SCENE TWO

Dinner has just been concluded. Mr. Critchfield slouches into the living room, thoughtfully manipulating a toothpick. He removes his coat and shoes and loosens his tie; he flops wearily into the big chair under the floor lamp and unfolds his evening paper to the market reports. As Lila enters, he mechanically extends a section of the paper to her with a muffled grunt.

LILA: No thanks, Oliver. I misplaced my glasses. [She settles into her usual place by radio and picks up her sewing.] How’s cotton?

OLIVER: Off two points on the Memphis curb. One at New Orleans.

LILA [glancing at him]: Well, did you go to the clinic today?

OLIVER: Huh? —Yes. I went.

LILA: What did they tell you?

OLIVER [sheepishly]: Nothing wrong with my heart. Just gas on the stomach.

LILA [relieved]: I knew it! I get palpitations myself when I eat too many starchy things. Nervous stomach’s the curse of the Critchfields. Alf struggled against it for years, so did Cousin Rachel.

[From the dining room across the hall Mrs. Critchfield’s strident voice is heard directing the colored servant.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Hurry up, get this table cleared off. I want the place to look decent in case Mr. Shannon comes in. No, no, you’ve been in the house twenty years and you still don’t know where the percolator sits! No, take the dishes, take the dishes, I’ll take care of the silver! Ozzie, be careful. Don’t try to carry three things off at once, here, you let me—

[There is a startled outcry from Ozzie and a crash of broken china. Mrs. Critchfield screams in agony.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Oh, my good— Ooooh!

LILA [with fatalistic calm]: She broke another piece of Havilland.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Get out of here, you trifling nigger, get on back to the kitchen.

OZZIE: Yes’m, Mizz Critchfield.

LILA [calling]: What happened in there?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: She broke another piece of the Havilland.

LILA [sotto voce]: It’s no wonder. The way she devils that girl would drive a saint to distraction. [She rubs her forearms.] It’s chilly, I’ve got goose pimples— [She takes a few more stitches.] Somebody must be walking over my grave . . .

[Mrs. Critchfield charges into the front room. She stands stage center, her eyes shooting Olympian bolts at her husband’s oblivious figure. She suddenly swoops down on him like a predatory hawk and snatches the newspaper from his hands.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Yes, to you it’s a matter of complete indifference!

OLIVER: What the Sam Hill—!

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: No, Oliver, I shouldn’t annoy you! I should go right on bearing the whole intolerable burden just as I’ve done the past twenty-three or four years.

LILA: Why don’t you let him digest his dinner?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: There are some things more important than digestion.

LILA: That’s a matter of opinion.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: You probably wouldn’t think so. But I’m not willing nor able to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich when my daughter’s whole future is at stake!

OLIVER: What’s the matter with Heavenly?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: It’s high time you asked that question. Oliver, I’ve deliberately shouldered the whole thing myself because of your disinclination to accept any responsibility and also because of your health—

LILA: Stop carping on Oliver’s health. —He’s gone through the Memphis clinic this morning, and there’s not a thing wrong with him except nervous stomach.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Oh! Well. Is this true?

[Oliver clears his throat uneasily.]

You didn’t mention it to me? You didn’t think it was necessary to relieve my mind of all the anxiety I’ve had to suffer because of your constant complaints?

LILA: I guess he wanted to break it to you gently. [She switches on the radio.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: But from what Dr. Gray said—

LILA: Dr. Gray said nothing. He never says anything except, “How’s your bowels!”

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Please! Will you turn that radio off? —There’s something I’ve got to discuss seriously with Oliver, something that— [Her voice breaks.]

LILA [rising]: Mind if I take the comics? [She winks at him and crosses offstage.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD [with extreme acidity as Lila closes the door]: It is sometimes difficult to believe that your sister comes of a genteel family. I suppose Heavenly’s lack of principles is not entirely her fault.

OLIVER: If you mean she’s a Critchfield, Ezzie, that’s nothing to her discredit. —Whatever the girl has done or hasn’t, I’m pretty sure it can’t be as serious as your hysteria would make a person suppose.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Oh, no, it’s nothing serious when a girl is being talked about by the whole town!

OLIVER [a little anxious]: Talked about, eh? I should consider it much more serious if she wasn’t being talked about. [There is a pause while he goes about filling his pipe.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Leave that pipe alone and listen to what I’m saying! —You’ve adopted that humorous tone too often in dealing with your child’s problems. —This time it won’t do.

