The Mousetrap

MIDGE. (Crossing to the fireplace) Come now, Gerda Cristow isn’t as bad as all that.

LADYANGKATELL. Darling. Those eyes. Like a puzzled cow. And she never seems to understand a word one says to her.

MIDGE. I don’t suppose she understands a word you say—and I don’t know that I blame her. Your mind goes so fast, Lucy, that to keep pace with it, your conversation has to take the most astonishing leaps—with all the connecting links left out. (She sits on the pouffe.)

LADYANGKATELL. Like monkeys. Fortunately Henrietta is here. She was wonderful last spring when we played limericks or anagrams—one of those things—we had all finished when we suddenly discovered that poor Gerda hadn’t even started. She didn’t even know what the game was. It was dreadful wasn’t it, Midge?

MIDGE. Why anyone ever comes to stay with the Angkatells, I don’t know. What with the brainwork and the round games and your peculiar style of conversation, Lucy.

LADYANGKATELL. I suppose we must be rather trying. (She rises, moves to the coffee table and picks up the tobacco jar.) The poor dear looked so bewildered; and John looked so impatient. (She crosses to the fireplace.) It was then that I was grateful to Henrietta. (She puts the jar on the mantelpiece, turns and moves Centre.) She turned to Gerda and asked for the pattern of the knitted pullover she was wearing—a dreadful affair in pea green—with little bobbles and pom-poms and things—oh, sordid—but Gerda brightened up at once and looked so pleased. The worst of it is Henrietta had to buy some wool and knit one.

MIDGE. And was it very terrible?

LADYANGKATELL. Oh, it was ghastly. No—on Henrietta it looked quite charming—which is what I mean when I say that the world is so very very sad. One simply doesn’t know why . . .

MIDGE. Whoa! Don’t start rambling again, darling. Let’s stick to the weekend.

(LADY ANGKATELL sits on the sofa.)

I don’t see where the worry is. If you manage to keep off round games, and try to be coherent when you’re talking to Gerda, and put Henrietta on duty to tide over the awkward moments, where’s the difficulty?

LADYANGKATELL. It would all be perfectly all right if only Edward weren’t coming.

MIDGE. (Reacting at the name) Edward? (She rises and turns to the fireplace.) Yes, of course. What on earth made you ask Edward for the weekend, Lucy?

LADYANGKATELL. I didn’t ask him. He wired to know if we could have him. You know how sensitive Edward is. If I’d wired back “No,” he would never have asked himself again. Edward’s like that.

MIDGE. Yes.

LADYANGKATELL. Dear Edward. If only Henrietta would make up her mind to marry him.

(MIDGE turns and faces LADY ANGKATELL.)

She really is quite fond of him. If only they could have been alone this weekend without the Cristows. As it is, John has the most unfortunate effect on Edward. John becomes so much more so, and Edward so much less so. If you know what I mean.

(MIDGE nods.)

But I do feel that it’s all going to be terribly difficult. (She picks up the “Daily Graphic”)

(GUDGEON, the butler, enters Left. He is in all respects the perfect butler.)

GUDGEON. (Announcing) Mr. Edward.

(EDWARD ANGKATELL enters left. He is a tall, slightly stooping man, between thirty-five and forty-five, with a pleasant smile and a diffident manner. He is a bookish man and wears well-cut but rather shabby tweeds. GUDGEON exits Left.)

LADYANGKATELL. (Rising and crossing toEDWARD) Edward. (She kisses him.) We were just saying how nice it was of you to come.

EDWARD. Lucy, Lucy. How nice of you to let me come. (He turns to MIDGE. Pleased and surprised.) Why—it’s little Midge. (He talks throughout to MIDGE with indulgent affection, as to a child.) You look very grown up.

MIDGE. (With slight acidity) I’ve been grown up for quite a few years now.

EDWARD. I suppose you have. I haven’t noticed it.

MIDGE. I know.

EDWARD. At Ainswick, you see, time stands still.