GERALD. "Person," mother.--Will you curtsey, Anabel? And I'll twist my handkerchief. We shall make a Cruikshank drawing, if mother makes her hair a little more slovenly.

MRS. BARLOW. You and Gerald were together for some time?

GERALD. Three years, off and on, mother.

MRS. BARLOW. And then you suddenly dropped my son, and went away?

GERALD. To Norway, mother--so I have gathered.

MRS. BARLOW. And now you have come back because that last one died?

GERALD. Is he dead, Anabel? How did he die?

ANABEL. He was killed on the ice.

GERALD. Oh, G.o.d!

MRS. BARLOW. Now, having had your fill of tragedy, you have come back to be demure and to marry Gerald. Does he thank you?

GERALD. You must listen outside the door, mother, to find that out.

MRS. BARLOW. Well, it's your own affair.

GERALD. What a lame summing up, mother!--quite unworthy of you.

ANABEL. What did you wish to say to me, Mrs. Barlow? Please say it.

MRS. BARLOW. What did I wish to say! Ay, what did I wish to say! What is the use of my saying anything? What am I but a buffoon and a slovenly caricature in the family?

GERALD. No, mother dear, don't climb down--please don't. Tell Anabel what you wanted to say.

MRS. BARLOW. Yes--yes--yes. I came to say--don't be good to my son--don't be too good to him.

GERALD. Sounds weak, dear--mere contrariness.

MRS. BARLOW. Don't presume to be good to my son, young woman. I won't have it, even if he will. You hear me?

ANABEL. Yes. I won't presume, then.

GERALD. May she presume to be bad to me, mother?

MRS. BARLOW. For that you may look after yourself.--But a woman who was good to him would ruin him in six months, take the manhood out of him.

He has a tendency, a secret hankering, to make a gift of himself to somebody. He sha'n't do it. I warn you. I am not a woman to be despised.

ANABEL. No--I understand.

MRS. BARLOW. Only one other thing I ask. If he must fight--and fight he must--let him alone: don't you try to shield him or save him. DON'T INTERFERE--do you hear?

ANABEL. Not till I must.

MRS. BARLOW. NEVER. Learn your place, and keep it. Keep away from him, if you are going to be a wife to him. Don't go too near. And don't let him come too near. Beat him off if he tries. Keep a solitude in your heart even when you love him best. Keep it. If you lose it, you lose everything.

GERALD. But that isn't love, mother.

MRS. BARLOW. What?

GERALD. That isn't love.

MRS. BARLOW. WHAT? What do you know of love, you ninny? You only know the feeding-bottle. It's what you want, all of you--to be brought up by hand, and mew about love. Ah, G.o.d!--Ah, G.o.d!--that you should none of you know the only thing which would make you worth having.

GERALD. I don't believe in your only thing, mother. But what is it?

MRS. BARLOW. What you haven't got--the power to be alone.

GERALD. Sort of megalomania, you mean?

MRS. BARLOW. What? Megalomania! What is your LOVE but a megalomania, flowing over everybody and everything like spilt water? Megalomania!

I hate you, you softy! I would BEAT you (suddenly advancing on him and beating him fiercely)--beat you into some manhood--beat you---

GERALD. Stop, mother--keep off.

MRS. BARLOW. It's the men who need beating nowadays, not the children.

Beat the softness out of him, young woman. It's the only way, if you love him enough--if you love him enough.

GERALD. You hear, Anabel?

Speak roughly to your little boy, And beat him when he sneezes.

MRS. BARLOW (catching up a large old fan, and smashing it about his head). You softy--you piffler--you will never have had enough! Ah, you should be thrust in the fire, you should, to have the softness and the brittleness burnt out of you!

(The door opens--OLIVER TURTON enters, followed by JOB ARTHUR FREER.

MRS. BARLOW is still attacking GERALD. She turns, infuriated.)

Go out! Go out! What do you mean by coming in unannounced? Take him upstairs--take that fellow into the library, Oliver Turton.

GERALD. Mother, you improve our already pretty reputation. Already they say you are mad.

MRS. BARLOW (ringing violently). Let me be mad then. I am mad--driven mad. One day I shall kill you, Gerald.

GERALD. You won't, mother because I sha'n't let you.

MRS. BARLOW. Let me!--let me! As if I should wait for you to let me!

GERALD. I am a match for you even in violence, come to that.