And he did. It was rather nice. And there was one quite decent little man in the shop--I was sorry for him--such a humble little man!
MALISE. Poor devil--it's hard not to wish for the moon.
At the tone of his voice CLARE looks up at him; his face is turned away.
CLARE. [Softly] How have you been? Working very hard?
MALISE. As hard as God will let me.
CLARE. [Stealing another look] Have you any typewriting I could do?
I could learn, and I've still got a brooch I could sell. Which is the best kind?
MALISE. I had a catalogue of them somewhere.
He goes into the inner room. The moment he is gone, CLARE stands up, her hands pressed to her cheeks as if she felt them flaming. Then, with hands clasped, she stands waiting. He comes back with the old portfolio.
MALISE. Can you typewrite where you are?
CLARE. I have to find a new room anyway. I'm changing--to be safe.
[She takes a luggage ticket from her glove] I took my things to Charing Cross--only a bag and one trunk. [Then, with that queer expression on her face which prefaces her desperations] You don't want me now, I suppose.
MALISE. What?
CLARE. [Hardly above a whisper] Because--if you still wanted me--I do--now.
[Etext editors note: In the 1924 revision, 11 years after this 1913 edition: "I do--now" is changed to "I could--now"--a significant change in meaning. D.W.]
MALISE. [Staring hard into her face that is quivering and smiling]
You mean it? You do? You care----?
CLARE. I've thought of you--so much! But only--if you're sure.
He clasps her and kisses her closed eyes; and so they stand for a moment, till the sound of a latchkey in the door sends them apart.
MALISE. It's the housekeeper. Give me that ticket; I'll send for your things.
Obediently she gives him the ticket, smiles, and goes quietly into the inner room. MRS. MILER has entered; her face, more Chinese than ever, shows no sign of having seen.
MALISE. That lady will stay here, Mrs. Miler. Kindly go with this ticket to the cloak-room at Charing Cross station, and bring back her luggage in a cab. Have you money?
MRS. MILER. 'Arf a crown. [She takes the ticket--then impassively]
In case you don't know--there's two o' them men about the stairs now.
The moment she is gone MALISE makes a gesture of maniacal fury.
He steals on tiptoe to the outer door, and listens. Then, placing his hand on the knob, he turns it without noise, and wrenches back the door. Transfigured in the last sunlight streaming down the corridor are two men, close together, listening and consulting secretly. They start back.
MALISE. [With strange, almost noiseless ferocity] You've run her to earth; your job's done. Kennel up, hounds! [And in their faces he slams the door]
CURTAIN.
SCENE II
SCENE II--The same, early on a winter afternoon, three months later.
The room has now a certain daintiness. There are curtains over the doors, a couch, under the window, all the books are arranged on shelves. In small vases, over the fireplace, are a few violets and chrysanthemums. MALISE sits huddled in his armchair drawn close to the fore, paper on knee, pen in hand. He looks rather grey and drawn, and round his chair is the usual litter. At the table, now nearer to the window, CLARE sits working a typewriter. She finishes a line, puts sheets of paper together, makes a note on a card--adds some figures, and marks the total.
CLARE. Kenneth, when this is paid, I shall have made two pound seventeen in the three months, and saved you about three pounds. One hundred and seventeen shillings at tenpence a thousand is one hundred and forty thousand words at fourteen hundred words an hour. It's only just over an hour a day. Can't you get me more?
MALISE lifts the hand that holds his pen and lets it fall again.
CLARE puts the cover on the typewriter, and straps it.
CLARE. I'm quite packed. Shall I pack for you? [He nods] Can't we have more than three days at the sea? [He shakes his head. Going up to him] You did sleep last night.
MALISE. Yes, I slept.
CLARE. Bad head? [MALISE nods] By this time the day after to-morrow the case will be heard and done with. You're not worrying for me? Except for my poor old Dad, I don't care a bit.
MALISE heaves himself out of the chair, and begins pacing up and down.
CLARE. Kenneth, do you understand why he doesn't claim damages, after what he said that day-here? [Looking suddenly at him] It is true that he doesn't?
MALISE. It is not.
CLARE. But you told me yourself MALISE. I lied.
CLARE. Why?
MALISE. [Shrugging] No use lying any longer--you'd know it tomorrow.
CLARE. How much am I valued at?
MALISE. Two thousand. [Grimly] He'll settle it on you. [He laughs]
Masterly! By one stroke, destroys his enemy, avenges his "honour," and gilds his name with generosity!
CLARE. Will you have to pay?
MALISE. Stones yield no blood.
CLARE. Can't you borrow?
MALISE. I couldn't even get the costs.
CLARE. Will they make you bankrupt, then? [MALISE nods] But that doesn't mean that you won't have your income, does it? [MALISE laughs] What is your income, Kenneth? [He is silent] A hundred and fifty from "The Watchfire," I know. What else?
MALISE. Out of five books I have made the sum of forty pounds.
CLARE. What else? Tell me.
MALISE. Fifty to a hundred pounds a year. Leave me to gnaw my way out, child.
CLARE stands looking at him in distress, then goes quickly into the room behind her. MALISE takes up his paper and pen. The paper is quite blank.
MALISE. [Feeling his head] Full of smoke.
He drops paper and pen, and crossing to the room on the left goes in. CLARE re-enters with a small leather box. She puts it down on her typing table as MALISE returns followed by MRS.
MILER, wearing her hat, and carrying His overcoat.
MRS. MILER. Put your coat on. It's a bitter wind.
[He puts on the coat]
CLARE. Where are you going?
MALISE. To "The Watchfire."
The door closes behind him, and MRS. MILER goes up to CLARE holding out a little blue bottle with a red label, nearly full.
MRS. MILER. You know he's takin' this [She makes a little motion towards her mouth] to make 'im sleep?
CLARE. [Reading the label] Where was it?
