Short Plays · How He Lied to Her Husband (2/2) (2/2) (3/3)

| He | It’s no use. Your husband is a fool and a brute⁠— | | Her Husband | What’s that you say? | | He | I say you are a fool and a brute; and if you’ll step outside with me I’ll say it again. Teddy begins to take off his coat for combat. Those poems were written to your wife, every word of them, and to nobody else. The scowl clears away from Bompas’s countenance. Radiant, he replaces his coat. I wrote them because I loved her. I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world; and I told her so over and over again. I adored her: do you hear? I told her that you were a sordid commercial chump, utterly unworthy of her; and so you are. | | Her Husband | So gratified, he can hardly believe his ears. You don’t mean it! | | He | Yes, I do mean it, and a lot more too. I asked Mrs. Bompas to walk out of the house with me⁠—to leave you⁠—to get divorced from you and marry me. I begged and implored her to do it this very night. It was her refusal that ended everything between us. Looking very disparagingly at him. What she can see in you, goodness only knows! | | Her Husband | Beaming with remorse. My dear chap, why didn’t you say so before? I apologize. Come! Don’t bear malice: shake hands. Make him shake hands, Rory. | | She | For my sake, Henry. After all, he’s my husband. Forgive him. Take his hand. Henry, dazed, lets her take his hand and place it in Teddy’s. | | Her Husband | Shaking it heartily. You’ve got to own that none of your literary heroines can touch my Rory. He turns to her and claps her with fond pride on the shoulder. Eh, Rory? They can’t resist you: none of ’em. Never knew a man yet that could hold out three days. | | She | Don’t be foolish, Teddy. I hope you were not really hurt, Henry. She feels the back of his head. He flinches. Oh, poor boy, what a bump! I must get some vinegar and brown paper. She goes to the bell and rings. | | Her Husband | Will you do me a great favor, Apjohn. I hardly like to ask; but it would be a real kindness to us both. | | He | What can I do? | | Her Husband | Taking up the poems. Well, may I get these printed? It shall be done in the best style. The finest paper, sumptuous binding, everything first class. They’re beautiful poems. I should like to show them about a bit. | | She | Running back from the bell, delighted with the idea, and coming between them. Oh Henry, if you wouldn’t mind! | | He | Oh, I don’t mind. I am past minding anything. I have grown too fast this evening. | | She | How old are you, Henry? | | He | This morning I was eighteen. Now I am⁠—confound it! I’m quoting that beast of a play. He takes the Candida tickets out of his pocket and tears them up viciously. | | Her Husband | What shall we call the volume? To Aurora, or something like that, eh? | | He | I should call it How He Lied to Her Husband. |