Act I of Mrs. Pretty and the Premier by Arthur Adams. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mrs. Pretty and the Premier, a political comedy in three acts. The Persons in the Comedy Herbert Dix, the Premier's Chief Private Secretary, read by Peter Musgrove. Effie Bim, stenographer in the Premier's Room, read by Devorah Allen. Gregory, Chief Messenger at Parliament House, read by Allen Mapstone. William Power, Premier, read by Son of the Exiles. Patrick O'Reilly, a constituent, read by T.J. Burns. Edward Weiss, the Party Whip, read by Leanne Yau. Martha Callander, the Premier's Sister, read by Beth Thomas. Charles Lucan, reporter on the Tribune, read by Thomas Peter. Helen Pretty, a widow, the owner of Wyonora Estate, read by Sonia. Mrs. Cusack, a friend of Mrs. Pretty's, read by Sandra Schmidt. Vernon Harrington, Leader of the Opposition, read by Ken Harrington. Made, read by Leanne Yau. Stage Directions, read by Todd. The action takes place in the Premier's Room at Parliament House, Acts 1 and 3, and in the Living Room of Wyonora Homestead, Mrs. Pretty's Estate, Act 2. The period is the present. The action being comprised within a few days. Act 1. Scene If you wished to see William Power, the Premier of a certain Australian State, you would first have to wait in the lobby of Parliament House, while Gregory, the Chief Messenger, took in your card. If the Premier is disengaged, which isn't at all likely, you will probably have to wait your turn. You would be shown into the Premier's private office. There, behind a big table, covered with documents, you would find William Power awaiting you. While he finished sprawling his big signature over official documents, you would have time to notice the room. It is a big, comfortably furnished room, lit by big windows at the back, and with a private entrance for the Premier. On the table, you would notice a huge vase of flowers, a desk telephone, etc. Chairs here and there. Portraits of bygone Premier's hotly stare from the walls at this representative of Labour who has succeeded them. A small table and chair are set down in the corner for a stenographer, so placed that the reporter's back is right in the corner. Behind the big table is a large screen, concealing from sight a comfortable armchair beneath the windows at the back. The purpose of this arrangement, it may be confessed, is to allow the Premier the chance of a nap in the intervals of his strenuous work, while his decorous secretary can let the important caller see for himself that the room is empty. Prominent above the door is the division bell, used to summon members to the chamber when a division is to be taken. The rest of the furniture includes a table for the Premier's Chief Private Secretary, he has seven, and a tiny table and chair for a stenographer with the usual office furnishings, including a desk telephone on the secretary's table. The door by which you enter from the lobby is in the back wall, there is also a smaller door. It is the morning of a fine day. Herbert Dix, the Premier's Chief Private Secretary, is seated at his table, working with calm fury, methodically clearing up the heaps of papers ready for the Premier's perusal and signature. He is a capable, youngish man, emotionless, blaséed of politics, suave, brisk and resourceful, and to be a private secretary to such a tornado of energy as William Power, he needs to be all that. His desk telephone rings. Yes, Premier's room. Who? Reporter, yes. Which paper? The Tribune. What's the Tribune want with the Premier? Oh, it's you, Lucan. Must see the Premier this morning, eh? Impossible. Nope, he's not down yet. Expect him any minute, but he won't see you. Told me only yesterday, and rather forcibly, that after the way your paper distorted his speech, he wouldn't see anybody from the Tribune till they apologized, so you see, there's no chance. Sorry, what's that? He'll be only too anxious to see you when he knows what you got hold of? Concerns impersonally, you say. Can't help that. If the thing's so urgent, why didn't you ring him up at his private address? Couldn't get him. He hadn't been home all night. Oh, he told me where he was going, if that's all your story. Well, I'll tell him you're here when he arrives. Better come down right away. Right? He replaces phone. To himself, seriously. The Premier wasn't home all night. Never known him to do that before. Curious. He dives into his work again. Effie Bim, a meek little girl of the worshiping type, enters quietly through the small door. She is wearing the conventional blouse and skirt, but has given way to her feminine love of adornment by crowning herself with a particularly virulent scarlet hat. Effie stands a moment, self-curious, looking at Dix, confidently expecting from him some admiring comment. Good morning, Mr. Dix. Morning, Miss Bim. You're late, as usual. He is too busy to look up. Effie, disappointed, sighs, and reverently removes the hat and rapturously admires it. Crossing to the small door, she calmly removes Dix's hat from its peg and places her hat there. Dix's hat, she relegates to a lower hook. Then she returns to her small table, sits, opens her typewriter, and starts typing letters without enthusiasm. Miss Bim, did you hear Bill say anything yesterday about not going home last night? Goodness, no, Mr. Dix. Didn't he go home last night? I heard not. Then where did he sleep? Oh, the Premier doesn't sleep. Hasn't the time to waste? It couldn't have been a woman. A woman? You women are always looking for the woman. That is, when you're not looking for the man. The Premier interested in a woman. You know what Bill thinks of females. Haven't I caused? He doesn't even see them. I bet he's never seen me. Sees you every hour of the day. Can't help it. No more can I. Effie, rising tragically. No, he looks through me. He doesn't know I exist except as a kind of Pianola attachment to a typewriter. Well, that's what you are.  No, but you'd think that any man, even if he is a Premier, would become conscious in time of the presence of a woman, if she was always about. And he's never even noticed what I've got on or how I do my hair. Since I came here, I've done it nine different ways, too. You'd think that any man- Bill isn't a man. He's merely a Premier, a sort of political dynamo running the country at top speed. And he's always been like that. He's worked too hard all his life to spare the time to get married. I often wonder why he never did. I like to think that he had some disappointment when he was young. Some sacred memory to which his heart is forever faithful.  Dicks with a shriek of delight at the picture. Bill? Ah, you're only a man. It takes a woman's intuition to know that someday...   