. The waiter goes out with the drinks and Fulkerson, glass in hand, comes to the nearer side of the counter. He swallows his drink greedily, singing to himself between the gulps. “Oh, the gals! Oh, the gals! I am awfully fond of the gals! Putting his empty glass upon the counter and making for the door on the left. Be they ebon or blond, Of the gals I am fond; I am dreadfully fond of the gals!”

He vanishes as Farncombe and Lily enter at the right-hand door at the back. There is an air of constraint and uneasiness about the girl. She comes to the nearer settee in the centre and again picks up her bouquet. Farncombe follows her. They talk in subdued voices and with frequent pauses.

Farncombe.

Another ice?

Lily.

Rearranging a rose, almost inaudibly. No, thanks.

Farncombe.

After a pause. I—I wish I had given you a bouquet instead of a big, ugly basket.

Lily.

Why?

Farncombe.

You—you might have brought it to the theatre, as you have that one, and carried it about with you.

Lily.

Coldly. I didn’t bring this to the theatre.

Farncombe.

No?

Lily.

I found it with a lot of other flowers at the stage-door. It’s from the gallery boys—looking at him for a moment steadily—and I attach some value to it.

The bearded waiter enters at the right-hand door at the back, takes a box of cigars from the counter, and goes out at the door on the left. Lily walks away from Farncombe and seats herself upon the further settee in the centre.

Farncombe.

After the waiter has withdrawn, producing his programme. Number Nine. “Two Step. Mind the Paint.” To Lily. Of course, you—you are engaged for this?

Lily.

And you, surely?

Farncombe.

No, I—I kept it open, in case—in case——

Lily.

Decidedly. I dance it with Morrie.

Farncombe.

Mr. Cooling?

Lily.

Morrie Cooling.

Farncombe.

After another pause, sitting, behind her, upon the nearer settee. Miss Parradell.

Lily.

Well?

Farncombe.

I wonder whether Mr. Cooling would let you off.

Lily.

I shouldn’t dream of asking him.

Farncombe.

No, but—may I?

Lily.

Haughtily. I beg you’ll do nothing of the sort.

Farncombe.

Forgive me.

There is a further pause and then she turns to him.

Lily.

Why I spoke so—so sharply to you—was——

Farncombe.

You didn’t speak sharply to me.

Lily.

Was because I’ve been very nasty with Morrie— wrote him a furious letter—and I want to make it up to him.

Farncombe.

Ah, yes.

Lily.

I called him a pig, and other things; I hate myself for it.

Farncombe.

A pig?

Lily.

Smiling. Still, that’s no reason why I should be nasty with you.

Farncombe.

Laughingly. And call me a pig.

Lily.

Impulsively, kneeling upon the settee so that she may compare her programme with his. Look here! Fifteen—the last but one. Are you fixed up for Fifteen?

Farncombe.

No.

Lily.

No!

Farncombe.

I kept it open—in case——

Lily.

Merrily. Ha, ha—! Checking herself, severely. I might be able to give you Fifteen. Farncombe scribbles on his programme eagerly. Don’t count on it, please; but it’s booked to Mr. Fulkerson, and Bertie’s not always to be depended upon at that hour.

Farncombe.

Thank you—thank you—thank you. She resumes her seat and he jumps up and goes to her. That reminds me. May I ask who is going to see you home, Miss Parradell?

Lily.

See me home?

Farncombe.

It would be an honour that I should—appreciate—more than I can—find words to express.

Lily.

Rising, sternly. I am very much obliged to you. Walking away from him again. I dare say Mr. Roper will see me home—and Mr. de Castro—and Mr. Bland——

Farncombe.

Following her, unhappily. I—I hope—I—I hope I haven’t offended you.

Lily.

Not in the least; in a frigid tone only I am in the habit of relying on old friends for those little services.

Stidulph enters from the landing and again wanders to the counter and to the cigarettes. The “Mind the Paint” air, to the time of a Two Step, is played in the distance.

Farncombe.

