Masks, with Jim's beast, Tides, Among the lions, The reason, The house

Chapter IV: Part 4

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No. And I’d been rehearsing for weeks what I should say.

RANDOLPH

But didn’t he----?

MRS. SABINE

(_Bitterly_)

I tell you he didn’t even insult me!

RANDOLPH

Sh!

(_He looks towards his daughter’s room and then crosses and
closes the door through which_ MRS. SABINE _has entered_.)

MRS. SABINE

(_After she has watched him_)

Hasn’t he spoken to you?

RANDOLPH

Not yet.

MRS. SABINE

That’s like him. He said he’d wait till I broke the news to you.

RANDOLPH

And then?

MRS. SABINE

Then he said you would want to see him and (_ominously_) he’d do some talking.

RANDOLPH

(_Recalling_)

So that’s why he smiled just now.--Didn’t he say _anything_?

MRS. SABINE

He merely put his hands on your furs. I thought he’d believe I’d saved enough to buy them myself. He stroked them once or twice slowly--and smiled. But he _said_ nothing. Then he led me to the window and pointed to your car--the extra one you forced upon _us_--when you began. He smiled; but he said nothing. He picked up a book: the work in the library was interesting; it kept him _safe_ in the long winter evenings. I tell you he said it all in his smiles and never a word. (_Violently_) He disappointed me so! I’d be sorry for him a little if he’d only struck me. God! I hate men who only smile when they are angry. (RANDOLPH _trying to quiet her_.) Oh, I hate him with his penny a year. I hate him for asking me to marry him, and then not even striking me when he found out what I was!

RANDOLPH

But didn’t you even try to deny it?

MRS. SABINE

(_Defiantly_)

Why should I deny it?

RANDOLPH

(_Cynically_)

Of course not. Sooner or later, a woman always confesses to someone.

MRS. SABINE

(_Quickly_)

What did you want me to do? Think of you? I was sick of him. When I saw he wasn’t going to make a fuss, I didn’t think your well-known reputation would suffer; so I didn’t care about protecting myself. What’s the difference, anyhow? He can’t give me what I want: you can. If we can only keep it quiet, nobody need know--and it wouldn’t even reach your daughter’s ears.

RANDOLPH

(_Angrily_)

We’ll not discuss her.

MRS. SABINE

No. She’s a good woman--with her lily hands and her thin eyebrows. What does she know of life: the sordid soapy hours ending with the snore of a husband you hate. Ugh! (_He walks up and down, irritated._) Well, then, what are we going to do to keep it from her?

RANDOLPH

That will depend on your husband and whether he’ll be sensible. (_He goes to phone, switching it._)

MRS. SABINE

(_Looking before her_)

You did it beautifully, Randolph; with such knowledge of me and my kind. But don’t take too much credit. I’d have done it with _any_ man who offered me what you did--if he’d come at the right time, as you did, and found me at the end of a trolley line like this.

RANDOLPH

(_At phone_)

Step here a moment, Sabine. Yes: your wife is here. (_Cynically_) She said you’d be expecting her. (_He hangs up the receiver._) You could almost hear him smile.

MRS. SABINE

(_Without self-delusion_)

He couldn’t hold me: he was too poor.

RANDOLPH

No: you’re the sort that needs a diamond-studded clasp to keep her morals fastened on.

MRS. SABINE

And they’re your specialty.

RANDOLPH

I think Sabine and I can make some arrangement.

MRS. SABINE

Let’s be comfortable, that’s all I say. I’m so tired of making my lies fit. I’m willing to keep on with it. Why not? It’s all so easy with a woman once she’s slipped. Lots of us would be what I am if they could find a man to go through the marriage ceremony with them _first_.

(_A knock is heard at the door--it seems almost sarcastic, as
it waits for a reply._)

RANDOLPH

Come in.

(_The door opens softly and_ SABINE _enters slowly and comes
down to them with the same smile. There is a pause._ MRS.
SABINE _remains tense and seated_.)

Have a cigarette?

SABINE

(_They eye each other as they light up_)

Thanks.