Politics aren't romantic. No, that's the greatest disappointment of my life. But someday, that's why I got that new hat. Good Lord, is that a hat? Striking, don't you think? Blinding. You mean to say you got that for Bill? Yes. If he catches sight of that conflagration, well, you know Bill's capacity for language, but you've never heard him in full blast with the valve blown off. While there's time, you'd better take it up with the tongs and bury it in the backyard. You think he'll really notice it? If he's not colorblind. Of course, I'd like him to see it on. You can never judge a hat off. I'll show you. Don't waste it on me. I've just had breakfast. Let me see that letter to the education department. Effie returns to her desk and searches. Oh, I left it on the other desk. She crosses to the small table. Returning with the letter, she notices the vase of flowers on the premier's table, goes up and rearranges them, and lightly kisses the flowers. Then she sees on the floor a little gold mesh handbag. She picks it up. Oh. Dicks, without looking up. Harry. Look what I found. Dicks, rising. What's that? Stupid. A lady's handbag. Expensive looking, too. Where did you get it? On the floor. A lady's handbag in the premier's room. And Bill never went home last night. Oh, it was a woman. Nonsense. Somebody left it yesterday. But the cleaners always do out the room after the premier goes. That's so. She left it last night. The abandoned creature. And I did think Mr. Power. There's sure to be some simple explanation. Well, we'll soon find out. She begins to open the bag. He snatches it. Here. You're not going to open it. I only want to find out the creature's name in a dress, to send it back. No, you don't. This isn't our affair. Put it back exactly where you found it, quick. He'll be in any minute now. Effie unwillingly puts it back on the floor. And get on with your work. Effie, returning to her desk and stabbing rapidly and viciously at the typewriter keys. So it was a woman. Oh, a rich woman, too. Gregory enters. He is an old man, who having been in the privileged position of chief messenger for many years, long before the present premier took office, looks on premieres with a kind of fraternal interest. As he is always called Gregory, his other name does not matter. Nor is there probably any other person who knows it. Gregory, coming to Dix with a handful of visiting cards and forms filled in by persons stating their business with a premier waiting in the lobby. Morning, sir. Hello, Gregory. The usual crowd waiting in the lobby? Two deputations and a mob of outward works. Lucan, the chap from the Tribune. Reading the card. Personal of the utmost urgency. I wonder if he knows anything about that. Any ladies, Gregory? Ladies, Mr. Dix? No, thank God. I always hate to see ladies calling on premieres. But Bill hates them, too. By the way, there was a lady here late yesterday afternoon. I told her Bill wouldn't be in if he didn't turn up before six. She said she'd wait. I left her in the lobby. Give her a name? No. As Bill didn't turn up, I suppose she got tired and went. Must have. She wasn't there when I came back from my tea. You'd all gone by then, sir. Any special callers out there now? None that I couldn't dispose of myself, sir. Of course, you could run the country yourself, couldn't you? No. But I've been here so long as premier's messenger that I know more about that crowd than any premier would. I recollect all their faces.   Exactly, sir. I've been here almost since there were premieres. I've seen five come and go. And I'll see lots more come and go. If Bill had only let me take his interview in off his shoulders, he might stay a little longer than the others. You won't see Bill go unless he explodes from too much energy. He's a sticker. So they all thought they were, sir. Gregory goes out. That newspaper chap with his urgent personal interview and that woman waiting yesterday and that handbag? I don't quite like the look of it. Here he comes. She types furiously. A voice, a loud domineering voice, is heard outside the premier's private door. The door is flung open. William Power, the labor premier, enters. He is a big man of middle age, with rough, strong features. He recognizes that he is the autocrat of the state, has a fierce belief in himself, and looks the typical successful politician.  He is well versed in all the tricks of his trade, ready to win by cunning where straight dealing will not do. He is a man of the people, dressed now without ostentation in a morning suit, well cut. He radiates the instant impression of immense willpower and physical force. As he enters, he is in the middle of dictating a telegram to his second private secretary, Ernest Bristead, a colorless young man who enters behind him, making rapid shorthand notes in his notebook. Power dictating as he pauses at the door to Bristead, as yet unseen. Must have information by return. Got that? Bristead appears. Why a postmaster general? Dix brings a bundle of documents, which he places on the table. Good morning, sir. Morning, Dix. Handsome as tall hat, which Dix hangs up. Postmaster general. Dictating to Bristead. Find two places for telephone girls at Borobu Exchange. Immediate. Right, postmaster general giving names. Dix knows all about that. Telephone vice. Seem it once. Send messenger to my house to fetch two clean handkerchiefs. Order special train for midnight for Maolong.  Bring the matter under notice of the chief commissioner, and tell him from me that if his rotten railways can't provide hot foot warmers for the premier, I'll get a question asked about it in the house. You come with me, Bristead, and the special. And two other secretaries. Dix stays here. Prepare a speech for the opening of the new public library at Maolong. Some rot about culture and the working man. Culture. I never found any need of it. Telegraph that fool, Brown, that if he thinks he's going to win why and nor a buy election for us, he'd better get a move on. There's a complaint from dead cow corner that he's never spoken there. And there are a third in good government votes waiting for him there. I'm sending up three members of the cabinet to help.  It's easily seen he's never been in parliament before. He's committing the government too much. Keep to generalities. Generalities never did anyone much harm. That's all for now. Bristead disappears. By this time, power is seated at the table. He glances rapidly at the letters placed before him by Dix. Pencils brief memos on them, and scrolls his big signature over other documents. Power to Dix, who stands waiting. Any deputations, Wyton? Two. Duplication of railways and totalisator bill. I'll keep. Send in the authors. Yes, sir. Where's that draft of the compulsory resumptions of a state's bill? Dix, indicating it on the table. Here, sir. Let's so give the big squad as hell I. I've been looking for it for a long while, sir. He rings the bell and signals Effie. Effie rises with notebook and crosses. Good morning, sir. Power, busy scanning the bill, not looking up. Morning. Effie sits at the small table, her back to the corner, ready to take shorthand notes of the interviews. Gregory shows in Patrick O'Reilly, an ancient man, cringing and persuasive. Thank your stars, Patrick O'Reilly, that you've got the sort of face that you only see in a zoo. If I didn't remember you, you'd be waiting outside in the lobby all the morning. What do you want with the Premier? Sure. What we all of us do be wanting? A job. But you got a job from the last Premier. Didn't he make you a night watchman? I lost that job. I couldn't keep awake after supper, could I? I told Sir Charles about here, but he said you was a tenant on his estate in England. And he never forgot old friends. Now, did I tell him not? I've got the worst memory a man was ever blessed with. I never was in England. I knew Bill Power and the days