s.

They turn. All three look at one another. For a moment they make a
motion as if to ring for tea. Then they stand petrified.

"You!" gasps Lady Cicely. She does this awfully well. Everybody says
afterward that it was just splendid when she said "You."

Sir John stands gazing in horror. "Him! My God! He!" Mr. Harding says
nothing. He looks very weak.

Lady Cicely unpetrifies first.

She breaks out, speaking through her nostrils. "Yes, I love him, I love
him. I'm not ashamed of it. What right have you to deny it me? You gave
me nothing. You made me a chattel, a thing----"

You can feel the rustle of indignation through the house at this. To
make a woman a thing is the crowning horror of a problem play.

"You starved me here. You throttled me." Lady Cicely takes herself by
the neck and throttles herself a little to show how.

"You smothered me. I couldn't breathe--and now I'm going, do you hear,
going away, to life, to love, behind the beyond!" She gathers up Mr.
Harding (practically) and carries him passionately away. He looks back
weakly as he goes.

Sir John has sunk down upon a chair. His face is set.

"Jack," he mutters, "my God, Jack!"

As he sits there, the valet enters with a telegram on a tray.

"A telegram, Sir John."

Sir John (dazed and trying to collect himself), "What?"

"A telegram, sir,--a cablegram."

Sir John takes it, opens it and reads aloud:

"He is dead. My duty is ended. I am coming home--Margaret Harding."

"Margaret coming home. It only needed that--my God."

. . . . . . .

As he says it, the curtain falls.

The lights flick up. There is a great burst of applause. The curtain
rises and falls. Lady Cicely and Mr. Harding and Sir John all come out
and bow charmingly. There is no trace of worry on their faces, and they
hold one another's hands. Then the curtain falls and the orchestra
breaks out into a Winter Garden waltz. The boxes buzz with discussion.
Some of the people think that Lady Cicely is right in claiming the right
to realize herself: others think that before realizing herself she
should have developed herself. Others ask indignantly how she could
know herself if her husband refused to let her be herself. But everybody
feels that the subject is a delicious one.

Those of the people who have seen the play before very kindly explain
how it ends, so as to help the rest to enjoy it. But the more
serious-minded of the men have risen, very gently, and are sneaking up