RANDOLPH

(_Coming to the point_)

You know.

SABINE

(_Puffing throughout_)

Yes.

RANDOLPH

Well?

SABINE

I repeat the word--well?

RANDOLPH

You will come to an understanding?

SABINE

Which means?

RANDOLPH

You are--shall I say agreeable?

SABINE

You love my wife?

RANDOLPH

(_Courteously_)

Naturally.

SABINE

And you, Mary?

MRS. SABINE

Would a woman do what I’ve done without love?

SABINE

Never.

RANDOLPH

Well, say something.

SABINE

(_Calmly_)

It seems very simple.

RANDOLPH

Which means?

SABINE

That I’d still like to complete the compilations in your library.

MRS. SABINE

(_Rising, astonished_)

You’re even willing to stay _here_?

RANDOLPH

(_Quickly_)

And live ostensibly at home--with your wife?

SABINE

(_Calmly_)

Why not? I have no place else to go and she merely wishes to be comfortable.

RANDOLPH

(_Relieved_)

You will not make a fuss?

SABINE

I’m sorry to disappoint my wife.

RANDOLPH

You will not let my daughter discover?

SABINE

No. I consider your position embarrassing enough.

RANDOLPH

(_Eyeing him_)

So your wife is worth nothing to you?

SABINE

(_Quickly_)

You’re mistaken there.

MRS. SABINE

Thanks. But how?

SABINE

Protection.

MRS. SABINE

Against what?

SABINE

Against Mr. Randolph.

RANDOLPH

Me?

SABINE

Exactly.

RANDOLPH

What the devil are you driving at?

SABINE

Perhaps if I take it kindly now, you will not blame _me_--in the future.

MRS. SABINE

Oh, I know we’ll get tired of each other if that’s what you’re suggesting.

SABINE

(_Detecting an agreeing look in_ RANDOLPH’S _face_)

That _may_ be what I mean. (_Eyeing_ RANDOLPH _keenly as he sees her bite her lips_.) If that’s all, I’ll return to the library.

RANDOLPH

Have you no suggestions?

SABINE

(_Coldly_)

Be careful not to make a fool of me--in public.

MRS. SABINE

There speaks the man.

RANDOLPH

Then you’ll be silent?

SABINE

Until----

RANDOLPH

Until?

SABINE

Until you get your deserts.

RANDOLPH

A threat?

SABINE

(_Smiling_)

No. Only I know my wife.

MRS. SABINE

And that’s the sort of man I married. (_To_ SABINE) Do you blame me for throwing you over?

SABINE

Have I?

MRS. SABINE

(_Indignantly_)

How dared you open me to this?

RANDOLPH

Don’t blame him, Mary.

MRS. SABINE

(_Indignantly_)

You knew, and you let him steal your wife.

SABINE

Some men like their women that way.

MRS. SABINE

Isn’t it funny! It’s losing its romance--being handed over like some food at supper. Isn’t it funny--and disappointing.

RANDOLPH

I can’t say I admire you, Sabine.

SABINE

No, you can’t. But you will when you know my wife better.

MRS. SABINE

(_Losing control_)

I’m more ashamed of you than I am of myself. Why didn’t you stop me if you knew? What’s the reason? Why didn’t you strike me? Why didn’t you, so I could feel you and I were quits? Why didn’t you--like that and that. (_She strikes him furiously with her gloves once or twice, but he continues smiling._)

RANDOLPH

Mary, don’t let’s have a scene. Sh!

MRS. SABINE

I wanted a scene! And to think I wasn’t even worth insulting!

(_She goes out quickly, leaving the hall door open. She
has dropped her glove and as_ RANDOLPH, _with a resigned,
half-bored air, starts to follow her_, SABINE _stoops, picks
up the glove and, smiling, halts_ RANDOLPH.)

SABINE

My wife dropped her glove. Will you take it to her? I have my work, and, as you remarked, another month will about finish it.

RANDOLPH

(_Smiling in spite of himself_)

Life would be so much simpler if all husbands were so considerate.