OLIVER: All right, Esmeralda! When you’ve told me the cause of Heavenly’s disgrace I’ll be in a much better position to adopt a suitable tone of voice. What’s she done this time?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: For quite a while I’ve heard rumors—little insinuations—about Heavenly and that trifling boy she’s been going with.

OLIVER: Richard Miles?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Yes! I chose to ignore it because I thought my daughter was above such things. Well, now I’ve discovered that I was mistaken.

OLIVER: Discovered what?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: This afternoon right here in this room she came to me with the horrible, disgusting confession that— Oh. I don’t know how I’ve managed to keep my senses.

OLIVER [alarmed]: What in tarnation are you driving at? What confession? Esmeralda!

[The sound of a car stopping is heard.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD [in a sudden flurry]: Get those things out of here, those papers, your coat, your shoes! It’s Arthur Shannon! —We’ll finish this talk upstairs!

OLIVER: Good Lord!

[He belches and rubs his stomach. He crosses the room. Mrs. Critchfield hastily snatches up various articles, arranges sofa pillows and changes the position of her antique chair. She switches on the little museum light over Colonel Wayne’s portrait and then rushes out. Arthur enters first. His manner is markedly different from the first scene. His continental poise is lost, and he is awkward as an adolescent. He goes to the radio on which the roses are placed. Heavenly enters.]

HEAVENLY [removing her hat]: Lord, I’m glad to get this off! Arthur, I have a marvelous idea for a new spring hat. I’m going to pin a couple of roses on Aunt Lila’s purple silk parasol. [She crosses to Arthur.] Oh, aren’t they lovely! How did you know that talisman roses are my favorite flowers?

ARTHUR: Are they? I thought all girls preferred orchids.

HEAVENLY: I hate orchids.

ARTHUR: Hate them! Why?

HEAVENLY: Oh, I’ve seen ‘em at debuts in Memphis and the girls that wear ‘em are always those money-snobs who give you a look that peels the gilt off your slippers and puts ten years on your formal.

ARTHUR: Possibly if you wore one yourself you might overcome that aversion.

HEAVENLY: Yes. Possibly. Orchids are seen around here about as often as Haley’s Comet. Gosh, me with an orchid! I wouldn’t know what to do with it! I’d probably go parading up and down Front Street, holding it over my head and singing “The Star-spangled Banner”! [She seats herself on the sofa.]

ARTHUR: Or you might wear it to the Lamphrey’s tomorrow night.

HEAVENLY [springing up breathlessly]: Ahthuh!

ARTHUR: It was just an impulse. They weren’t available at Mr. Cutrere’s so I ordered one from Memphis.

HEAVENLY: You dahling! [She hugs him.] I’m—I’m completely flabbergasted! I’m so excited I could bust!

ARTHUR: I guess I should’ve surprised you with it, but when you said you hated orchids I was afraid you might be really allergic to them or something and so I—

HEAVENLY: Oh, no—no! I love orchids, I’m crazy about them! Gosh, me with an orchid! From Memphis? Won’t that create a sensation! Oh, I can just see it in the society column— “Miss Heavenly Critchfield lived up to her name last night in a divine white creation with a regal orchid pinned to her shoulder!”

ARTHUR: What’s a “divine white creation”?

HEAVENLY: Oh, that’s my white organdy— Mrs. Dowd, the society reporter, thinks it’s divine because it’s so damned everlasting. I graduated in it about five years ago, and it’s been getting more divine ever since till now it’s about fit to be worn as a night-shirt by Jesus! Wait a minute, will you? [She flies out of the room and is heard on the stairs—] Mothuh! Aunt Lila! What do you think?

[The upstairs door slams on her exuberant voice. Arthur goes hastily to the mantle mirror where he adjusts his tie and combs his hair; in a moment, Heavenly re-enters with two Coke bottles.]

Mothuh was just tickled silly and so was Aunt Lila. I thought maybe I could get a new pahty dress to go with it but nothing doing. I’ve got to wear God’s nightie. You’ll have a Coke with me, won’t you? [She exits through the rear door.]

ARTHUR: A what?

HEAVENLY [from offstage]: A Coca-Cola. Don’t you know? It’s a new kind of drink.

ARTHUR: No, thank you.

HEAVENLY [re-entering]: Why not?

