The Red House Mystery and Other Novels. A. A. Milne
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Название: The Red House Mystery and Other Novels
Автор: A. A. Milne
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Контркультура
isbn: 9781456614010
isbn:
BELINDA. And now here's Betty coming in to upset all our delightful plans, just when we've made them.
DELIA. How are you, Betty? I've left school.
BETTY. Very nicely, thank you, miss. You've grown.
BELINDA (patting the top of DELIA'S head). I'm much taller than she is. ... Well, Betty, what is it?
BETTY. The two gentlemen, Mr. Baxter and Mr. Devenish, have both called together, ma'am.
BELINDA (excited). Oh! How--how very simultaneous of them!
DELIA (eagerly). Oh, do let me see them!
BELINDA. Darling, you'll see plenty of them before you've finished. (To BETTY) What have you done with them?
BETTY. They're waiting in the hall, ma'am, while I said I would see if you were at home.
BELINDA. All right, Betty. Give me two minutes and then show them out here.
BETTY. Yes, ma'am. [Exit.]
BELINDA. They can't do much harm to each other in two minutes.
DELIA (taking her hat). Well, I'll go and unpack. You really won't mind my coming down afterwards?
BELINDA. Of course not. (A little awkwardly) Darling one, I wonder if you'd mind--just at first--being introduced as my niece. You see, I expect they're in a bad temper already, having come here together, and we don't want to spoil their day entirely.
DELIA (smiling). I'll be your mother if you like.
BELINDA. Oh no, that wouldn't do, because then Mr. Baxter would feel that he ought to ask your permission before paying his attentions to me. He's just that sort of man. A niece is so safe-- however good you are at statistics, you can't really prove anything.
DELIA. All right, mummy.
BELINDA (enjoying herself). You'd like to be called by a different name, wouldn't you? There's something so thrilling about taking a false name. Such a lot of adventures begin like that. How would you like to be Miss Robinson, darling? It's a nice easy one to remember. (Persuasively.) And you shall put your hair up so as to feel more disguised. What fun we're going to have!
DELIA. You baby! All right, then, I'm Miss Robinson, your favourite niece. (She moves towards the house.)
BELINDA. How sweet of you! Oh, I'm coming with you to do your hair. You don't think you're going to be allowed to do it yourself, when so much depends on it, and husbands leave you because of it, and-- [They do in together.]
[BETTY comes from the other side of the house into the garden, followed by MR. BAXTER and MR. DEVENISH. MR. BAXTER is forty-five, prim and erect, with close-trimmed moustache and side-whiskers. His clothes are dark and he wears a bowler-hat. MR. DEVENISH is a long-haired, good-looking boy in a nglig costume; perhaps twenty-two years old, and very scornful of the world.]
BETTY (looking about her surprised). The mistress was here a moment ago. I expect she'll be back directly, if you'll just wait. [She goes back into the house.]
(MR. BAXTER puts his bowler-hat firmly on his head and sits down very stiffly and upright in a chair on the left-hand side of the table. DEVENISH throws his felt hat on to the table and walks about inquisitively. He sees the review in the hammock and picks it up.)
DEVENISH. Good heavens, Baxter, she's been reading your article!
BAXTER. I dare say she's not the only one.
DEVENISH. That's only guesswork (going to back of table); you don't know of anyone else.
BAXTER. How many people, may I ask, have bought your poems?
DEVENISH (loftily). I don't write for the mob.
BAXTER. I think I may say that of my own work.
DEVENISH. Baxter, I don't want to disappoint you, but I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that you _are_ one of the mob. (Annoyed.) Dash it! what are you doing in the country at all in a bowler-hat?
BAXTER. If I wanted to be personal, I could say, "Why don't you get your hair cut?" Only that form of schoolboy humour doesn't appeal to me.
DEVENISH. This is not a personal matter; I am protesting on behalf of nature. What do the birds and the flowers and the beautiful trees think of your hat?
BAXTER. If one began to ask oneself what the birds thought of things--(He pauses.)
DEVENISH. Well, and why shouldn't one ask oneself? It is better than asking oneself what the Stock Exchange thinks of things.
BAXTER. Well (looking up at DEVENISH'S extravagant hair), it's the nesting season. Your hair! (Suddenly.) Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
DEVENISH (hastily smoothing it down). Really, Baxter, you're vulgar. (He turns away and resumes his promenading. Suddenly he sees his book on the grass beneath the hammock and makes a dash for it.) Ha, my book! (Gloating over it) Baxter, she reads my book.
BAXTER. I suppose you gave her a copy.
DEVENISH (exultingly). Yes, I gave her a copy. My next book will be hers and hers alone.
BAXTER. Then let me say that, in my opinion, you took a very great liberty.
DEVENISH. Liberty! And this from a man who is continually forcing his unwelcome statistics upon her.
BAXTER. At any rate, I flatter myself that there is no suggestion of impropriety in anything that _I_ write.
DEVENISH. I'm not so sure about that, Baxter.
BAXTER. What do you mean, sir?
DEVENISH. Did you read _The Times_ this month on the new reviews!
BAXTER. Well!
DEVENISH. Oh, nothing. It just said, "Mr. Baxter's statistics are extremely suggestive." I haven't read them, so of course I don't know what you've been up to.
BAXTER (turning away in disgust). Pah!
DEVENISH. Poor old Baxter! (He wanders about the garden again, and, having picked a flower, comes to rest against one of the trees from which the hammock is swung. He leans against this and regards the flower thoughtfully.) Baxter--
BAXTER (crossly). I wish you wouldn't keep calling me "Baxter."
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