oet, certainly. Look at him, James! (She takes him by the coat,
and brings him forward to show him to Morell.) Look at his collar! look
at his tie! look at his hair! One would think somebody had been
throttling you. (The two men guard themselves against betraying their
consciousness.) Here! Stand still. (She buttons his collar; ties his
neckerchief in a bow; and arranges his hair.) There! Now you look so
nice that I think you'd better stay to lunch after all, though I told
you you mustn't. It will be ready in half an hour. (She puts a final
touch to the bow. He kisses her hand.) Don't be silly.

MARCHBANKS. I want to stay, of course--unless the reverend gentleman,
your husband, has anything to advance to the contrary.

CANDIDA. Shall he stay, James, if he promises to be a good boy and to
help me to lay the table? (Marchbanks turns his head and looks
steadfastly at Morell over his shoulder, challenging his answer.)

MORELL (shortly). Oh, yes, certainly: he had better. (He goes to the
table and pretends to busy himself with his papers there.)

MARCHBANKS (offering his arm to Candida). Come and lay the table.(She
takes it and they go to the door together. As they go out he adds) I am
the happiest of men.

MORELL. So was I--an hour ago.

ACT II

The same day. The same room. Late in the afternoon. The spare chair for
visitors has been replaced at the table, which is, if possible, more
untidy than before. Marchbanks, alone and idle, is trying to find out
how the typewriter works. Hearing someone at the door, he steals
guiltily away to the window and pretends to be absorbed in the view.
Miss Garnett, carrying the notebook in which she takes down Morell's
letters in shorthand from his dictation, sits down at the typewriter
and sets to work transcribing them, much too busy to notice Eugene.
Unfortunately the first key she strikes sticks.

PROSERPINE. Bother! You've been meddling with my typewriter, Mr.
Marchbanks; and there's not the least use in your trying to look as if
you hadn't.

MARCHBANKS (timidly). I'm very sorry, Miss Garnett. I only tried to
make it write.

PROSERPINE. Well, you've made this key stick.

MARCHBANKS (earnestly). I assure you I didn't touch the keys. I didn't,
indeed. I only turned a little wheel. (He points irresolutely at the
tension wheel.)

PROSERPINE. Oh, now I understand. (She sets the machine to rights,
talking volubly all the time.) I suppose you thought it was a sort of
barrel