ARTHUR: I never touch stimulants after six-thirty, especially when I’m not sleeping well.

HEAVENLY [drinking rapidly from the bottle]: Haven’t you been sleeping well?

ARTHUR: No. Not lately.

HEAVENLY: Oh, that’s a shame. [She returns to sofa, finishes one bottle and starts on the second.] What shall we talk about?

ARTHUR [uncomfortably]: Well, I—don’t know!

HEAVENLY [giggling]: You know what mother said to me before we went out? She said, “Heavenly, you must try to choose intelligent subjects of conversation so that Arthuh won’t get bored!” What do you think of that, Arthur? [She takes another long gulp.]

ARTHUR: I think it was quite unnecessary.

HEAVENLY: Yes. So do I. Because I really don’t know any intelligent subjects of conversation. [She laughs.] I asked Mothuh what she meant and she said, “Oh, books and things!” I said, “Well, I know what books are but what’s things?” And that made her furious, she turned as red as a lobster, and Aunt Lila and I both nearly died laughing— She called me an ignoramus! Which is perfectly true . . .

ARTHUR: I don’t think it is.

HEAVENLY: Ah! That’s terribly chivalrous of you. [She finishes the second bottle, then leans back on the sofa.] I feel like music tonight. Music and dancing. I hope we’ll have fun at the Lamphrey’s, don’t you?

ARTHUR: Yes.

[There is a constrained pause.]

HEAVENLY: What are you thinking about?

ARTHUR: Pardon?

HEAVENLY: I said what are you thinking about.

ARTHUR [very uncomfortable]: Oh—things.

HEAVENLY [with a slightly derisive smile]: Books and things?

ARTHUR: No.

HEAVENLY: Just books?

ARTHUR: No.

HEAVENLY: Oh! Just things. That’s nice. I wish I could think about things.

ARTHUR: Can’t you? [Heavenly shakes her head.] Why not? [Heavenly shrugs.]

HEAVENLY: It’s a wasted effort. It’s a lot easier just to feel things and it’s a lot more fun.

ARTHUR: Feeling some things isn’t fun.

HEAVENLY: No, of cou’se not. But thinking about them doesn’t help them any.

ARTHUR: Seems to me we’re getting a little metaphysical here.

HEAVENLY [wide-eyed]: What’s that?

ARTHUR: Metaphysical?

HEAVENLY: Yes.

ARTHUR: It’s sort of— dealing with insubstantial matters.

HEAVENLY: Oh. Like books and things. [She laughs.]

ARTHUR: I always have a rather uncomfortable feeling when you laugh that way.

HEAVENLY: Why?

ARTHUR: I suppose you’d call it a sort of—atavistic emotion

HEAVENLY: A what?

ARTHUR [confused]: Nothing.

HEAVENLY: Oh—nothing. [She smiles almost mockingly and lowers her eyes.] Look. It’s a bunny-rabbit. [She has twisted her white handkerchief into the semblance of a long-eared rabbit’s head.] It’s wiggling its ears at you. It says “Shame on Ahthuh fo’ usin’ such long words!” [She laughs.] It says, “If I went to school at Oxfo’d I’d be sma’t too an’ use big words, but I’m just a dumb little bunny that doesn’t know anything but how to wiggle its ears an’ eat grass!” [Slowly, dreamily she shakes the handkerchief out—she smiles sadly and shakes her head.] Poor bunny! He’s all disappeared—he’s just a little white hankie now. But he still smells nice. [She lifts it delicately to her nostrils, glancing provocatively at Arthur from under her dark lashes.] He smells like dead rose leaves. Mmmm. Aunt Lila makes your talisman roses into sachets when they’re withered an’ puts ‘em in our handkerchief boxes—gives ‘em such a sad, sweet smell. [She smiles.] Like old maids’ memories, that’s what it reminds me of! [She sniffs the cloth delicately once more, and then smooths it thoughtfully on her lap. Suddenly she raises her face to Arthur’s with a look of startling intensity.] I’d rather die than be an old maid! [Pause for emphasis.]

ARTHUR: Surely that’s not a possibility!

