JOB ARTHUR. They’re a great luxury nowadays,
aren’t they? Almost beyond a man like
me.
GERALD. Yes, that’s the worst of not being
a bloated capitalist. Never mind, you’ll
be a Cabinet Minister some day.—Oh, all
right— I’ll open the door for you.
JOB ARTHUR. Oh, don’t trouble. Good
night—good night. (Exeunt.)
OLIVER. Oh, God, what a world to live in!
ANABEL. I rather liked him. What is he?
OLIVER. Checkweighman—local secretary
for the Miner’s Federation— plays
the violin well, although he was a collier, and it
spoilt his hands. They’re a musical family.
ANABEL. But isn’t he rather nice?
OLIVER. I don’t like him. But I
confess he’s a study. He’s the modern
Judas.
ANABEL. Don’t you think he likes Gerald?
OLIVER. I’m sure he does. The way
he suns himself here—like a cat purring
in his luxuriation.
ANABEL. Yes—I don’t mind it.
It shows a certain sensitiveness and a certain taste.
OLIVER. Yes, he has both—touch of
the artist, as Mrs. Barlow says. He loves refinement,
culture, breeding, all those things—loves
them— and a presence, a fine free manner.
ANABEL. But that is nice in him.
OLIVER. Quite. But what he loves, and
what he admires, and what he aspires to, he MUST betray.
It’s his fatality. He lives for the moment
when he can kiss Gerald in the Garden of Olives, or
wherever it was.
ANABEL. But Gerald shouldn’t be kissed.
OLIVER. That’s what I say.
ANABEL. And that’s what his mother means
as well, I suppose.
GERALD. Well—you’ve heard the
voice of the people.
ANABEL. He isn’t the people.
GERALD. I think he is, myself—the
epitome.
OLIVER. No, he’s a special type.
GERALD. Ineffectual, don’t you think?
ANABEL. How pleased you are, Gerald!
How pleased you are with yourself! You love
the turn with him.
GERALD. It’s rather stimulating, you know.
ANABEL. It oughtn’t to be, then.
OLIVER. He’s you Judas, and you love him.
GERALD. Nothing so deep. He’s just
a sort of AEolian harp that sings to the temper of
the wind. I find him amusing.
ANABEL. I think it’s boring.
OLIVER. And I think it’s nasty.
GERALD. I believe you’re both jealous
of him. What do you think of the working man,
Oliver?
OLIVER. It seems to me he’s in nearly
as bad a way as the British employer: he’s
nearly as much beside the point.
GERALD. What point?
OLIVER. Oh, just life.
GERALD. That’s too vague, my boy.
Do you think they’ll ever make a bust-up?
OLIVER. I can’t tell. I don’t
see any good in it, if they do.
