The Mousetrap

NEVILE. (Frowning.) Oh, damn!

KAY. (Off, nearer.) Nevile.

NEVILE. (Crossing to the French windows and calling.) Coming—coming. (Royde enters L.)

ROYDE. (Moving toL. of the coffee table.) Nevile.

NEVILE. (Moving toR. of the coffee table.) Hullo, Thomas. (They shake hands above the coffee table.) What time did you get here?

ROYDE. Just now.

NEVILE. Must be quite a long time since I saw you last. When was it you were home, three years ago?

ROYDE. Seven.

NEVILE. Good Lord, is it, really? How time flies.

KAY. (Off.) Nevile!

NEVILE. (Moving above the chaise.) All right, Kay. (Kay enters by the French windowsR.)

KAY. (Moving toR. of Nevile.) Why can’t you come? Ted and I are waiting.

NEVILE. I just came to see if Audrey . . .

KAY. (Turning away.) Oh, bother Audrey—we can get on quite well . . . (Kay and Nevile exit by the French windows R. Their voices die away.)

ROYDE. And who is Kay?

TREVES. (Moving below the chaise toR. of the coffee table.) The present Mrs. Nevile Strange. (Lady Tressilian entersL. Mary assists her on. Lady Tressilian uses a walking stick. She is a white-haired, aristocratic-looking woman, a little younger than Treves. Mary carries Lady Tressilian’s sewing.) Good morning, Camilla.

LADYTRESSILIAN. Good morning, Mathew. (She greets Royde affectionately.) Well, Thomas, so here you are. I’m very glad to see you.

ROYDE. (Rather shyly.) Very glad to be here. (Mary puts the sewing in the work-box and arranges the cushion in the armchairL. C.)

LADYTRESSILIAN. Tell me all about yourself.

ROYDE. (Mumbling.) Nothing to tell.

LADYTRESSILIAN. (Studying him.) You look exactly the same as you did at fourteen. That same boiled owl look. And no more conversation now than you had then. (Treves moves upC. Mary moves to the butler’s tray.)

ROYDE. Never had the gift of the gab.

LADYTRESSILIAN. Then it’s time you learnt. Have some sherry? Mathew? Thomas?

ROYDE. Thank you. (Mary pours two glasses of sherry.)

LADYTRESSILIAN. (Indicating the sofa.) Then go and sit down. Somebody’s got to amuse me by bringing me all the gossip. (She sits in the armchair L. C.) Why can’t you be more like Adrian? I wish you’d known his brother, Mary, a really brilliant young man, witty, amusing—(Royde sits on the chaise.) all the things that Thomas isn’t. And don’t go grinning at me, Thomas Royde, as though I were praising you. I’m scolding you.

ROYDE. Adrian was certainly the show man of our family.

MARY. (Handing a glass of sherry to Treves.) Did he—was he—killed in the war?

ROYDE. No, he was killed in a motor accident two years ago.

MARY. How dreadful! (She hands a glass of sherry to Royde.)

TREVES. The impossible way young people drive cars nowadays . . . (Lady Tressilian picks up her sewing.)

ROYDE. In his case it was some fault in the steering. (He takes his pipe from his pocket and looks at Lady Tressilian.) I’m so sorry, may I? (Mary pours another glass of sherry.)

LADYTRESSILIAN. I wouldn’t know you without your pipe. But don’t think you can just sit back and puff contentedly while you’re here. You’ve got to exert yourself and help.

ROYDE. (Surprised.) Help? (Treves perches himself on the upstage end of the chaise.)

LADYTRESSILIAN. We’ve got a difficult situation on our hands. Have you been told who’s here? (Mary takes the glass of sherry to Lady Tressilian. To Mary.) No, no, much too early, pour it back into the decanter. (Mary resignedly pours the glass of sherry into the decanter.)

ROYDE. Yes, I’ve just heard.

LADYTRESSILIAN. Well, don’t you think it’s disgraceful?