HEAVENLY [intensely]: Oh, yes it is. All the boys go No’th or East to make a livin’ unless they’ve got plantations. And that leaves a lot of girls sitting out on the front porch waitin’ fo’ the afte’noon mail. Sometimes it stops comin’. And they’re still sitting out there on the swing in their best white dresses, smilin’ so hard it’s a wonder they don’t crack their faces—so people across the street won’t know what’s happened! “Isn’t it marvelous weather? The sky’s so perfectly blue! Mother and I put up six quarts of blackberry jam last night!” —Oh, God!— [She rises quickly and walks over to the French window.] That’s why girls like me act so silly, Ahthuh, like music an’ dancing instead of books and things, because we’re scared inside, so scared it makes us feel sick at the stomach—

ARTHUR: Scared of what?

HEAVENLY: Of sitting out there forever on the front porch in our best dresses!

ARTHUR: That’s quite understandable in the case of some girls.

HEAVENLY: But not in mine?

ARTHUR: Certainly not.

HEAVENLY: Thanks. But you don’t know.

ARTHUR: Know what?

HEAVENLY: I made a mistake.

ARTHUR: In what way?

HEAVENLY: I—I loved the wrong boy.

ARTHUR: Oh. —You still do?

HEAVENLY: Yes. And now—

ARTHUR: Now?

HEAVENLY [desperate fear showing in her face]: Now he’s trying to break away—he wants to work on the river! He’d like to get rid of me now!

ARTHUR: Has he said so?

HEAVENLY: No, but I can feel it coming. [She smiles bitterly.] Oh, my! [She turns to the window, parts the curtains, and looks out with her back to Arthur. He looks at her, troubled, confused, his hands clenched.] —I don’t know why I should bother you with all this! [She laughs.] It’s not your affair! [She turns slowly back to him.] It’s starting to rain again—it makes such a sleepy sound I can hardly keep my eyes open. . . . [She has returned to the sofa, draws her feet under her, and leans back provocatively. She looks at Arthur from under her lashes with a very slight smile.] I hope that Mothuh doesn’t come in. I’m not in what you would call a very ladylike position. However I’m too comfortable to care. [She allows one arm to slip languidly from the sofa, fingers trailing the floor.]

ARTHUR [clears his throat and rises]: Heavenly, I—

HEAVENLY: What?

[He has started toward her and then, as if frightened, draws back. He mechanically removes a small book from his pocket.]

ARTHUR: I wanted to give you this.

HEAVENLY: What is it?

ARTHUR: A book of modern verse.

HEAVENLY [in a tone of final despair]: Oh.

ARTHUR: It’s an autographed first edition of Humphrey Hardcastle.

HEAVENLY: Oh.

ARTHUR: There’s just a short passage I marked last night.

HEAVENLY: Oh.

ARTHUR [fumbling in an agony of embarrassment. through the pages]: Here it is.

HEAVENLY [sadly]: Please commence the reading.

ARTHUR: It’s called “Apostrophe to a Dead Lover!”

HEAVENLY: It sounds so’t of spooky.

[Arthur springs up violently and flings the book to the floor.]

HEAVENLY: What’s the matter?

ARTHUR [choked]: Nothing! I don’t know. I’m in a state of confusion! [He crosses the room a few steps.] I guess you think I’m a pretty queer sort of person. I am. I was brought up in a school for problem children, I’ve never had any normal relations with people. I want what I’m afraid of and I’m afraid of what I want so that I’m like a storm inside that can’t break loose! Do you see?

HEAVENLY: No. not quite. [She smiles at his back.]

ARTHUR [sharply]: Why are you laughing at me?

HEAVENLY: I wasn’t.

ARTHUR: You were — I could see you in the mirror!

HEAVENLY: I was only smiling a little.

ARTHUR: You smile like that a great deal. You used to smile that way when I knew you in grade school.

HEAVENLY: Can you remember me that long ago?

ARTHUR: Yes. Very clearly. Especially the way that you smiled.

HEAVENLY: I didn’t know my smile was that hard to forget.

ARTHUR: Ordinarily it might not be. But I was sensitive.

HEAVENLY: You mean you thought I was making fun of you?

ARTHUR: I knew that you were.

HEAVENLY: I don’t remember.

ARTHUR: Don’t you remember that afternoon when a bunch of them cornered me in the recess yard and kept yelling “sissy” at me until I cried? You stood there laughing at me. I never forgot that afternoon. That was something I never got over. It wasn’t the boys yelling sissy that hurt me so much. It was you—you standing there laughing at me the way you were laughing a minute ago when I caught your face in the mirror. That laugh, that was why I couldn’t go back to school anymore—so they had to send me to Europe and say that I’d had a nervous breakdown.