SABINE

The spice would be gone.

RANDOLPH

I suppose she is waiting----

SABINE

--For the glove. (_Offering it to him._)

RANDOLPH

(_Taking it_)

Yes: for her glove.

SABINE

I’m glad you will drive in the closed car.

RANDOLPH

(_At the door_)

Our reputations must be protected.

SABINE

No man likes to be made a fool of.

RANDOLPH

(_Slowly_)

After all, she’s only a woman and they’re all alike, eh?

SABINE

(_Slowly_)

_All_ alike. Yes.

RANDOLPH

(_Casually_)

You’ll find the cigarettes on the table.

SABINE

Thanks.

(RANDOLPH _goes out, closing the door. Sabine stands a
moment, then turns to the window and looks off till he sees
the car has driven away. He turns down the light and then
crossing eagerly, he knocks on_ PAULA’S _door. He repeats
this._)

Paula! Paula!!

(_He stands waiting._)

[CURTAIN]

[E] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.

THE HOUSE

THE PEOPLE

CHARLES RAY, a _professor of philosophy_.
ELIZABETH, _his wife_.

SCENE

_A room in an apartment hotel suite. One evening._

THE HOUSE[F]

_PROFESSOR and MRS. RAY are at the little table finishing their coffee. In the center there is a white-robed birthday cake with three golden candles sending a gentle light on them. A myriad of faint wrinkles on the_ PROFESSOR’S _kindly face might betray his age, though his thin body, in spite of its slight stoop, belies his seventy years. As he sits there precisely dressed in his evening clothes, he is the personification of fine breeding, the incarnation of all that blood and culture can produce. And through it all, there glows an alluring whimsy which one has no right to expect in a professor of philosophy._

MRS. RAY, _gowned also for the ceremony they are celebrating, is ten years younger; soft and gentle, too, yet sadder somehow, as though, in spite of her effort to live in his enthusiasms, it has become a bit difficult to sustain his mood of happiness._

_But as they sip their coffee alone in the hotel suite with its conventional furnishings of a stereotyped comfort, graced only by a large bunch of white roses, one senses the deep and abiding affection which has warmed their long life together._

PROFESSOR

(_With a sigh of contentment_)

Ah!

(_He sees she is thoughtful: he reaches over and takes from
behind the table the quart bottle of champagne. He pours a
little in her glass._)

MRS. RAY

Oh, dear; I’m afraid I’ve had enough.

PROFESSOR

Nonsense.

MRS. RAY

But I’m beginning to feel it.

PROFESSOR

That’s the intention. (_Filling his glass._) There. Now a toast. (_Standing with the greatest gallantry._) Here’s to my comrade of forty years: may we have as many more together.

MRS. RAY

Oh, Charles, I’m afraid that’s asking too much of Providence.

PROFESSOR

We should ask much and be satisfied with less.

MRS. RAY

(_Raising her glass_)

To my friend and husband.

PROFESSOR

You make a distinction?

MRS. RAY

The world does.

PROFESSOR

What is the world doing here on our wedding anniversary? (_Seriously_) Let’s drink to each other--and the children.

MRS. RAY

(_Wistfully looking at the candles_)

And the children.

(_They sip: he shows he enjoys it; she sits thoughtfully
while he takes out his cigarette case. He starts to take one,
and then, with a twinkle in his eyes, offers her the case._)

PROFESSOR

Cigarette, dear?

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling_)

No: thank you. I shan’t begin at my time of life.

PROFESSOR

Cato learned Greek at eighty. The minute people cease to learn--even a vice--they have begun to grow old. So beware.

MRS. RAY

(_Striking a match_)

Let me light it for you.

PROFESSOR

(_Slyly_)

Which illustrates a woman’s part in life: encouraging vice in men, eh? (_He lights it and puffs in enjoyment._) I must say I like my idea about the cake and the candles.

MRS. RAY

It’s lovely, dear. Who but you would have thought of having a birthday cake on our wedding anniversary.

PROFESSOR

I started to put forty candles: one for each year; but there was no room left for the cake.

