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(TARVER _and_ PHYLLIS _re-enter, go to fender and sit_. TARVER _has had his clothes brushed_.)
GRICE. I never saw a paper with anything in it. (_Pause_.) How about the bye-elections?
FARADAY. (_Grunting, absorbed in his paper_) Huh! (_Long pause_.)
EVELYN. (_Reading front page_) Oh, Madge, Elsie Hardiman is engaged.
MADGE. Not really?
AUNT IDA. (_From up stage, comes slightly_ R.C. _Uneasily and anxiously watching_ EVELYN) Isn't there--isn't there any other news, Evelyn?
EVELYN. No, dear.
AUNT IDA. Anybody married?
EVELYN. No one we know.
AUNT IDA. (_With a forced attempt at cheerfulness_) Or dead?
EVELYN. (_Absently. Looking over paper_) No, dear. Ab--so--lutely noth---- (_Her eye suddenly lights on_ SMITH'S _death notice. She reads it in pantomime. A look of horror comes over her face and she utters a shrill scream_.)
(_All rise hastily with exclamations_.)
FARADAY. (_Jumping to his feet_) G.o.d bless my soul! What's the matter, what's the matter?
TARVER. Great Scott! What's the matter?
MADGE. What _is_ the matter, Evelyn?
GRICE. (_Coming center_) Really, Lady Trenchard, you ought not to startle people like that. It's selfish. (_Goes to her, takes paper from her limp hand and comes down stage_.) What's the news, eh?
FARADAY. (_Taking paper from_ GRICE _with importance, and crossing_ L.) _I'll_ tell you.
EVELYN. (_In hushed whisper_) Father, the deaths, the deaths!
(_During the following scene_, GRICE _is fairly dancing with impatience_.)
FARADAY. (_Reads death notice and sits heavily extreme_ L. _with a sigh_) Poor girl!
MADGE. (_From above table_) Father.
(FARADAY _hands paper to_ MADGE, _saying, "Read, read."_)
PHYLLIS. (_After a slight pause runs across stage to_ MADGE) What is it, Madge?
MADGE. Oh, Phyllis.
PHYLLIS. (_Stands by_ MADGE, _takes paper and reads_) That does seem cruel, doesn't it?
GRICE. Why do people want to keep the news to themselves? (_Takes paper away from_ PHYLLIS _and comes down_ C. _He reads_) Whew!
(_Stands ruminating_) Well, well, well, well! (_Holds paper to him_.)
TARVER. (_Seated in chair below fender. Plaintively_) Will somebody kindly tell _me_ what's happened?
GRICE. Always thinking of yourself, Tarver. (_Reads slowly and impressively_) "On October the 11th--of wounds--at Berbera, Somaliland--Colonel Smith."
TARVER. (_Feeling that he must say something_) On October the 11th--that is tough, isn't it?
FARADAY. Yes, it's hard. I've been inquiring about rooms at the Club.
I didn't expect this.
PHYLLIS. (_At head of table_) It's more terribly and cruelly hard on Celia than it would be upon _any other woman_.
GRICE. (_Putting paper on table_) Why?
PHYLLIS. Because---- (_Breaks off_.) Don't you remember the night when she told us of her engagement eight months ago. She said then that her betrothal would make an extraordinary difference in her life.
(_READY Doorbell_.)
EVELYN. Then she wasn't happy. Now she is.
MADGE. And when she is, this blow falls without even a telegram to break the force of it.
PHYLLIS. It is too horrible. Nothing but an announcement in the Times sent by post.
(NOTE: _The voices in each succeeding line should descend in scale_.)
MADGE. On October the 11th----
TARVER. Of wounds----
FARADAY. At Berbera----
EVELYN. Somaliland----
GRICE. Colonel Smith----
TARVER. (_Rising and coming_ L. _to stool below table_) By Jove! If Celia withdraws from the _contest_, I'm done.