HEAVENLY: You mean that was all on my account?

ARTHUR: Yes. On account of you.

HEAVENLY: Then I should think you would hate me.

ARTHUR: I did. I hated you.

HEAVENLY: You still do? Now?

ARTHUR: Yes. You don’t get over things like that. When I saw you again this spring for the first time in thirteen years it was exactly the same. It started all over again.

HEAVENLY: You mean that afternoon at your mother’s reception?

ARTHUR: Yes. When I came downstairs and saw you standing in the hall looking up at me with that politely contemptuous smile of yours—it was the same exactly—all you needed was a white hair ribbon and a handful of jacks!

HEAVENLY: You turned and went back upstairs.

ARTHUR: You must’ve been awfully amused.

HEAVENLY: I was. At Mothuh’s disappointment.

ARTHUR: The next morning I called Cutrere’s. Had them send you a dozen roses without any name.

HEAVENLY: What did you do that for?

ARTHUR: I don’t know. Everything that I’ve done since then has been done by compulsion. If you only knew the heroic effort it took for me to ask you to the country club that first time.

HEAVENLY: Your voice sounded funny over the phone.

ARTHUR: I had butterflies in my throat. At lunch I kept dropping the silver.

HEAVENLY: I thought you were sick.

ARTHUR: I was.

HEAVENLY: But if I made you so miserable why did you want to be with me?

ARTHUR: You don’t know much about psychology.

HEAVENLY: No.

ARTHUR: The reason I hated you was that I loved you.

HEAVENLY: Loved me?

ARTHUR: Yes.

HEAVENLY: I don’t see how that’s possible. You couldn’t love anybody that you hated.

ARTHUR: Oh, yes, you could. Very easily. Strindberg says “It’s called love-hatred and it hails from the pit!”

HEAVENLY: I don’t know anything about Strindberg, but it doesn’t sound practical to me. How could you be in love at that age?

ARTHUR: Thirteen’s old enough. Of course, there wasn’t anything consciously sexual about it.

HEAVENLY: I should hope not.

ARTHUR: I think you can love more at that age than any time afterwards. At least it’s the hardest to get over.

HEAVENLY: But you have gotten over it now?

ARTHUR: Of course I haven’t.

HEAVENLY: You mean you still—?

ARTHUR: Yes. More than ever.

HEAVENLY [crossing to the sofa]: I don’t believe you. What you want is to have your revenge. Once you got me you wouldn’t want me anymore. You’d leave me cold.

ARTHUR: No!

HEAVENLY: Yes, that’s it. Whether you know it or not that’s how it would be. No. Thanks! I’d rather take a chance on Dick. At least he’s honest. It’s none of your psychological business—we’re really in love!

ARTHUR: Heavenly— [He moves uncertainly toward her.]

HEAVENLY: You’d better go now. I’ve got another engagement.

ARTHUR: Who with? Richard Miles?

HEAVENLY: Yes.

ARTHUR [with childish cruelty]: I’ve heard about you and him.

HEAVENLY [stiffening]: Have you?

ARTHUR: Yes. People have told me.

HEAVENLY: Who’s told you what? That long-nosed mother of yours?

ARTHUR: You don’t have to insult my mother.

HEAVENLY: I don’t like having people gossip about my business.

ARTHUR: My mother’s never mentioned your name.

HEAVENLY: Oh, hasn’t she? I’ve heard different.

ARTHUR: You’ve heard that she gossips about you?

HEAVENLY: Yes. [Her voice breaks.] They all do.

ARTHUR: If he was the right kind he wouldn’t expose you to that sort of thing. He’d respect you too much.

HEAVENLY: He didn’t seduce me if that’s what you mean. He didn’t have to. I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

ARTHUR [pausing]: We’re being childish, both of us. Deliberately hurting each other. It doesn’t matter about you and that boy. I’ve had an affair myself with a girl in London.

HEAVENLY: One of those intellectual affairs?

ARTHUR: No. Quite the opposite.

HEAVENLY: That’s sort of hard to imagine.

ARTHUR: Why is it hard to imagine?

HEAVENLY [smiling cruelly]: Why? I can’t explain why.

ARTHUR: STOP IT! [He raises his hands to his ears, then lowers them slowly.] Don’t smile at me that way!

HEAVENLY: Why did you cover your ears?

