Lady S. Oh, you are crude and cruel! But I am for you:-- Not every husband; some men marry widows; Some marry harlots; some----
Lady S. It seems Some marry virgins and are none the wiser.
Sir T. Yes; but remain. Not him alone with me.
Lady S. There's something in your mind more than you say.
Sir T. Without a doubt. No man can speak his mind.
Lady S. Ask? Anything. But you are harassed, ill. Let me conclude with Groom.
[Sir Tristram at the telephone communicates with his business manager, Abbot, while Lady Sumner goes out and re-enters with Warwick.]
Sir T. [At the telephone] Warwick!--old friend! (No, Abbot; wait.)
Lady S. We'll test him, Tristram. [Takes up a copy of Troilus and Cressida.]
Sir T. Shame! (Yes? Sumner. No. A dozen Heidsieck? Yes, at once; from me. Send him my love; tell him he shall get well.) You never played it?
Groom. No; I studied it When you announced the play a year ago; And when you placed it in rehearsal----
Sir T. Hateful oversight! Forgive me, Warwick. Having cast the part, Not knowing you were free ... (Yes. Sumner. What? Yes; let the understudy dress. No. Yes. Perhaps we'll have another Troilus. Groom. To-night. Oh no! I think. A great success.)
Lady S. And that's the cue! I speak for Hector, Warwick. "Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy, "I'll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy."
Groom. "Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you "Which better fits a lion than a man."
Lady S. "What vice is that, good Troilus? Chide me for it."
Groom. "When many times the captive Grecians fall, "Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, "You bid them rise and live."
Groom. "Fool's play"--I'll not go on, for I have asked Like courteous mercy, Tristram.
Sir T. You have brought Mercy to us, boy--a Troilus unmatched From swift Scamander to the lordly Thames.
Groom. Then am I happy. Tristram, Martha, years How many have I wasted; ten, a dozen, Despairing up and down the railways, caught And imprisoned, like some adventurer Forlorn, in dreary tunnels, stations, inns, Provincial companies and theatres, The dismallest labyrinth where every step Stumbles at skeletons of dead ambitions And dying reputations; as close to London As the suburbs are, further away, that is, Than hell from heaven, and bitterer than hell. Be hung upon the fringe of paradise, Stewing in brimstone with the spicy scent Of asphodel to lave the sulphurous air, And envy Tantalus his pleasant lines For ever and a day!