of the gold rush when he used to keep a store. Him and me was great friends, at least was what he was. This Premier always remembers old friends too. But maybe he won't remember me. You just hop in and deli-moin him in the good old days. You're the third man in this week who knew Bill Power when he kept a store on the diggings. Come on. He ushers Patrick in to power. Mr. Patrick O'Reilly, Sir, who knew you in the gold diggying days? Power, genuinely grasping Patrick's hand. Oh, I was glad to meet an old friend. I remember you perfectly, Pat. Boy was a customer when you kept that store, Sir. Don't you remember? I owe you seven shillings. Do you? Holds out his hand for it. Gregory retires. I haven't met you at book, handy, Sir. Well, what can I do for you, Pat? Just a little bit of a job, Sir. Certainly. What sort of job do you want? Any job, Sir. Well, I don't have to keep awake. A clerkship in one of the government departments? Dix. Dix brings an open letter in his hand. Any vacancies for temporary clerkships in the Treasury? Overstaffed, Sir. Tell the Undersecretary to make one for my friend, Mr Patrick O'Reilly. Yes, Sir. And instruct the Undersecretary to deduct seven shillings? No, seven shillings and sixpence. Interest, from his first month's salary and pay it into my private account. Yes, Sir. By the way, there's a note from the Undersecretary about that man you sent to him yesterday. Here it is. What does the blighter say? Says he can't give you a pointy position as a fly, despite your personal recommendation. But damn it, I told him to! Why? Dix, reading. Because your man can't read or write. Power, snatches the letter, doubles up on corner, scribbles on it, and hands it back. Can't read or write, eh? There. Dix, reading. Teach him. William Power. That ought to get over the trifling difficulty, Sir. Would you mind, Sir, just putting them little words on my own appointment paper? Of course. To Dix. Fix my friend O'Reilly up. Thank you, Sir. Glory be. You're the sort of Premier that we'll have soon in Ireland. They shake hands, and Dix shows Patrick out. Power turns again to scrutinize the draft of the bill. Gregory enters with a card, which he shows to Dix. Dix, back at his desk. The Premier never sees women. She said he was sure to see her. Well, try him. Gregory comes to power. Sir, there's a lady. I never see ladies. That's what I told her, Sir. But she said when you saw her card, you'd see her. Power, suddenly interested. Perhaps it's... He snatches the card and reads. Misses, Arthur Pretty. No, not her. But I know the name. What's her business? She's the owner of Wainora Estate, Sir. Ah, the owner of Wainora. The biggest run in the state. The first one we're going to compulsorily resume. So she comes to me to make a personal appeal to leave her her estate. She believes I'm the sort of fool to capitulate to a fascinating face. I suppose she is fascinating, Gregory. As dangerous I should say, Sir, as a death adder. I won't say a. Thank you, Sir. Thank you. I'm doing it in self-defense. That's why, Sir. There's one sort of face that I don't like to see among the crowd out there in the lobby, and that's a woman's. What woman? Any woman, Sir. They're all death adders. Oh, I don't worry about women. No time. No, Sir. But when they begin to worry about you, and especially when they're widows... How do you know she's a widow? Instinct, Sir. The blind instinct that finds a bird when it sees a snake. Mrs. Arthur Pretty is a widow. There, I knew it, Sir. Instinct. You remember Mr. Beatty, Sir? He was Premier ten years ago. He lost his job through a widow. And there was Mr. Perkins. He looked good for a lifetime in that chair. And when I saw a pretty woman patiently waiting in the lobby, to see him on private business, and my instinct warned me she was a widow, I knew. He lost his job three weeks later. Then my fate is in your hands, Gregory. Don't let them in, except over your dead body. You can't keep them out, Sir. When they've got on a new hat. Has Mrs. Pretty got on a new hat? It looks guilty, Sir. Then tell her to put herself on a new hat. In the right, and Dix knows how to deal with the letters. Thank you, Sir. But you can't always keep them out, not this sort. To Dix. No, he won't see her. But she'll see him. Nonsense. She's the persistent variety. How do you know? She was the lady who was waiting here all yesterday afternoon. Dix sharply interested. Has she a handbag? I didn't notice one today, but she had a gold thing yesterday. What's her name? Oh, Mrs. Arthur Pretty. Oh, it's only business. She wants Bill to save her estate from being resumed. He told me to tell her to put a request in writing, but she won't. Gregory goes out. Edward Weiss enters through the private door. He is the party whip, an old and experienced politician. Effie gets up as soon as she sees him and crosses to her desk where she starts typing. Waiting for your voice. Came as soon as I got your phone, Bill. What about the buy election? I think we'll just about win. Damn it, Weiss. We must win. Don't I know that. We can't carry on much longer with our small majority. But this compulsory resumption of estates, Bill of yours, ought to be our trump card. Especially as it is in Whyonora electorate. And Whyonora estate is the biggest in the country, and the emptiest. The emptiest? Yes. Look here. Compulsory resumption of estates, Bill, sounds rather... Rather thin, eh? Oh, I've got it. Compulsory resumption of empty estates, Bill. How's that to catch the votes for us? The very thing.  That'll be worth a hundred votes to us. And we'll badly need that hundred. Everybody knows that Whyonora estate is only a sheep run. Endure the landless votes in that district.  We'll rake him all in. No, you put it badly. He rises. What the government is thinking of is all that fine land locked up for a sheep run. The railway runs right through it, and the country wants people, him and souls, not silly sheep. That's so. People have votes for us, and sheep haven't. Though, personally, I wouldn't mind if the sheep had. We could depend on their votes. Think of all that rich country, subdivided into little farms, with big prosperous families singing a peon of gratitude to us, where now there are only sheep tracks and boundary riders. You always were an optimist, Bill. But I see you've got your election speech prepared. Power, working himself up. And what title is the owner? What did he ever do to make Whyonora rich? What had he to do with the railway we've brought right up to his back door? Steady on, old man. It isn't a key. It's a she. So it is. Mrs. Pretty. Why, I forgot to tell you. Mrs. Pretty is here now. Here? Whiten in the lobby. Come to plead to you, to appeal to your chivalry and your better instincts. Yes, in writing. She's a fascinating woman, they say. That's why. Aren't you a little scared of women, Bill?  