ARTHUR: I could hear them—yelling sissy at me—in the yard . . .

HEAVENLY: Oh.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD [in the hall]: Heavenly, dear!

HEAVENLY [sotto voce]: It’s Mother. Please go now. She’ll keep us forever and I’ve got to meet Dick.

[Arthur doesn’t move.]

Will you please go?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD [appearing in the hall with pitcher of lemonade]: Heavenly, I’m going to drop these glasses! Ahthuh, how are you? Mmmm. [She purrs dotingly as she extends her hand.] I thought you young people might enjoy a little refreshment. It’s just lemonade. [She giggles foolishly and then notices the empty coca-cola bottles.] Oh, dear, you’ve already had drinks?

HEAVENLY: I had a Coke. Ahthuh didn’t want any.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Of course Ahthuh didn’t. He’s got too much sense to poison himself with that stuff. I’ve heard it’s habit-forming. [She sets down the pitcher.] Heavenly, there’s a little plate of Aunt Lila’s gingerbread cookies on the kitchen table. And you might bring in a few napkins, dear.

HEAVENLY: Yes, mother. [She crosses quickly out of the room.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD [sitting with a benign purr]: How is Mrs. Shannon?

ARTHUR [also sitting]: Quite well, thank you.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: That’s good! —Mmmm—I suppose she must have told you about the honor that she received last week?

ARTHUR: An honor?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Oh, my yes—yes, indeed! She was elected Vice-Regent of the D.A. Ahhh! I was so pleased when her papers went through. We need women of your mother’s caliber so badly in our patriotic societies. I happen to be serving as Regent this year. I’ve served twice before in that capacity and once as Advisory Regent and once as Sergeant-at-Arms! Mmmm. Club-work is so absorbing. It makes one neglect other things. Such as books. What do you think of the works of James Fenimore Cooper?

ARTHUR [absently]: Pardon?

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: James Fenimore Cooper—what do you think of his works?

ARTHUR: Oh, yes—yes, indeed!

MRS. CRITCHFIELD [brightly]: Do you? I wondered if you did!

ARTHUR: Yes. . . .

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Yes. . . .

[There is a constrained silence. Mrs. Critchfield clears her throat and looks uneasily toward the rear door.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Pardon me a moment. I think Heavenly must be having some trouble in the kitchen.

[Arthur rises as she goes out.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD [from offstage]: Heavenly, dear! Where are you, dear?

[A terrible silence. She is heard running upstairs calling her daughter’s name above. Arthur stands waiting in nervous misery till Mrs. Critchfield re-enters the room. She is completely unstrung by Heavenly’s shocking flight, but with the invincible spirit of Colonel Wayne she resolves to carry it off as bravely as she is able, giving Arthur her most brilliant smile, a little tremulous at the corners.]

Oh, dear, I’m afraid that Heavenly won’t be able to come back in. The poor child is just prostrated and so I told her to go right on up to her bed and let me give you her excuses, Arthur. She didn’t want to but when I saw how ill she was looking I—I just insisted! I told her that I was sure you would excuse her since she was feeling so badly.

ARTHUR [embarrassed]: Certainly, I— I’m dreadfully sorry. [He moves toward the door.] I hope it’s nothing serious.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Oh, no, nothing serious, Arthur. She has such a nervous stomach, poor child. We call it the curse of the Critchfields.

ARTHUR: Oh. Please give her my sympathy. And tell her I hope she’ll be well enough to go to the lawn party tomorrow.

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Oh, she will! Arthur, I’m sure she will. Her nerves are just a little unstrung you know. She needs rest—I’ll tell her that you excused her, Arthur.

ARTHUR: Thank you, Mrs. Critchfield. —Good night.

[Arthur turns and goes into the hall. Mrs. Critchfield follows him.]

MRS. CRITCHFIELD: Good night, Arthur. Give your mother my love. Tell her I do hope she’ll be at the meeting tomorrow. Good night, Arthur. Good night—

[The door is heard closing. Mrs. Critchfield comes slowly back into the living room with the brilliant, artificial smile still set on her face, her hand still raised in a parting gesture. The hand slowly falls and clasps her bosom. She simpers foolishly to herself, then gazes helplessly about the room. She lifts her hands to her lips with a breathless gasp, then her face puckers grotesquely and she begins to cry like a child as—]

THE CURTAIN FALLS.