MRS. RAY

I like the idea of three--just three.

PROFESSOR

Yes; three birthdays that meant so much in our time together: Teddy, Mary and Paul.

MRS. RAY

Forty years!

PROFESSOR

It’s a long while to be married, dear. Speaks well for our patience, eh?

MRS. RAY

And not a word to-night from our three children.

PROFESSOR

(_Waving it aside_)

After all, our marriage didn’t concern them--at the time.

MRS. RAY

And we never forget their anniversaries.

PROFESSOR

But think how important those have always been from the beginning: each one the start of a great adventure for us.

MRS. RAY

And more responsibility.

PROFESSOR

Certainly. Isn’t that the way we have broadened our lives? Think, dear, of how many times we have been young--once with our own youth and three times with our candles.

MRS. RAY

(_She rises and goes to the roses which she inhales_)

And our hair is white.

PROFESSOR

(_Gallantly rising also_)

That can’t be blamed on the children. White hair doesn’t indicate marriage--always. It’s a matter of pigment, I’m told, and affects bachelors equally.

MRS. RAY

You’re right, of course, dear. We have kept young through having our children; only----

PROFESSOR

(_Coming to her_)

Only what? Surely there isn’t a regret as you look back?

MRS. RAY

Oh, no, not regret; only so many of our dreams have never been realized.

PROFESSOR

(_As he breaks off a rose and gives it to her_)

But we have dreamed; that’s the important thing, isn’t it?

MRS. RAY

(_Looking at rose_)

I suppose so.

PROFESSOR

Of course it is, dear. And we have dreamed more than most because we have been young four times.

MRS. RAY

(_As she crosses to the sofa_)

But it’s always been through others--for others.

PROFESSOR

But _now_ it is for ourselves.

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling_)

You mean our house?

PROFESSOR

Yes. Now that they’ve retired me with a pension and our children no longer need our help, we can build our house.

MRS. RAY

(_Wearily, as she sits_)

We have built so many houses.

PROFESSOR

Yes. Life’s an experiment. Remember the first little cottage where Teddy was born? It didn’t leave us much margin even though it was small. Come to think of it, dear, we’ve built three houses, haven’t we?

MRS. RAY

It’s the fourth we’ve really thought of most--and that hasn’t been built _yet_.

PROFESSOR

That’s to be ours--all ours; with room for the children if they want to come back.

MRS. RAY

Oh, that’s it: they won’t come back now. Our house won’t suit them.

PROFESSOR

(_Taking a chair over near her_)

How can we expect them to come into a house that isn’t even built? You know our modern children are very peculiar. They get that from you.

MRS. RAY

Nonsense. It’s you who are peculiar. Just look at the kind of house you want.

PROFESSOR

(_Doubtfully_)

It _is_ different from yours, I’ll admit.

MRS. RAY

I don’t object to the architecture. It’s the surroundings you insist on.

PROFESSOR

You want the city and I want the forest.

MRS. RAY

(_Shaking her head_)

We’ll never agree.

PROFESSOR

(_As though with an inspiration_)

I have a solution. I’ll live in your city house, if you’ll have my forest around it.

MRS. RAY

I’m afraid, dear, that is a bit impractical at present prices.

PROFESSOR

(_With a whimsical smile_)

But we certainly can’t have the city you love around my house in the woods! I’m afraid of the streets.

MRS. RAY

Any friendly policeman would help you across them.

PROFESSOR

Think of me walking arm in arm with a policeman! I must consider my reputation, even though I am seventy. No. (_With a twinkle._) I can’t seem to visualize the house, can you, dear?

MRS. RAY

It isn’t like your dream or mine.

PROFESSOR

No. I’d have a hard time finding my birch trees in the moonlight. Have you ever noticed how lovely they are when the leaves have all gone?

MRS. RAY

Somehow they are no more lovely than the sense of life in the tall ugly buildings man has built with his own hands.

PROFESSOR

But trees are eternal.

MRS. RAY

That’s where we differ. I live in to-day: you live in all time.