Why? You can't bluff a woman. Why, I can't bluff my own sister. She treats me like a kid. Calls me a little willy. He returns to his table and sits. Her little willy. Bill, sometimes I'm afraid you'll fall in. It's always the scared ones who do. No fear. Gregory keeps them out. He's scared, too. Those reports from Whyonora ought to be in now. I'll let you know if there's any new development. He retires. Gregory shows in Martha Callender. Mrs. Callender, the premier's sister, is a widow. Fat, genial, shrewd and commonplace. Her brother's astonishing rise to power has not altered her one wit. Martha, at a loss, showing that she has never visited her brother's office before. Where's willy? I'm the premier's sister. Inside, Mrs. Callender. He shows her in. Hello, Martha. What brings you here? Well, you know, willy. Where were you last night? I was working late. Too late to go home. You can't deceive your elder sister, willy. There's been disgraceful goings on, there has. But you'll please remember that you can't sully the name of Power without your sister protesting, and a respectable name, thank goodness, it has always been. The Powers has always been sober folk and honest workmen. Your father was the best plumber in the whole colony. And if you did run away to the gold diggings instead of following his trade and kept a store, you've lived that down since you went into politics, and to think that now you're old enough to know better, you stay out all night. But I told you I was working so late that— And you didn't tell me the truth, willy. Oh, I know politicians don't, but this isn't politics, it's your sister. I waited up for you till one o'clock last night, and I had a nice hot supper waiting on the new gas stove. My word, willy, that was a great idea of yours, the gas stove. I was always fond of the kitchen range. Many is a good dinner I've cooked on a range for poor Henry. But where he's gone now, I don't suppose he'll need hot dinners. And mind you, I'm not saying that for cooking a joint, the range isn't the best, but for keeping a supper hot, all you have to do is turn the gas low, though I doubt but that you'll find it expensive. And at last I had to turn the gas out, and I hardly slept a wink thinking of my willy spending the night in the glittering haunts of wickedness. My dear Martha, I can look after myself. And that's just what you can't do. You've got a good job now, a better job than poor Henry ever had, though if he did drink a bit, who am I to blame him? And they give you a fine, big room to work in, and I've no doubt you can run the country all right. The powers were always pretty good bluffers, but you need a woman to look after you. So this morning when that messenger in uniform came to fetch you a couple of clean handkerchiefs, my word I was relieved to find that you weren't in jail. Many as the fright poor Henry used to give me. I said to myself, Willie wants his sister to look after him, and I came straight here myself and sent them messenger packing. Here's your handkerchiefs. Opening her bag.  Producing the handkerchiefs and the clean collar.   He meekly does so, and allows her to put the clean one on.  I've left your lunch cooking on the gas stove, and I've been thinking ever since I left that I left the gas turn too high. But if you have a burnt lunch, you'll know it's your own fault. I'll just hurry back. Your hair hasn't been properly brushed, I knew it. Producing his hairbrushes from her bag and brushing his hair. And there's a smear of dust on that there mantelpiece. And I bet they never look behind the pictures when they dust. It's just thick. And now, before I fly to that gas stove, it might explode or something. Tell me, Willie, where you were last night. I told you that I was working here late. So late that it must have been two o'clock before I even looked at the time. And as I didn't want to disturb you at that hour, I went to an hotel to sleep. What hotel? The Commonwealth. Oh well, I must believe you, Willie. And I'm that glad that it wasn't the haunts of wickedness. But you missed a nice hot supper. Turning to go, she sees on the floor the handbag. She picks it up. Willie, what's this? Looks like a lady's handbag, doesn't it? Who's? I haven't the faintest idea. But how did it come here? Left by some visitor here before I came down this morning, I expect. Willie, do you really expect me to believe that? Wait a minute, I'll inquire. Miss Pym. Effie rises. Miss Pym, do you know who's this is? Effie hesitates. Then seeing the Premier's gaze upon her makes her effort. Mine, sir. Yours? There you see. But I don't see. Effie, glibly. I dropped it here before you came, sir. Taking it from Martha. Thank you. Very careless of you, Miss Pym. Always don't leave your things in my room again. Oh no, sir. But it's such an expensive looking bag. I didn't know that young women. But there, I'm forgetting the gas stove. It'll be red hot and the nice hash burnt to cinders. Martha rushes out. Thank you, Miss Pym. Oh, sir. There's nothing to thank me for. I'd do more than that for… for the Premier. It is a pretty bag, isn't it? I wonder who's? I wonder. Gregory returns. Keep it until the owner claims it. And tell me when she calls. Effie takes it and puts it in the drawer of her desk. There's a reporter from the Tribune, sir.  That's what I told him, sir. But he sent in a note, personal. Power, taking a note from Gregory, opens it and reads. He is evidently astonished and concerned by its contents. After a pause, rapidly thinking… Bring him in. Gregory opens the door and shows in Charles Lucan, a king-faced young journalist. Good morning, sir. Oh, it's you, Lucan. I always said you were too smart a journalist to be on that Tory rag. Thank you, sir. I came to see you first thing. The article is ready for publication in tomorrow's issue. You'll see that it will make an immense impression. But it occurred to the editor that possibly you might have an explanation. It seemed only the fair thing to inform you. Power, as Effie, who has risen and is about to take her seat to report the interview. No need, Miss Bim. This is private. Effie goes back to her desk. Spite your business, Lucan. Last night, or rather this morning, I happened to be passing the house shortly after two o'clock. Two-seventeen to be exact. I looked at my watch as I was approaching the door that leads to this room from the street by that door. Indicating the private door. I saw you coming out with a lady, veiled. Go on. There was a cab coming along the street. The only one in sight were Sluck. You hailed it. Put the lady in and got in yourself. The cab drove off. Well? That's all. I followed it on foot, but it got away. Well? What I'd seen is enough for the Tribune's purposes. But the whole staff is on to this story, and we'll have the missing details, the continuation of the story for tomorrow's issue. You mean to publish this story? What arm will that do me? Surely you can see. The Premier, an unmarried man, is seen leaving the house on a night when Parliament wasn't sitting with a veiled woman in the early hours of the morning. Where was she before, in this room, with you? She was. You can face it. Certainly. And you think it worth while to publish this trifling incident? Do you think the Tribune could afford to miss a chance like this? When the paper comes up tomorrow, the Premier involved in a scandal with a mysterious lady. You'll get plenty of headlines. What chance will you have of winning the by-election? What chance even of retaining your own position? I'll see. You'll make use of it. We must. A pretty scheme, but you've overlooked something. Surely you know that the publication of that story, even if true, is liable? Of course it's liable. Well? Do you think the Tribune would stick out a liable action to smash up your party You mean to tell me that your paper would deliberately lay itself open to enormous damages and the liable action I am bound to bring? Yes. £5,000 would be cheap to a civet or even you. The Liberal Party would willingly put up £10,000. They can afford it and will appeal right up to the Privy Council. It'll cost you all that to get a verdict. Oh, we'll risk the liable action and you won't survive it. I'll see. But why'd you come to me?  