rther away from
me, quick. [He walks doggedly away from her until the piano prevents his
going farther]. If I button my glove, and you were to hum a tune, don't
you think that--

HE. The tableau would be complete in its guiltiness. For Heaven's sake,
Mrs Bompas, let that glove alone: you look like a pickpocket.

Her husband comes in: a robust, thicknecked, well groomed city man,
with a strong chin but a blithering eye and credulous mouth. He has a
momentous air, but shows no sign of displeasure: rather the contrary.

HER HUSBAND. Hallo! I thought you two were at the theatre.

SHE. I felt anxious about you, Teddy. Why didn't you come home to
dinner?

HER HUSBAND. I got a message from Georgina. She wanted me to go to her.

SHE. Poor dear Georgina! I'm sorry I haven't been able to call on her
this last week. I hope there's nothing the matter with her.

HER HUSBAND. Nothing, except anxiety for my welfare and yours. [She
steals a terrified look at Henry]. By, the way, Apjohn, I should like a
word with you this evening, if Aurora can spare you for a moment.

HE [formally] I am at your service.

HER HUSBAND. No hurry. After the theatre will do.

HE. We have decided not to go.

HER HUSBAND. Indeed! Well, then, shall we adjourn to my snuggery?

SHE. You needn't move. I shall go and lock up my diamonds since I'm not
going to the theatre. Give me my things.

HER HUSBAND [as he hands her the cloud and the mirror] Well, we shall
have more room here.

HE [looking about him and shaking his shoulders loose] I think I should
prefer plenty of room.

HER HUSBAND. So, if it's not disturbing you, Rory--?

SHE. Not at all. [She goes out].

When the two men are alone together, Bompas deliberately takes the poems
from his breast pocket; looks at them reflectively; then looks at Henry,
mutely inviting his attention. Henry refuses to understand, doing his
best to look unconcerned.

HER HUSBAND. Do these manuscripts seem at all familiar to you, may I
ask?

HE. Manuscripts?

HER HUSBAND. Yes. Would you like to look at them a little closer? [He
proffers them under Henry's nose].

HE [as with a sudden illumination of glad surprise] Why, these are my
poems.

HER HUSBAND. So I gather.

HE. What a shame! Mrs Bompas has shown them to you! You must think me an
utter ass. I wrote them years ago after reading Swinburne's Songs Before
Sunrise. Nothing would do me then but I must reel off a set of Songs
to the Sunrise. Aurora,