PROFESSOR

That’s my profession. You lose count of time when you are a philosopher.

MRS. RAY

And I am a woman of the world.

PROFESSOR

(_As he goes to light another cigarette from the candles_)

I’d hardly describe you that way, my dear; that sounds so naughty.

MRS. RAY

I mean I love every minute that passes and everything the moment brings. I love the people who are of that moment.

PROFESSOR

You still dream of having a _salon_ of celebrities?

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling_)

It’s no worse than the museum of antiquities on your book shelves. But I keep forgetting you want your house in the forest so you can write about the dead.

PROFESSOR

And you want your house in the city for the living.

MRS. RAY

I wish we could compromise somehow.

PROFESSOR

If we only had more money I could do away with the wilderness and content myself with a few wooded acres, I suppose. Only it must be roomy where the winds can speak. And I must have some wild things about. Though perhaps I could compromise on a pet squirrel, if necessary. (_He smiles._) And if I met you that far do you think you would be willing to live an hour or so from the city?

MRS. RAY

Why, of course. But haven’t we been looking for that sort of place for years; even when we weren’t free to live where we wished?

PROFESSOR

I can’t see why money is always getting in the way of our dreams. I often wonder what scoundrel it was who first invented money.

MRS. RAY

And yet we might now be able to have what we wished if----

PROFESSOR

If? The eternal if?

MRS. RAY

(_She has gone to the table, placing rose there_)

I was thinking of all we gave up for our children.

PROFESSOR

Wasn’t it jolly?

MRS. RAY

While we still dreamed of the house we two would build for ourselves.

PROFESSOR

With rooms for them, don’t forget that.

MRS. RAY

And now where are our children?

PROFESSOR

Living--maybe dreaming a bit of our dreams and not knowing it is ours. That’s the lovely thing about dreams: I like to think they are never lost.

MRS. RAY

Yet here we sit alone on our anniversary and they have forgotten.

PROFESSOR

The young have so many things to remember.

MRS. RAY

And we can _never_ build our house now.

PROFESSOR

Nonsense. We can go on building it just as though it were really possible. Come, little mother, let’s be young together to the end. I’ll have to throw another log on this make-believe open fire in _my_ house. (_He pulls the sofa around so it faces the radiator which he eyes dubiously._) Hm! That won’t stimulate the imagination. Wait! I know.

(_He goes over to the table and smiling quaintly he lifts up
the cake with its three burning candles and carefully places
it on the low radiator. Then he presses a switch on wall
nearby and the lights overhead go out, leaving only the
candles, a desk lamp and the moonlight through the window to
give the shadows life. He laughs and warms his hands before
the candles as he would before a fire._)

Come, dear, before my fire! By the way, is there a log fire in your dream-house, dear?

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling and fitting in with his fancy_)

If you are to be with me, of course.

PROFESSOR

Well then we have a blazing fire in both our houses, eh? (_He sits beside her on sofa and they gaze at candles._) And how economical fuel is when you dream about it. I’ve got a whole forest waiting to be cut by me, to-morrow, after I’ve worked all morning on my new book.

MRS. RAY

And I’ve been to the musicale at the Biltmore.

PROFESSOR

What did you do this afternoon, dear?

MRS. RAY

(_Tapping his arm_)

Oh, I had a brilliant reception.

PROFESSOR

Receptions are always brilliant.

MRS. RAY

But this one really was. I had André Gidet and Arsène Tailleur there. They are those clever new writers all Paris is talking about.

PROFESSOR

You didn’t enjoy their witticisms more than I did a pesky little bluejay that made fun of me as I fished in my emerald lake.

MRS. RAY

But surely even you would have envied me my dinner when the celebrated Mary Mevin explained her new symphony.