Like mile? No. The editor thought that you might have some loophole of escape. My story looks damning enough, doesn't it? But for only now there might be some easy explanation.  And you won't print the article if I give you my explanation? It will depend on the explanation. In any case, we'll promise to print the explanation with the article, but if I may suggest so, it will have to be a thumping good explanation. Power rises and comes in front of the table. So? Restraining himself. But of course, you've only got your facts to go on. I admit they look queer. But when you hear what happened, well, the Tribune tomorrow will be as dull as it invariably is. The facts are these. I came here last night. Yes, it'd be about ten o'clock. I found out since that your room was lighted up from ten to twelve minutes past two. I had to finish up a massive work. I got interested and worked solidly on till I had finished. Then I was astonished to find that it was after two in the morning. I've done that before. I put my papers in order, turned out the light, and was groping my way to that door when I clumsily knocked over this screen. Indicating the big screen behind him. At the same moment, I heard a woman scream. I pushed aside the screen. He does so, revealing a comfortable armchair behind it under the window at back. And in that armchair I dimly made out the figure of a woman. And how did she happen to be there? That's what I asked her. The sooner she realized where she was, she had been asleep. She slept here then. Yes, she was sleeping here all the time I was sitting working at this table. I hadn't the least idea. Was she doing it for a wager, or what? She told me that she spent the previous night traveling in the train and hadn't got a wink of sleep. All yesterday she'd been rushing about shopping, and in the afternoon she came to see me on business here. On business? My appointment, I suppose. No, I don't make business appointments with ladies. I wasn't able to go down to my office all the afternoon. As you know, I had two confounded functions to attend. That was why I came back at night to work off arrears. And she waited and waited on the chance of seeing me, and at last, worn out by a lack of sleep, she had quietly dropped off in that big chair. But callers on the Premier aren't usually allowed to fall asleep on his private armchair. How did she get in here? Naturally, I asked her that. As I was taking her downstairs, she said she'd waited in the lobby till late, and then seeing the door at the anti-room open. Dix usually locks it when he's leaving. I must reprimand him. So was there was nobody about then. Gregory must have forgotten all about her. She came into the anti-room. She confessed that she didn't find the chairs for callers there very comfortable. And as she was dreadfully tired, so without any thought that this was my private room, she wandered in here, found that big chair behind the screen, and sat down to wait for me. And after a while she simply dropped off to sleep. And she made up for her lost night by sleeping solidly till I knocked over the screen. And I believed that if I hadn't done that, she'd have slept till daylight. That's what she told you? Yes. And you believed her? Naturally. But you don't expect me to believe her. Why shouldn't you? I certainly found her there, and she couldn't have come in while I was in the room, could she? And what did she come to see you for? I didn't ask her. I wasn't going to talk business at that hour. And then? She couldn't stay here. I took her down, got a cab and... Accompanied her? She insisted on giving me a lift. There was no other cab in sight. And then? I offered to see her to her address, but she wouldn't allow me to trouble. Said she had a latch key. So when I was passing the Commonwealth Hotel, I decided to stay there for the night. I got out and left her in the cab. You see how necessary it is for us to have all the effects of confirmation? I may believe you, but it will be hard to convince our readers. I can trust the Tribune to make it impossible. If you could give me the lady's address, we could have her corroboration. I don't remember. Somewhere in Potts Point, I think. She told me she was staying with friends. I see. You want to shield her? I have told you the simple truth. The whole truth.  Why not? It's true. I shall be delighted to give your explanation in full to our readers. I really think it's more interesting than my story, and you can see what a fit your story will have on the by-election and on your own position. The Tribune will force you to resign. I see. He pauses, turning away, reviewing the situation. Then suddenly laughs. Look here, Lucan. I admit I tried to bluff you. I knew it. But what I couldn't make out was why you thought your explanation would go down with me. I merely tried it on you to save the lady's name. That wouldn't have done you much good.  I shall save you the trouble. You'll give me her name? Yes, in confidence. I warn you, sir, that I won't be bound by your confidence if I find her name by other means. I'll take the risk. The name is Mrs. William Power. Your wife? But you're not married. You mean that nobody knew I was married? The veiled lady was your wife? Is my wife. But what proof have I that this isn't another explanation? No proof at all. But publish your story, and I'll sue you for damages, make the Tribune a laughing stock, and produce my wife. I see. But when were you married, and what was her maiden name? Look here, Lucan. I tried to bluff you, simply because my marriage is a secret one, and I intend to keep it secret. We were married a few days ago, and my wife came to see me secretly last night. Not the first time, either. That's all. You can't use the fact that I'm married, it was told you in confidence, and you won't be able to discover the identity of my wife. But publish your silly story, and my wife will give evidence in the libel action. You've got me. The Tribune wouldn't take the risk. If she is your wife, my story is a mess. But I'll hold it, and if you don't produce your wife, not necessarily in public, but to a representative of the Tribune, we'll go ahead and risk proceedings. I shall introduce you to her. You will, when? In three days. Three days. But by that time the by-election will have been decided. So it will be. It looks like a trick to prevent any disclosure before the election. But that doesn't matter. Even if we lose the election, we've got a bigger card up our sleeves. If there is no wife after all, we've still got you. The publication of my story, with as many explanations as you like to supply, will finish you and break up your party. You are at liberty to try, if within three days I do not introduce you to the charming lady, whom I've just had the luck to marry. Perhaps I shall find her