The Benefit of the Doubt; a Comedy in Three Acts. Arthur Wing Pinero
When the wife is older than the husband every fresh little line in her face becomes an acute pain to her, just as if it were cut into her flesh, and renewed daily, with a knife. Those are Mrs. Allingham’s own words.
Mrs. Cloys.
Poor wretch!
Mrs. Emptage.
In her storms with Jack she used to rave out these things, and Jack would repeat them to Theo.
Mrs. Cloys.
What business had he to do that, pray?
Mrs. Emptage.
Well, his home had become such a hell that he fell into the way of rushing round to Lennox Gardens, to Theophila and Alec, to obtain relief from his worries.
Justina.
He gradually became a sort of third in Lennox Gardens, you know, aunt.
Mrs. Cloys.
A sort of third?
Mrs. Emptage.
The house-friend who is continually running in and out——
Justina.
The man who has dined with you almost before you know it, as it were.
Mrs. Cloys.
Oh! And is this all?
Mrs. Emptage.
All?
Mrs. Cloys.
All the justification a jealous woman has for seeking to divorce her husband?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Not divorce, Harriet; she wasn’t entitled to ask for that. Mrs. Allingham has been suing for judicial separation.
Mrs. Cloys.
Well, well——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Accuracy with me is a perfect mania. Oh, yes, that’s all. With the exception of the—the——[With a wave of the hand.] However——!
Mrs. Cloys.
Exception?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I was thinking of the bézique part of the case.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Impatiently.] Yes, yes; but that’s of no consequence now.
Mrs. Cloys.
Bézique?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Allingham and Theophila happen, both of them, to be fond of cards. And when Fraser was away in Scotland——
Mrs. Cloys.
Away in Scotland? Not with Theophila?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
No, no; she loathes Locheen.
Mrs. Cloys.
I see. When Mr. Fraser was in Scotland and his wife was by herself in London——
Mrs. Emptage.
Then a little harmless bézique helped to kill the time.
Mrs. Cloys.
Theophila and Mr. Allingham killed time together?
Mrs. Emptage, Justina, Sir Fletcher.
[In various tones.] Yes—yes—yes.
Mrs. Cloys.
Where was the time killed?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
In Lennox Gardens.
Mrs. Cloys.
At Theophila’s house, in her husband’s absence. Is that all?
Mrs. Emptage.
Absolutely all.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
All the bézique part of the case. You see, the lawyers separated the case against Theophila into three divisions.
Mrs. Cloys.
Three! Number One?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
The House-friend, as aforesaid.
Mrs. Cloys.
Two?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Bézique—as aforesaid.
Mrs. Cloys.
Three?
Mrs. Emptage.
I repeat, surely all this doesn’t matter now!
Mrs. Cloys.
Number Three?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Tannhäuser.
Mrs. Cloys.
In Heaven’s name, what——!
Justina.
That was nothing. Alec Fraser was in Scotland as usual——
Mrs. Cloys.
As usual!
Mrs. Emptage.
No, no—as he is often obliged to be.
Justina.
Alec was in Scotland, and Theo had been to the opera with pals——
Mrs. Cloys.
With——!
Justina.
Friends, to hear Tannhäuser. She had sent her servants to bed, and let herself in with her latchkey. As she was closing the front door she caught sight of Jack Allingham on the other side of the way.
Mrs. Emptage.
He had had one of his terrible scenes with his wife; they lived round the corner, in Pont Street——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
And a most charming house theirs was. I always say, with regard to Pont Street——
Mrs. Cloys.
[Sternly.] Fletcher!
Mrs. Emptage.
Jack was in a dreadful state of distress; pacing the streets like a maniac, in fact——
Justina.
He’s a very old friend of all of us——
Mrs. Emptage.
More like a brother than a——
Justina.
And Theo begged him to come in——
Mrs. Emptage.
To calm himself. Simply an impulsive, warm-hearted act on her part.
Justina.
And it wouldn’t have mattered in the least if that devil of a wife hadn’t suspected——
Mrs. Emptage.
And planted her maid outside Theo’s house—set of spies!——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Till three in the morning——
Mrs. Emptage.
When Theo turned Jack out.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Not four in the morning, as Mrs. Allingham’s blundering counsel tried to establish. Ha, ha! Sir John Clarkson bowled him over there! Three, sir—not four!
Mrs. Cloys.
[To Sir