PROFESSOR

Nonsense, dear. Think of grilled trout caught by my own hand! And then the long lazy silent hours afterwards with Aristotle. Nice chap, Aristotle: knew a heap about men and things, though he lived in an age when there wasn’t so much to remember as there is now. Then afterwards I confess I yawned with the comfort of it all; good, deep-reaching yawns, as Nature intended. I went out to see my friends the stars. Best friends a man ever had: a bit cold and distant, perhaps; but always there behind the clouds. (_She has risen and gone to the candles. There is a pause. Then she snuffs them out._) And I suppose at the same time you were trying in vain to find them out your city window? (_Sees she is sobbing very quietly: the candles are out._) Why, dear! What’s the trouble?

MRS. RAY

Oh, I can’t pretend any more. Our log fire isn’t real. Here we are all alone in a hotel apartment--before an old steam radiator and electric light. (_Presses the switch again._)

PROFESSOR

(_Tenderly and seriously_)

I know. You left all that which might have been yours ... if ... if you hadn’t married me.

MRS. RAY

And you--without me and the children--you might have had your dream now.

PROFESSOR

(_Very seriously_)

No, dear. One never can realize them: that’s why they are called dreams.

MRS. RAY

(_Goes to him looking up into his face_)

You know, I wouldn’t have given up one hour of my life with you.

PROFESSOR

(_Stroking her hair tenderly_)

We have been very happy.

MRS. RAY

Yet why is there something we both feel we have missed?

PROFESSOR

Because even the happy must be incomplete or else they would cease to be happy. Isn’t happiness hope as much as realization? We have realized--not ourselves completely--yet through each other. We have been what the other sought. But only the very wise know that there is an inner life no one can be part of: a lonely place where even the dearest can not enter, because it is a lonely place.

MRS. RAY

Yes. I think that is the way it is with me, dear.

PROFESSOR

And the way it is with our house we shall never build. We can’t enter it _together_.

MRS. RAY

(_Looking before her_)

Yet I can still see my house.

PROFESSOR

As clearly as I do mine. (_Looking whimsically over at the smoking candles._) Even though our own log fire is burned out.

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling_)

It’s changed somewhat these forty years.

PROFESSOR

Yes. That’s the way dream-houses have. (_Taking her hand._) And, dear one, when we each think of our houses we can never build, let’s--let’s always go on holding each other’s hand, eh?

MRS. RAY

Dearest....

PROFESSOR

So many people lose each other when they dream.

(_He kisses her tenderly._)

[CURTAIN]

[F] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.

ON THE HIRING LINE

Comedy in 3 acts, by Harvey O’Higgins and Harriet Ford. 5 males, 4 females. Interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

Sherman Fessenden, unable to induce servants to remain for
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His second wife, an actress, weary of the country and longing
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The sleuths, believing they had been called to report on
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One sleuth causes an uproar in the house, making a mess of
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Price, 75 Cents.

A FULL HOUSE

A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 females. One interior scene. Modern costumes. Time, 2½ hours.

Imagine a reckless and wealthy youth who writes ardent
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Price, 75 Cents.

NOT SO LONG AGO

Comedy in a Prologue, 3 acts, and Epilogue. By Arthur Richman. 5 males, 7 females. 2 interiors, 1 exterior. Costumes, 1876. Plays a full evening.

Arthur Richman has constructed his play around the Cinderella
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THE LOTTERY MAN

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In “The Lottery Man” Rida Johnson Young has seized upon a
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sensational scoops the paper has ever known. His idea is to
conduct a lottery, with _himself_ as the prize. The lottery
is announced. Thousands of old maids buy coupons. Meantime
Wright falls in love with a charming girl. Naturally he
fears that he may be won by someone else and starts to get
as many tickets as his limited means will permit. Finally
the last day is announced. The winning number is 1323, and
is held by Lizzie, an old maid, in the household of the
newspaper owner. Lizzie refuses to give up. It is discovered,
however, that she has stolen the ticket. With this clue, the
reporter threatens her with arrest. Of course the coupon is
surrendered and Wright gets the girl of his choice. Produced
at the Bijou Theater, New York, with great success. (Royalty,
twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

POLLYANNA

“The glad play,” in 3 acts. By Catherine Chisholm Cushing. Based on the novel by Eleanor H. Porter. 5 males, 6 females. 2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

The story has to do with the experiences of an orphan girl
who is thrust, unwelcome, into the home of a maiden aunt. In
spite of the tribulations that beset her life she manages
to find something to be glad about, and brings light into
sunless lives. Finally, Pollyanna straightens out the love
affairs of her elders, and last, but not least, finds
happiness for herself in the heart of Jimmy. “Pollyanna”
is a glad play and one which is bound to give one a better
appreciation of people and the world. It reflects the humor,
tenderness and humanity that gave the story such wonderful
popularity among young and old.

