I'll Leave It To You A Light Comedy In Three Acts

Excerpt

"I'LL LEAVE IT TO YOU"

A plan of the stage of the New Theatre, London, set for the play is given at the end of the book.{}

Scene.—The Hall of Mulberry Manor. All the furniture looks very comfortable. Through the window can be seen a glimpse of a snowy garden; there it a log fire. The light is a little dim, being late afternoon. Seated on the table swinging her legs is Joyce, she is attired in a fur coat and goloshes, very little else can be seen, except a pink healthy looking young face. Sylvia is seated on the Chesterfield R. She is twenty-one and exceedingly pretty. It is about five days before Christmas.

Joyce (brightly). My feet are simply soaking.

Sylvia (sewing). Why on earth don't you go and change them? You'll catch cold.

(Bobbie enters R. He is a slim, bright-looking youth of twenty.)

Joyce. I don't mind if I do. (Laughs.) Colds are fun.

Bobbie. She loves having a fuss made of her, beef tea—chicken—jelly with whipped cream—and fires in her bedroom, little Sybarite.

Joyce. So do you.

Bobbie (comes C.). No, I don't; whenever my various ailments confine me to my bed, I chafe—positively chafe at the terrible inactivity. I want to be up and about, shooting, riding, cricket, football, judo, the usual run of manly sports.

Sylvia. Knowing you for what you are—lazy, luxurious——

Bobbie (pained). Please, please, please, not in front of the child. (Joyce kicks). It's demoralizing for her to hear her idolized brother held up to ridicule.

Joyce. You're not my idolized brother at all—Oliver is. (Turning away, pouting.)

Bobbie (seated R. on Chesterfield, sweetly). If that were really so, dear, I know you have much too kind a heart to let me know it.

Sylvia. What is the matter with you this afternoon, Bobbie—you are very up in the air about something.

(Joyce takes her coat off, puts on back of chair R. of table).

Bobbie (rising and sitting on club fender). Merely another instance of the triumph of mind over matter; in this case a long and healthy walk was the matter. I went into the lobby to put on my snow boots and then—as is usually the case with me—my mind won. I thought of tea, crumpets and comfort. Oliver has gone without me, he simply bursts with health and extraordinary dullness. Personally I shall continue to be delicate and interesting.

Sylvia (seriously). You may have to work, Bobbie.

Bobbie. Really, Sylvia, you do say the most awful things, remember Joyce is only a school-girl, she'll be quite shocked.

Joyce. We work jolly hard at school, anyhow.

Bobbie. Oh, no, you don't. I've read the modern novelists, and I know; all you do is walk about with arms entwined, and write poems of tigerish adoration to your mistresses. It's a beautiful existence.

Joyce. You are a silly ass. (Picks up magazine.)

Sylvia. It's all very well to go on fooling Bobbie, but really we shall have to pull ourselves together a bit. Mother's very worried, as you know, money troubles are perfectly beastly, and she hasn't told us nearly all. I do so hate her to be upset, poor darling.

Bobbie. What can we do? (Sits L. end of Chesterfield. Joyce puts down magazine and listens.)

Sylvia....