first. At least the lady who visited you last night and stayed so late. Exactly. Mrs. William Power. Exactly. Good morning, and if I may say so, my congratulations. Thanks. Lucan goes out. Power breathes a sigh of relief. The desk telephone rings. Yes, power's speaking. Are you Vice? Yes. Got those reports, Rewind Nora? No, don't come up. I'll come to you, straight away. Rings off. To Dix. I'm going to Vice's room. Back in ten minutes. Yes, sir. Power goes out through his private door. Gregory appears, supporting a lady in his arm. She presents the appearance of having just fainted. It's all right, Mom. More air in here. I'll get you a seat. What's up, Gregory? Lady fainted in the crowded lobby. Quick, put her here. Quite right, Gregory. With Effie's assistance, they place the lady in Dix's chair. She lies limp. Here. Dix gets a glass of water and holds it to the lady's lips. Look, she's drinking it. She'll be all right. The heat in the crowd, I expect. Who is she? The lady who sent in her card. And the Premier wouldn't see her. Mrs. Pretty, the owner of Yonora Estate. Hmm. Charming and a widow. No wonder Bill fled. She's the woman who was waiting to see him all yesterday afternoon. I told the Premier, you can't keep widows out. She is beautiful. And look at that hat. And look at mine. Hush. She's coming, too. Helen Pretty revives and sits up. She is all that has been said about her fascination and charm. A smartly dressed woman of twenty-five, obviously accustomed to getting her own delightful way. Usually a smile is sufficient. Oh, what? Did I faint?  Where am I? In the Premier's room, Madam. He fainted in the crowded lobby and Gregory luckily carried her straight in here. There's no air here. Oh, thank you. Thank you all. Brightly, casting off the pretense that had so easily secured her entrance to hidden ground. And now, can I see the Premier? You fainted on purpose. You were merely pretending. The Premier wouldn't see me. What else could I do? Widows. I knew it was no use. But I assure you that the Premier won't see you now. After all the trouble you nice people have taken to bring me here, after I've got so far. Mrs. Pretty, I'm sorry, but the Premier's orders. He's a man, isn't he? I can deal with men. Rises, and before the others can guess her intention, comes to the Premier's table. She stops, dismayed at seeing he is not present. Why, where is he? Gone out, Mrs. Pretty. I told her he wouldn't. Fled? No. He's hiding. Hiding? Behind that big screen. That's what it's for. Please, Mr. Premier, come out. Puss, puss. Pause. She goes quickly up and peers behind the screen. Oh, not there. Disappointed, she comes back. But he was here. I told her he had gone. I'll wait. Moving up to the armchair. This seems the most comfortable chair. The Premier has gone for the day, Mum. Then I'll just sit down for a few minutes. I'm feeling faint again. If you'll kindly wait outside. But this chair, it's just a sort of chair I could go to sleep in. These labour-premiers do do themselves well, don't they? Mrs. Pretty, if you'll kindly wait in that room. Indicating the small door on which Effie's hat is hanging. I'll promise you that I'll call the moment the Premier returns. Then he is going to return. That's all I want you to know. Thank you so much. Dicks, opening the small door. If you please, Madam. In here. Oh, what a striking hat. Yours. Suits you admirably, I should say. The paper, Mum. Voices are heard outside the Premier's private door. There he is. Dicks, interposing. He's got someone with him. It's Vice, the party whip. Shoot him off. I must see the Premier alone. I'm sorry, Mrs. Pretty, but you'll have to wait. But you've promised. The minute that Mr. Vice goes, I shall tell Mr. Power. Oh, well. Glancing at the paper. Why, it must be winter. He has stayed its big winter sale advertised. She goes through the door, which Dicks carefully closes behind her. Lock it and fling the key through the window. It's our only chance. Nonsense, Gregory. I promised. Besides, there isn't a key. Oh, well. I wash my hands of you all. He goes out. Power and Vice re-enter. Go on. You were working here till after two. And then you knocked over the screen. And found a woman asleep in the chair. Some chaps of all the luck. But honest now, speaking as a man and not as a politician, hadn't you any suspicion that she was there? How could I? So I took her down to the street, got a cab, and sent her home. And the Tribune reporter caught you. Bill, a man in your position should have been more careful. Careful? Not to be found out. But there was nothing to conceal. Of course. If you're going to flaunt your pleasures in the face of the public. Bill, if I'm going to help you out of this mess, you'll have to confide in me. That's just what I've been doing. That's all there is to it. Honest now. You mean to say you don't believe me? All I have to say is that if you were caught escorting an unknown woman from your room after two in the morning, I should have expected you to have a less preposterous explanation. And the Tribune will appear with it all tomorrow. It won't be published tomorrow. So you bluffed, Lucan, after all. But how? As the truth didn't go, I tried the other thing. He says at the table. I told him the woman was my wife. That's worse than your other explanation. Everybody knows you haven't got a wife. I've got to get one within three days. They'll hold the story till then, and the by-election will be over by then. So if I produce a wife, there's nothing in the story worth printing, is there? Excellent. And, of course, after this she'll marry you. She must. How long has this been going on? Going on? These, the usual word is, assignations. Bit dangerous her coming here, though. Look here, Vise. I never saw her before last night. Why, I don't even know who she is. Vise, with a long look at him. Bill, then it's true. You've been telling the truth. I beg your pardon, old man. But you'll confess that the affair is preposterous. But surely you know her name. No, I never really saw her. I was with her only a few minutes. I'd turned the light out before I heard her scream, and I was too anxious to get her away to light up again. And before she left, she put down a thick veil. I wouldn't even recognize her if she stalked into this room this minute. But the address she gave the cab man. Somewhere in Potts Point. Number... Number 37. Yes, that's it. But I can't recall the street, even if I heard it. And you told Lucan she was your wife, and you're going to marry her. But how are you going to get hold of her again? Why, I've taken you into my confidence. Can't you suggest something? I haven't got much time. She must be found. Isn't there anything about her that you could recognize her from? Yes, I had forgotten. Miss Bim. Yes, sir? Kindly bring me your handbag. Effie takes the handbag from the drawer of her desk, hands him the bag, and returns to her desk. Does your stenographer usually keep these little mementos for you? She found it on the floor this morning. The woman must have dropped it last night. Then she's found! She'll have her card or her name inside. He opens it, and takes out, one by one, the usual contents of a lady's handbag. Samples of dress material, some silver and coppers, a pocket mirror, hairpins, the inevitable chamois, lip-solve, etc. Nothing to distinguish her from every woman in the country. Except the usual sheaf of unpaid dress bills. Well? Well? How are you going to find her? Ah, she'll come back for her bag. Afford of that. But perhaps she'll think she left it in the cab, or lost it in the street. It's our one chance. But Bill, if she does come back, why? She might be married already. I'm overford of that. But she'll come back. There's something here that she'll come back for. What's that? You! Well done, Folia. She will. Of course.  