Produced at the Hudson Theatre, New York, and for two seasons
on tour, by George C. Tyler, with Helen Hayes in the part of
“Pollyanna.” (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

THE CHARM SCHOOL

A comedy in 3 acts. By Alice Duer Miller and Robert Milton. 6 males, 10 females (may be played by 5 males and 8 females). Any number of school girls may be used in the ensembles. Scenes, 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.

The story of “The Charm School” is familiar to Mrs. Miller’s
readers. It relates the adventures of a handsome young
automobile salesman, scarcely out of his ’teens, who, upon
inheriting a girls’ boarding-school from a maiden aunt,
insists on running it himself, according to his own ideas,
chief of which is, by the way, that the dominant feature in
the education of the young girls of to-day should be CHARM.
The situations that arise are teeming with humor--clean,
wholesome humor. In the end the young man gives up the
school, and promises to wait until the most precocious of his
pupils reaches a marriageable age. The play has the freshness
of youth, the inspiration of an extravagant but novel idea,
the charm of originality, and the promise of wholesome,
sanely amusing, pleasant entertainment. We strongly recommend
it for high school production. It was first produced at
the Bijou Theatre, New York, then toured the country.
Two companies are now playing it in England. (Royalty,
twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

KICK IN

Play in 4 acts. By Willard Mack. 7 males, 5 females. 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.

“Kick In” is the latest of the very few available mystery
plays. Like “Within the Law,” “Seven Keys to Baldpate,” “The
Thirteenth Chair,” and “In the Next Room,” it is one of those
thrillers which are accurately described as “not having a
dull moment in it from beginning to end.” It is a play with
all the ingredients of popularity, not at all difficult to
set or to act; the plot carries it along, and the situations
are built with that skill and knowledge of the theatre for
which Willard Mack is known. An ideal mystery melodrama, for
high schools and colleges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

TILLY OF BLOOMSBURY

(“Happy-Go-Lucky.”) A comedy in 3 acts. By Ian Hay. 9 males, 7 females. 2 interior scenes. Modern dress. Plays a full evening.

Into an aristocratic family comes Tilly, lovable and
youthful, with ideas and manners which greatly upset the
circle. Tilly is so frankly honest that she makes no secret
of her tremendous affection for the young son of the family;
this brings her into many difficulties. But her troubles have
a joyous end in charmingly blended scenes of sentiment and
humor. This comedy presents an opportunity for fine acting,
handsome stage settings, and beautiful costuming. (Royalty,
twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 cents.

BILLY

Farce-comedy in 3 acts. By George Cameron. 10 males, 5 females. (A few minor male parts can be doubled, making the cast 7 males, 5 females.) 1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

The action of the play takes place on the S. S. “Florida,”
bound for Havana. The story has to do with the disappearance
of a set of false teeth, which creates endless complications
among passengers and crew, and furnishes two and a quarter
hours of the heartiest laughter. One of the funniest comedies
produced in the last dozen years on the American stage is
“Billy” (sometimes called “Billy’s Tombstones”), in which the
late Sidney Drew achieved a hit in New York and later toured
the country several times. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

TWEEDLES

Comedy in 3 acts, by Booth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson. 5 males, 4 females. 1 interior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

Julian, scion of the blue-blooded Castleburys, falls in love
with Winsora Tweedle, daughter of the oldest family in a
Maine village. The Tweedles esteem the name because it has
been rooted in the community for 200 years, and they look
down on “summer people” with the vigor that only “summer
boarder” communities know.

