The Benefit of the Doubt; a Comedy in Three Acts. Arthur Wing Pinero

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      Justina.

      [Glancing round.] Claude—back.

      Claude Emptage, a plain, stumpy, altogether insignificant young man enters—a young man with a pale face, red eyelids and nostrils, a dense look, and heavy, depressed manner.

      Justina.

      What news? Any?

      Claude.

      It’s finished.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Finished!

      Justina.

      Don’t tell me! How?

      Claude.

      It’s all right for Theo. Mrs. Allingham’s petition dismissed.

      Justina.

      Ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha! All right for Theo! [Clapping her hands, almost dancing. Mrs. Twelves embraces her.] All right for Theo!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Isn’t it splendid?

      Justina.

      Ha, ha, ha! All right for——! Mother! ma! ma!

      [She runs out.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [To Claude.] You did wait then, in spite of Theo’s orders?

      Claude.

      No, not in Court. I hung about outside, with Uncle Fletcher, to hear the result. [Sitting, with a little groan.] Oh!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      I must say, Claude, the victory hasn’t left you very cheerful.

      Claude.

      Cheerful! Think of the day I’ve spent!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      You’ve spent!

      Claude.

      Theophila’s brother! [Pointing into space.] The brother of Mrs. Fraser of Locheen! The brother of the witness in the box! Every eye upon me!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Drily.] I see.

      Claude.

      Oh, Kate, I’ve felt this business in more ways than one. It has been a terrible lesson to me.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Smiling.] My poor Claudio!

      Claude.

      [Not looking at her.] No, don’t pity me—despise me. Kitty, how easy it is for a fellow to imperil a woman’s reputation!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Amused.] Yes, isn’t it?

      Claude.

      We attach ourselves to a pretty married woman; we lounge in her drawing-room, her boudoir; we make her our toy, our pastime. Do we allow a single thought of the scandal we may involve her in to check us in our pursuit of pleasure?

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      [Demurely.] No, I suppose you don’t.

      Claude.

      Never!

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Perhaps you had better not come to tea with me quite so frequently in the future, Claude.

      Claude.

      You are right; you, and others, must see less of me. [Turning to her.] And yet, Kate, I am not all bad!

      Sir Fletcher Portwood enters. He is fifty-one, amiable, pompous, egotistical, foolish.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Why didn’t you wait for me, Claude, my boy?

      Claude.

      Sorry; my brain was reeling.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      [Meeting Mrs. Twelves.] A very proper, a very satisfactory termination of this affair, Mrs. Twelves.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      It has been awfully reassuring to see you beaming in Court, Sir Fletcher.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Ha! I daresay my attitude has been remarked. Beaming; why not? I’ve had no doubt as to the result.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      No doubt of Theo’s innocence—of course not.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Innocent; that goes without saying—my niece. But the result, in any case, would have been much the same, I venture to think.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Really?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      You see, my own public position, if I may speak of it——

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      Oh, yes.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      [Smiling.] And I happen to know the judge—slightly perhaps; but there it is.

      Mrs. Quinton Twelves.

      But judges are not influenced by considerations of that kind?

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      Heaven forbid I should say a word against our method of administering law in this country. The House knows my opinion of the English Judicial Bench. At the same time, judges are mortal—I have never concealed that from myself; and Sir William and I have met. [To Claude.] You saw the judge look at me this morning, Claude?

      Claude.

      No.

      Sir Fletcher Portwood.

      No? Oh, yes, and I half-smiled in return. Yesterday I couldn’t catch his eye, but today I’ve been half-smiling at him all through the proceedings.

      Justina runs in, seats herself at the pianoforte, and thumps out the Wedding March.

      Justina.

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