Good God, what for? I pity. I thought every man kissed the women he found in his rooms after midnight. They always do on the stage. The woman expects it. Bill, how careless of you! How criminally careless! It's Rowan! And if she comes back and is married, it's Rowan. And if she won't have you, it's Rowan. You've taken on a good many stiff contracts in your life, Bill, and carried them through. But this? You've got bucklies! Frankly, I see nothing for it, but your immediate resignation.  Even if the cork has made you, it would just be as bad. It would mean the smash-up of the party. Oh, Bill.  Why didn't you kiss her? Lace retires. I'm sorry, sir, but there was a lady fainted in the lobby, and Gregory had to bring her in here. And when she came to, I couldn't turn her out. Where is she? Waiting in my private room, sir. Did she give her the name? Oh, yes, sir. Mrs. Arthur Pretty. Oh, that woman. I won't see her. But she made me promise, sir, that... That's what I pay her for. To bright promises when necessary. I won't see her. Helen Pretty appears. Oh, I've read all the advertisements. Haven't you...? Sees that Dix is not there. That's all to it. I won't see her, or any woman. Oh, yes, Mr. Power. You will. You really can't help it, can you? Dix signals to Effie, who rises, taking her notebook, crosses to her chair, and proceeds to take a shorthand note of the interview. Helen Pretty comes confidently forward to greet Power, but pauses, disconcerted, as she perceives that he does not recognize her. Mrs. Pretty, I believe. Helen, accepting the formal manner. Mr. Power. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before. We may, I say, unfortunately belong to different parties. Please sit down. I can give you five minutes. Thanks. Now, what can I do for you? So, this is where you run the country from? No, Mrs. Pretty. This is the office of the servant of the people. The people treat their servant better than I do mine. We are seeing to that. There is a bill being prepared in posing penalties upon employers who do not provide proper accommodation for domestics. It would be more useful if it provided domestics to occupy the proper accommodation. But it was about my estate I wanted to see you. Why, Nora? The biggest estate in the country. Yes? A rumor has reached me that. Noticing Effie reporting the interview. Is that young lady taking down all I say? Yes, she is reporting the interview. I must have a record. But I'm not making speeches. I'm just chatting. Do Effie? Would you kindly read a book or pet your nice hair? A premier does not have private conversations. How dull for you. Effie has resumed her reporting. My dear young lady, do you know that your pretty blouse is unbuttoned at the back? Oh, is it? Helen, rising and going to her, where she pretends to button up the blouse, which, of course, is already buttoned. Helen, however, contrives to unbutton two buttons. Oh, there. I'm afraid I'm too clumsy. Perhaps the premier? Oh, no, that nice clean young man would be delighted. Run away and tell him to hurry. Effie, confused, crosses her elite at Dix, who fumbles over the job. Now, I heard a rumor that you intended to confiscate my estate. Rumors, madam? May I ask the source of your information? Oh, I don't mind telling you, Mr. Harrington. The leader of the opposition? Yes, he happens to be engaged to me, though you're the first man beside himself to know it. Allow me to congratulate you, Mrs. Pretty. Though, of course, we differ in politics, I have a great respect for Mr. Harrington as a man. Thank you. Then I take it the rumor is true. You mean to confiscate my poor estate? Confiscate? No, we will pay you full value plus ten percent. But I don't want to sell Wyonora. Madam, Wyonora is a splendid sheep run, but it is empty of men. It lies vacant right across the railway line which we built. Since you refuse to put that great stretch of fine land to its fullest use, the State must do so. The people are crying out for land, and you keep that land locked up. Instead of smiling farms, there are only sheep tracks. But we get top price for our wool, and our men are well paid and happy. But what right have you to keep so much land from the people? What right have you to take it from me? The sacred cause of humanity, Mrs. Pretty. But it's mine, and I love Wyonora. It's my home. The government bill will specifically reserve to you the homestead. That wouldn't be Wyonora. Effie returns with her blouse buttoned up and resumes her reporting. The interests of humanity are greater than the selfish interests of the individual. Mr. Power, that's all politics. And I've no doubt it would sound rather thrilling in a speech. But won't you be frank with me? You want my land merely for your political purposes. You are using it as a bribe to the voters of the electorate, so that you can get your men in.  The resumption of your estate and of other big estates will doubtless have that result. But the cause of humanity is the force that has led my party to this legislation. I see. You can only talk politics. Now, Mr. Power, I want to make a personal appeal, not to the Premier, but to you. Noticing Effie? Heavens! You've got a smut on your dainty nose. Effie drops her pencil in searches for a handkerchief. I cannot allow personal appeals. The community demands this bill in the interests of justice. The landless men of the state cry out for land, as in other countries the poor cry out for bread. I would be unworthy of the position I occupy, unworthy of my sympathetic instincts if I fail to satisfy that hunger, and I cannot make any exceptions. The law will make no exceptions. Your estate is the first to be resumed simply because it is the largest, the most acceptable, and the most convenient for closer settlement. Had I owned Wyonora, I could not have prevented its resumption by the state. I regard my estate, Mr. Power, as a sacred trust, handed to me by my late husband. He made Wyonora. He was the pioneer who went out into the desert and fought for a living in the wilderness, fought against drought, against disease, against loneliness, and distance. And he won, but wore out his life in the long battle. To Effie? On the other side of your nose, my dear. Haven't you got a mirror in the room? Effie rises and crosses to her desk, where she gets a hand-glass from her desk, and examines herself anxiously. And now you come along and demolish all that he gave his life to build. But if he had lived, he would have fought you. With what weapons? With a man's weapons, with your own weapons, with politics. But I am only a woman, so I have to fight you with mine. And I have none except my personal appeal to your… Your chivalry. There is no chivalry in politics. That went out when women got the vote. But you've got your weapon, the