Bowing to Lily slightly and drawing himself up. Shall I—take you to Mr. Cooling?

Lily.

With dignity, inclining her head. Will you? She is putting her hand through his arm when the look upon his face softens her. She drops her voice to a whisper. Have I hurt you?

Farncombe.

Oh, I deserve the rebuke.

Lily.

No, you don’t. Gently. You may leave me at my door, with the others, if it will give you any satisfaction.

As they walk to the door on the left, they are met by Cooling.

Cooling.

To Lily, breathlessly. Haw! Here you are!

Lily.

Leaving Farncombe, her manner altering completely. Come on, Morrie! Her feet moving to the music. Tra, lal, la! Tra, lal, la! Giving her bouquet to Farncombe. Hi-i-i-i-i! Bring my flowers!

Cooling and Lily.

Tra, lal, la! Tra, lal, la——!

They run out, half dancing.

Stidulph.

Calling to Farncombe, who is following them. Lord Farncombe!

Farncombe.

Yes?

Stidulph.

Going to him. Will you spare me a moment?

Farncombe.

A little impatiently. Er—certainly.

Stidulph.

Laying a shaky hand on Farncombe’s arm and leading him away from the door. Excuse me for what I’m going to say to you. I—I know your father—knew him very well years ago—and your mother. With deep feeling. My boy—my dear boy——

Farncombe.

Surprised. Colonel?

Stidulph.

I—I—I’m sorry to find you in this set.

Farncombe.

Stiffly. What do you mean?

Stidulph.

Don’t be angry with me. I’m an old man—and an old fool; but it’s from the fools that the useful lessons are to be learned.

Farncombe.

Withdrawing his arm from Stidulph. I really don’t understand you.

Stidulph.

Try to. Not now—another time; when this music isn’t exciting you, nor these pretty women. Think it out by yourself! You’re at the beginning of your career, my boy. Remember me—the old fool who’s brought his to a miserable end—and that I cautioned you—cautioned you—!

Luigi hurries in at the door on the left, followed by a waiter carrying a tray, and by the waiter with the beard.

Luigi.

Laughing. He, he, he, he! Behind the counter, preparing drinks. Look out, gentlemen; you are losing it all. They are having a romp—a fine lark. Farncombe goes out at the door on the left. Make haste, Colonel; make haste! Stidulph goes out, slowly, at the right-hand door at the back. Whiskey-and-soda for Mr. Tavish; liqueur of brandy—Mr. Grimwood. The waiter carrying the tray goes out with the drinks at the door on the left. Ha, ha, ha! Singing to the music. Tra, lal, la! Tra, lal, la——!

Luigi is following the waiter who has carried out the tray when the bearded waiter, coming to the nearer settee in the centre, calls to him.

The Bearded Waiter.

Sitting upon the settee, gruffly. Luigi.

Luigi.

Halting. Eh?

The Bearded Waiter.

Taking out a handful of money and selecting some gold from it. Here! Putting the gold into Luigi’s palm. For your chaps.

Luigi.

Oh, you are spoiling them.

The Bearded Waiter.

Giving some more gold pieces to Luigi. For you.

Luigi.

Bowing low. Thank you very much. With a polite grin, as he disposes of the coins in different pockets. Hope you have enjoyed yourself, Captain.

The Bearded Waiter.

Speaking in the voice of Jeyes. Thoroughly. Quietly, between his teeth. Warm work, though! Rising slowly, like a man with stiff joints. I’ll be off now, with your permission.

Luigi.

See you at lunch, Captain?

Jeyes.

Probably. Nodding. Good-night. Good morning. He slouches away to the door on the left and there stops, listening. There is the sound of people approaching, singing uproariously and shouting and laughing. Hullo!

Luigi.

At his elbow. Ho, ho, ho, ho!

Luigi goes out into the corridor and Jeyes retreats behind the counter. The noise increases and presently Fulkerson rushes in, flourishing his arms madly. He is followed by Glynn and Shirley who are carrying Lily upon their interlocked hands, and by Palk who is helping to