MRS. MURPHY. The Lord have mercy!

_She escapes_.

ISABEL. Sit down.

MRS. FALCINGTON. Thank you. I will. (_She does so_.) Harold is out?

ISABEL. Yes. (_A pause_) Getting brioches for breakfast. (_A pause_) You look tired. Won't you have some coffee? It's ready.

MRS. FALCINGTON. Thank you. Yes.

_Both the women give an impression of timid courage_.

ISABEL. (_pouring the coffee_) He ought to be back soon. He talked of getting lost in the crooked streets of the Village, and I'm afraid that's what has happened to him.

MRS. FALCINGTON. Yes. Harold is all at sea in a strange place.

_She takes the coffee and sips it_.

ISABEL. Tell me--how did you know?

MRS. FALCINGTON. (_smiling_) Private detectives.

ISABEL. (_a little shocked_) Oh!

MRS. FALCINGTON. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not going to make any trouble.... But I did want to know what became of him.

ISABEL. Yes ... naturally.

MRS. FALCINGTON. And then--you see, I wanted to know what you were like; and--and whether he was happy with you. I don't think detectives are very intelligent. They couldn't get it into their heads that I wanted the truth. They gave me a--a very lurid account of--of you. And of course Harold's letters gave me no help. So I came down to see for myself.

ISABEL. (_rising_) Mrs. Falcington: here is a letter that Harold was writing this morning. It tells about me--and I fancy you won't find it so essentially different from the detectives' account. Read it and see.

MRS. FALCINGTON. (_reading the letter_) He says he loves you.

ISABEL. In those words?

MRS. FALCINGTON. No--he says he is involved in a strange and sudden infatuation. But it means the same thing.

ISABEL. No it doesn't. He isn't in love with me. I'll tell you straight--he's in love with _you_.

MRS. FALCINGTON. How do you know?

ISABEL. From the letters he wrote you.

MRS. FALCINGTON. Oh! he showed them to you, did he? How like him!

ISABEL. But he _is_ in love with you. And he _isn't_ happy with me.

MRS. FALCINGTON. Why not?

ISABEL. He hates this kind of life. He wants order, regularity, stability, comfort, ease, the respect of the community----

MRS. FALCINGTON. He used to tell me all those things bored him to death.

ISABEL. (_pleading_) You _must_ take him back!

MRS. FALCINGTON. Don't you want him?

ISABEL. Well--(_she laughs in embarra.s.sment_)--Not that bad!

MRS. FALCINGTON. His father will make him an allowance to live on.

ISABEL. I've told him I would never speak to him again if he took it.

MRS. FALCINGTON. You don't expect him to _work_, do you?

ISABEL. Yes--if he has anything to do with me.

MRS. FALCINGTON. Then if you can make him do that, by all means take charge of his destinies!

ISABEL. But--but--that's not the point. He loves you. He wants to go back. He didn't do any of those things he was accused of, you know.

MRS. FALCINGTON. Did he tell you that?

ISABEL. Yes.

MRS. FALCINGTON. Well--he told a story. (_Isabel is shocked_.) Oh, there's no doubt about it. (_Her tone leaves none_.)

ISABEL. But she was ugly!

MRS. FALCINGTON. Did he tell you that?

ISABEL. Yes! Wasn't she?

MRS. FALCINGTON. There _are_ handsome poetesses--a few--and this was one of them. She is one of the most beautiful women in Chicago.

ISABEL. Then he lied....

MRS. FALCINGTON. Oh, yes--of course. He just can't help it. Any more than he can help making love----

ISABEL. You mean this is not the first----

MRS. FALCINGTON. In the seven years of our marriage, he has made love to every pretty woman he came across.

ISABEL. (_sharply_) Why did you stand for it?

MRS. FALCINGTON. Because I was a fool. And because he is a child.