MALISE'S sitting-room. An afternoon, three months later. On the table are an open bottle of claret, his hat, and some tea-things. Down in the hearth is a kettle on a lighted spirit-stand. Near the door stands HAYWOOD, a short, round-faced man, with a tobacco-coloured moustache; MALISE, by the table, is contemplating a piece of blue paper.
HAYWOOD. Sorry to press an old customer, sir, but a year and an 'alf without any return on your money----
MALISE. Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood. I wish I could see my way to smoking another.
HAYWOOD. Well, sir--that's a funny remedy.
With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears.
MALISE. Yes. What is it?
BOY. Your copy for "The Watchfire," please, sir.
MALISE. [Motioning him out] Yes. Wait!
The Boy withdraws. MALISE goes up to the pile of books, turns them over, and takes up some volumes.
MALISE. This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio's "Decameron," Mr. Haywood illustrated. I should say you would get more than the amount of your bill for them.
HAYWOOD. [Shaking his head] Them books worth three pound seven!
MALISE. It's scarce, and highly improper. Will you take them in discharge?
HAYWOOD. [Torn between emotions] Well, I 'ardly know what to say--No, Sir, I don't think I'd like to 'ave to do with that.
MALISE. You could read them first, you know?
HAYWOOD. [Dubiously] I've got my wife at 'ome.
MALISE. You could both read them.
HAYWOOD. [Brought to his bearings] No, Sir, I couldn't.
MALISE. Very well; I'll sell them myself, and you shall have the result.
HAYWOOD. Well, thank you, sir. I'm sure I didn't want to trouble you.
MALISE. Not at all, Mr. Haywood. It's for me to apologize.
HAYWOOD. So long as I give satisfaction.
MALISE. [Holding the door for him] Certainly. Good evening.
HAYWOOD. Good evenin', sir; no offence, I hope.
MALISE. On the contrary.
Doubtfully HAYWOOD goes. And MALISE stands scratching his head; then slipping the bill into one of the volumes to remind him, he replaces them at the top of the pile. The Boy again advances into the doorway.
MALI6E. Yes, now for you.
He goes to the table and takes some sheets of MS. from an old portfolio. But the door is again timidly pushed open, and HAYWOOD reappears.
MALISE. Yes, Mr. Haywood?
HAYWOOD. About that little matter, sir. If--if it's any convenience to you--I've--thought of a place where I could----
MALISE. Read them? You'll enjoy them thoroughly.
HAYWOOD. No, sir, no! Where I can dispose of them.
MALISE. [Holding out the volumes] It might be as well. [HAYWOOD takes the books gingerly] I congratulate you, Mr. Haywood; it's a classic.
HAYWOOD. Oh, indeed--yes, sir. In the event of there being any----
MALISE. Anything over? Carry it to my credit. Your bill-- [He hands over the blue paper] Send me the receipt. Good evening!
HAYWOOD, nonplussed, and trying to hide the books in an evening paper, fumbles out. "Good evenin', sir!" and departs. MALISE again takes up the sheets of MS. and cons a sentence over to himself, gazing blankly at the stolid BOY.
MALISE. "Man of the world--good form your god! Poor buttoned-up philosopher" [the Boy shifts his feet] "inbred to the point of cretinism, and founded to the bone on fear of ridicule [the Boy breathes heavily] --you are the slave of facts!"
[There is a knock on the door]
MALISE. Who is it?
The door is pushed open, and REGINALD HUNTINGDON stands there.
HUNTINGDON. I apologize, sir; can I come in a minute?
[MALISE bows with ironical hostility]
HUNTINGDON. I don't know if you remember me--Clare Dedmond's brother.
MALISE. I remember you.
[He motions to the stolid Boy to go outside again]
HUNTINGDON. I've come to you, sir, as a gentleman----
MALISE. Some mistake. There is one, I believe, on the first floor.
HUNTINGDON. It's about my sister.
MALISE. D--n you! Don't you know that I've been shadowed these last three months? Ask your detectives for any information you want.
HUNTINGDON. We know that you haven't seen her, or even known where she is.
MALISE. Indeed! You've found that out? Brilliant!
HUNTINGDON. We know it from my sister.
MALISE. Oh! So you've tracked her down?
HUNTINGDON. Mrs. Fullarton came across her yesterday in one of those big shops--selling gloves.
MALISE. Mrs. Fullarton the lady with the husband. Well! you've got her. Clap her back into prison.
HUNTINGDON. We have not got her. She left at once, and we don't know where she's gone.
MALISE. Bravo!
HUNTINGDON. [Taking hold of his bit] Look here, Mr. Malise, in a way I share your feeling, but I'm fond of my sister, and it's damnable to have to go back to India knowing she must be all adrift, without protection, going through God knows what! Mrs. Fullarton says she's looking awfully pale and down.
MALISE. [Struggling between resentment and sympathy] Why do you come to me?
HUNTINGDON. We thought----
MALISE. Who?
HUNTINGDON. My--my father and myself.
MALISE. Go on.
HUNTINGDON. We thought there was just a chance that, having lost that job, she might come to you again for advice. If she does, it would be really generous of you if you'd put my father in touch with her. He's getting old, and he feels this very much. [He hands MALISE a card] This is his address.
MALISE. [Twisting the card] Let there be no mistake, sir; I do nothing that will help give her back to her husband. She's out to save her soul alive, and I don't join the hue and cry that's after her. On the contrary--if I had the power. If your father wants to shelter her, that's another matter. But she'd her own ideas about that.
HUNTINGDON. Perhaps you don't realize how unfit my sister is for rough and tumble. She's not one of this new sort of woman. She's always been looked after, and had things done for her. Pluck she's got, but that's all, and she's bound to come to grief.