I'll Leave It To You.

by Noel Coward.

_A plan of the stage of the New Theatre, London, set for the play is given at the end of the book._

SCENE.--_The Hall of Mulberry Manor. All the furniture looks very comfortable. Through the window can be seen a glimpse of a snowy garden; there it a log fire. The light is a little dim, being late afternoon.

Seated on the table swinging her legs is_ JOYCE, _she is attired in a fur coat and goloshes, very little else can be seen, except a pink healthy looking young face._ SYLVIA _is seated on the Chesterfield_ R.

_She is twenty-one and exceedingly pretty. It is about five days before Christmas._

JOYCE (_brightly_). My feet are simply soaking.

SYLVIA (_sewing_). Why on earth don't you go and change them? You'll catch cold.

(BOBBIE _enters_ R. _He is a slim, bright-looking youth of twenty._)

JOYCE. I don't mind if I do. (_Laughs._) Colds are fun.

BOBBIE. She loves having a fuss made of her, beef tea--chicken--jelly with whipped cream--and fires in her bedroom, little Sybarite.

JOYCE. So do you.

BOBBIE (_comes_ C.). No, I don't; whenever my various ailments confine me to my bed, I chafe--positively chafe at the terrible inactivity. I want to be up and about, shooting, riding, cricket, football, judo, the usual run of manly sports.

SYLVIA. Knowing you for what you are--lazy, luxurious----

BOBBIE (_pained_). Please, please, please, not in front of the child.

(JOYCE _kicks_). It's demoralizing for her to hear her idolized brother held up to ridicule.

JOYCE. You're not my idolized brother at all--Oliver is. (_Turning away, pouting._)

BOBBIE (_seated_ R. _on Chesterfield, sweetly_). If that were really so, dear, I know you have much too kind a heart to let me know it.

SYLVIA. What is the matter with you this afternoon, Bobbie--you are very up in the air about something.

(JOYCE _takes her coat off, puts on back of chair_ R. _of table_).

BOBBIE (_rising and sitting on club fender_). Merely another instance of the triumph of mind over matter; in this case a long and healthy walk was the matter. I went into the lobby to put on my snow boots and then--as is usually the case with me--my mind won. I thought of tea, crumpets and comfort. Oliver has gone without me, he simply bursts with health and extraordinary dullness. Personally I shall continue to be delicate and interesting.

SYLVIA (_seriously_). You may _have_ to work, Bobbie.

BOBBIE. Really, Sylvia, you do say the most awful things, remember Joyce is only a school-girl, she'll be quite shocked.

JOYCE. We work jolly hard at school, anyhow.

BOBBIE. Oh, no, you don't. I've read the modern novelists, and I _know_; all you do is walk about with arms entwined, and write poems of tigerish adoration to your mistresses. It's a beautiful existence.

JOYCE. You are a silly a.s.s. (_Picks up magazine._)

SYLVIA. It's all very well to go on fooling Bobbie, but _really_ we shall have to pull ourselves together a bit. Mother's very worried, as you know, money troubles are perfectly beastly, and she hasn't told us nearly all. I do so hate her to be upset, poor darling.

BOBBIE. What can we do? (_Sits_ L. _end of Chesterfield._ JOYCE _puts down magazine and listens._)

SYLVIA. Think of a way to make money.

BOBBIE. It's difficult now that the war is over.

SYLVIA. That's cheap wit, dear; also it's the wrong moment for it.

(JOYCE _giggles._)

BOBBIE. It's always the wrong moment for cheap wit, admitting for one moment that it was, which it wasn't.

JOYCE. Oh, do shut up, you make my head go round.

(_Enter_ EVANGELINE _downstairs; she is tall and almost beautiful; she carries a book in her hand._)

BOBBIE (_turning_). Oh, Vangy, do come and join us; we're on the verge of a congress.

EVANGELINE. I must read some more Maeterlinck. (_Posing._)

BOBBIE. You mean you must let us see you reading Maeterlinck.

EVANGELINE (_goes to him, back of Chesterfield, touches his hair._) Try not to be so irritating, Bobbie dear; just because you don't happen to appreciate good literature, it's very small and narrow to laugh at people who do.

SYLVIA. But seriously, Vangy, we are rather worried (EVANGELINE _moves_) about mother; she's been looking hara.s.sed for days.

EVANGELINE (_sitting in armchair_). What about?

SYLVIA. Money, money, money! Haven't you realized that! Uncle Daniel sent a pretty substantial cheque from South America (_all nod_) that helped things on a bit after Father's death, but that must be gone by now--and mother won't say how much father left.

JOYCE. Perhaps she doesn't know.

BOBBIE. She must know now, he's been dead nearly six months--inconsiderate old beast!

SYLVIA. Bobbie, you're not to talk about father like that. I won't have it; after all----

BOBBIE. After all what?--He was perfectly rotten to mother, and never came near her for four years before his death. Why should we be charming and reverent about him just because he's our father. When I saw him I hated him, and his treatment of mum hasn't made me like him any better, I can tell you.

EVANGELINE. But still, Bobbie, he was _our father_, and mother was fond of him--(BOBBIE. Ha!)--once, anyhow there's nothing to be gained by running him down.

SYLVIA. The point is, have we enough money to keep on as we are, or haven't we?

JOYCE (_quickly_). The only one who knows is mother, and she won't say.

SYLVIA. We haven't asked her yet; we'll make her say. Where is she?

BOBBIE. Up in her room, I think.