vote. Oh, then you won't give way. It is not in my power to give way. Then it is to be war between us. As you will. Then you force me to use my woman's weapon. The ballot box? No. Effie, after scrubbing herself, has returned to her seat. Ah, that's better, my dear. A smut makes a woman's nose look humorous, doesn't it? And women's noses can't stand looking that, can they? There wasn't one, madam. Wasn't there? I'm so glad. I do hope you've got your pencil nicely sharpened. I see, Mr. Power, that you found my bag. Power, springing up an amazement. Your bag? Yours? I thought I had left it in the cab. But I must have dropped it here last night. Effie sits, too interested to take notes. You! He comes to her. I should have called this morning, anyway, to thank you for what you did for me last night, or rather, this morning. My dear Mrs. Pretty, I hadn't the least idea it was you. But didn't you recognize me again? I never saw your face. You never tried. Or tried to have? No man has ever insulted me so before. But I suppose premiers aren't men. You! And I've been scheming all the morning to discover you again. I even looked inside your handbag to find your name and address. You opened my handbag? I shall never forgive you. That's where we women keep our charm, our heart. And most of our complexion. But why this sudden desire to see me again? You never expressed the least wish last night. Why? I'll just to ask if you'd got home safely. On all the while you were waiting outside on the lobby. Rather lucky I fainted, wasn't it? Incredible luck. And fortunate that I left my bag here and not in the cab. I've always been lucky. He considers. My dear Mrs. Pretty, perhaps I've been a little hasty in my decision to include your estate on the list of runs to be resumed. I'd like, say, three days to consider the matter. You see, in judging the suitability of your land for closest settlement, I've had to go solely on my agent's reports. I've never seen why nor am I myself. Then why not inspect it? I shall be on the electorate within the next few days. Perhaps I might take the liberty of calling and having a look at it. Why not stay with me? Thank you. But mind you, I can give no promise if I find why nor are unsuitable, of course. Then you'll come? Yes. Not as the premier, please. As my guest. I'm afraid that would be impossible. I shall have to bring my secretaries. Secretaries? My good man, have you got more than that clean young man over there? I've got seven. But don't be alarmed if you allow me. I shall nearly bring one and, of course, a stenographer. Oh, we've plenty of room. There's only a few guests staying now. Mr. Harrington, of course. Harrington, I was forgetting. But since you've just got engaged, perhaps I'd better not. Oh, you won't be in the way. I'm not a silly sentimental flapper. Then you'll come. Delighted. When? It must be within the next three days. I'm going back today. Can you come tomorrow? Yes, I'll motor up. That's right. Well, goodbye. They shake hands. And I must thank you again for your kindness to me last night. You'll remember me again, won't you? It won't be necessary for me to leave my bag again. To Effie, who has been sitting, to intent to take a note. I hope, my dear, you got all that down. To power. Till tomorrow, then. Power is showing her out when she turns, indicating the private door. I think, if you don't mind, we'll go the same way. More private, isn't it? They go out. So it's her, the designing creature, the cat. She sweeps across to Dick's. I can't stay here a moment longer. Tell Mr. Power I'm ill. Tell him any lie you like. Grabbed her hat. And I thought this hat would do it. Hat? It's not a hat, it's a tragedy. And hers must have costed tenor, and she wasn't even conscious that she had it on. What chance have I? Jams it viciously on, and stabs it with hatpins. My heart's broken, sneering at me about my blouse, one and eleven pence a yard, and she knows it.  I'm going out to lunch, and I don't care what becomes of me after. Effie goes, tempetuously. Gregory, against whom Effie has collided as she went out, enters. I told you so. It all comes of letting that woman in. It was you who brought her in. And as for Miss Bim, I rather thought she looked quite charming in a temper. Never guessed she had so much in her. And, personally, I preferred her hat to Mrs. Pretties. You, too? Females. Gregory retires. Power re-enters. Thoughtfully, moving in front of Table, and standing, then calling. Dicks! Sir? Order my motor to meet me at Wooloroo at 2 a.m. You and Miss Bim come with me to Wyonora. Yes, sir. Ask Vice to see me at once. Dicks, going to the telephone on his table. Yes, sir. Vice re-enters. Just ringing for your vice. Any clue? The lady herself. Married? Widow. Willing? Possibly. Propose. Tomorrow? Where? Wyonora. Nine? Mrs. Arthur Pretty. Mrs. Pretty? Why? I've just had a ring from my wife to tell me that it is rumoured that Mrs. Pretty is engaged to Harrington, the leader of the opposition. So Mrs. Pretty told me. Well? She asked me to visit Wyonora tomorrow. I'm going to inspect it, whether it is suitable for resumption under the Emptiest State Spill. But you know it is. Of course. That's merely an excuse to see her. All spare in politics. And you really think? I'll tackle bigger jobs than this and carry them through. But are women like Mrs. Pretty? Why, she's a society leader.  And engaged to Mr. Harrington.  Ah, I see.  No, but I will tomorrow. You're in love with her? In love? God forbid. Don't choke on serious subjects. I've got to marry her, that's all. And in three days? It doesn't leave much time for love, Macon, does it? Even if I knew, Al? Vice, throwing up his hands.  I know now. But you'll need all your luck. Vice goes out. Dicks! Sir? Ever been married, Dicks? No, sir. Petty? How does a man get married in a hurry? Gets a special licence, sir, I think. But I fancy the registrar get you over the mark quicker. Find out the nearest registrar for marriages to wire Nora Homestead. And fix up all the arrangements for me to be married to Mrs. Arthur Pretty within three days. Tomorrow afternoon, if possible. Yes, sir. If it can be arranged, you might leave the lady's name blank. I might change my mind. I see, sir. The essential thing is that you should be married. A particular lady does not matter. Exactly. But I think you can go ahead with the name of Mrs. Pretty. Yes, sir. Gregory returns and crosses to Power, who has resumed his seat behind the table. Those deputations outside, sir, they're getting restive. Power plunging into work again. Ring them in. Gregory hesitates and returns. Big pardon, sir. But I hope you'll give me the usual recommendation. Power. Busy. Not looking up. Why, you're not resigning, Gregory. No, sir. But you are. You think? And who is the recommendation to? The next Premier. Mr. Harrington, sir. Oh, then it will be time to ask for your recommendation in ten years' time. You don't back Harrington against me, I hope. I'm not the referee, sir. Who is? The female, sir. Good boy, sir. It has been a pleasant connection, but I knew it wouldn't last. The moment I saw that out in the lobby, sir.  There, run away and bring in that famished deputation. Gregory races his hands hopelessly and goes out. Power plunges into work again, utterly absorbed. Curtained. End of Act One.