The Castleburys are aghast at the possibility of a match, and
call on the Tweedles to urge how impossible such an alliance
would be. Mr. Castlebury laboriously explains the barrier
of social caste, and the elder Tweedle takes it that these
unimportant summer folk are terrified at the social eminence
of the Tweedles.

Tweedle generously agrees to co-operate with the Castleburys
to prevent the match. But Winsora brings her father to
realize that in reality the Castleburys look upon them
as inferiors. The old man is infuriated, and threatens
vengeance, but is checkmated when Julian unearths a number
of family skeletons and argues that father isn’t a Tweedle,
since the blood has been so diluted that little remains.
Also, Winsora takes the matter into her own hands and
outfaces the old man. So the youngsters go forth triumphant.
“Tweedles” is Booth Tarkington at his best. (Royalty,
twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

JUST SUPPOSE

A whimsical comedy in 3 acts, by A. E. Thomas, author of “Her Husband’s Wife,” “Come Out of the Kitchen,” etc. 6 males, 2 females. 1 interior, 1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

It was rumored that during his last visit the Prince of Wales
appeared for a brief spell under an assumed name somewhere
in Virginia. It is on this story that A. E. Thomas based
“Just Suppose.” The theme is handled in an original manner.
Linda Lee Stafford meets one George Shipley (in reality is
the Prince of Wales). It is a case of love at first sight,
but, alas, princes cannot select their mates and thereby
hangs a tale which Mr. Thomas has woven with infinite charm.
The atmosphere of the South with its chivalry dominates the
story, touching in its sentiment and lightened here and there
with delightful comedy. “Just Suppose” scored a big hit at
the Henry Miller Theatre, New York, with Patricia Collinge.
(Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

ARE YOU A MASON?

Farce in 3 acts. By Leo Ditrichstein. 7 males, 7 females. Modern costumes. Plays 2¼ hours. 1 interior.

“Are You a Mason?” is one of those delightful farces like
“Charley’s Aunt” that are always fresh. “A mother and a
daughter,” says the critic of the New York _Herald_, “had
husbands who account for absences from the joint household
on frequent evenings, falsely pretending to be Masons. The
men do not know each other’s duplicity, and each tells his
wife of having advanced to leadership in his lodge. The
older woman was so well pleased with her husband’s supposed
distinction in the order that she made him promise to put
up the name of a visiting friend for membership. Further
perplexity over the principal liar arose when a suitor for
his second daughter’s hand proved to be a real Mason....
To tell the story of the play would require volumes, its
complications are so numerous. It is a house of cards. One
card wrongly placed and the whole thing would collapse. But
it stands, an example of remarkable ingenuity. You wonder at
the end of the first act how the fun can be kept up on such
a slender foundation. But it continues and grows to the last
curtain.” One of the most hilariously amusing farces ever
written, especially suited to schools and Masonic Lodges.
(Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

KEMPY

A delightful comedy in 3 acts. By J. C. Nugent and Elliott Nugent. 4 males, 4 females. 1 interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

No wonder “Kempy” has been such a tremendous hit in New York,
Chicago--wherever it has played. It snaps with wit and humor
of the most delightful kind. It’s electric. It’s small-town
folk perfectly pictured. Full of types of varied sorts, each
one done to a turn and served with zestful sauce. An ideal
entertainment for amusement purposes. The story is about a
high-falutin’ daughter who in a fit of pique marries the
young plumber-architect, who comes to fix the water pipes,
just because he “understands” her, having read her book and
having sworn to marry the authoress. But in that story lies
all the humor that kept the audience laughing every second of
every act. Of course there are lots of ramifications, each
of which bears its own brand of laughter-making potentials.
But the plot and the story are not the main things. There is,
for instance, the work of the company. The fun growing out of
this family mixup is lively and clean. (Royalty, twenty-five
dollars.)

Price, 75 Cents.

SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request

=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE=

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, when
a predominant preference was found in the original book.

Pg 206: ‘--for the glove’ replaced by ‘--For the glove’.

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Masks, with Jim's beast, Tides, Among the lions, The reason, The houseChapter IV: Part 4

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