Chapter II: Act III (1)

IT CRUMBLES. SCENE 1.--_The Magistrates Room, Mulberry Street._ SCENE 2.--_At the Poskets' again._ ____________

PRECEDED BY A COMEDIETTA BY A. W. DUBOURG, ENTITLED TWENTY MINUTES UNDER AN UMBRELLA.

Cousin Kate . . . Miss NORREYS. Cousin Frank . . . Mr. H. REEVES SMITH. ____________

_Musical Director_ . MR. CARL ARMBRUSTER. _Secretary_ . MR. GEORGE COLEMAN.

The success of "The Magistrate" was immediate, and the Court Theatre was crowded night after night for more than a year, the play being presented over 300 times. So prosperous was the run that there was no cessation during the Summer holiday season, and when Mr. Arthur Cecil went abroad for his vacation, his place as Posket was taken by Mr. Beerbohm Tree, while Miss Lottie Venne and Mrs. Tree in like manner relieved Mrs. John Wood and Miss Marion Terry.

This success, however, was not confined to London, for three companies were soon carrying the play triumphantly over the English provinces, while in September 1885 Mr. Pinero went to New York to produce his work at Daly's Theatre. Mr. Daly had suggested that Miss Ada Rehan should play the boy, Cis Farringdon, but to this the author objected, and Miss Rehan played Mrs. Posket, while Mr. Posket was represented by Mr. James Lewis, and Colonel Lukyn by Mr. John Drew. "The Magistrate" enjoyed an exceptionally long run in New York, as well as in Boston, and in the latter city it is now performed every year, being included in the regular season of classic English comedies at the Boston Museum. "The Magistrate" has also been played throughout the United States, the late John T. Raymond having been closely associated with the play for a considerable time.

"The Magistrate" has travelled more widely than most modern English plays, and, besides being a stock piece in Australia, India, and South Africa, it has been translated into more than one foreign tongue. Under the title "Der Blaue Grotte" ("The Blue Grotto") it is constantly played all over Germany and Austria, while in the Slavonic language it is a favourite play at the National Theatre, Prague. At one time a proposal was made, through the late Mr. John Clayton, that "The Magistrate" should be adapted to the French stage, but the suggestions of the proposed Parisian adapter were, though eminently characteristic, of such a nature that Mr. Pinero did not feel justified in acceding to them.

While Mrs. John Wood and Mr. Arthur Chudleigh were still joint managers of the Court, there was some intention of reviving "The Magistrate" at that theatre, but as matters afterwards developed, Mr. Pinero arranged that the revival should take place under the auspices of Mr. Edward Terry, who accordingly appeared as Mr. Posket at his own theatre on Wednesday, April 13, 1892.

MALCOLM C. SALAMAN.

THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY

MR. POSKET (Magistrate of the Mulberry Street Police Court) AGATHA POSKET CIS FARRINGDON (her Son) CHARLOTTE VERRINDER (her Sister) COLONEL LUKYN CAPTAIN HORACE VALE BEATIE TOMLINSON MR. BULLAMY (Magistrate of the Mulberry Street Police Court) ACHILLE BLOND ISIDORE MR. WORMINGTON INSPECTOR MESSITER } SERJEANT LUGG } (Metropolitan Police) CONSTABLE HARRIS } WYKE POPHAM

_THE FIRST ACT_ THE FAMILY SKELETON

_THE SECOND ACT_ IT LEAVES ITS CUPBOARD

_THE THIRD ACT_ IT CRUMBLES

THE MAGISTRATE

THE FIRST ACT

_The scene represents a well-furnished drawing-room in the house of MR. POSKET in Bloomsbury._

_BEATIE TOMLINSON, a pretty, simply dressed little girl of about sixteen, is playing the piano, as CIS FARRINGDON, a manly youth wearing an Eton jacket, enters the room._

CIS.

Beatie!

BEATIE.

Cis dear! Dinner isn't over, surely?

CIS.

Not quite. I had one of my convenient headaches and cleared out. [_Taking an apple and some cobnuts from his pocket and giving them to BEATIE._] These are for you, dear, with my love. I sneaked 'em off the sideboard as I came out.

BEATIE.

Oh, I mustn't take them!

CIS.

Yes, you may--it's my share of dessert. Besides, it's a horrid shame you don't grub with us.

BEATIE.

What, a poor little music mistress!

CIS.

Yes. They're only going to give you four guineas a quarter. Fancy getting a girl like you for four guineas a quarter--why, an eighth of you is worth more than that! Now peg away at your apple.

[_Produces a cigarette._

BEATIE.

There's company at dinner, isn't there?

[_Munching her apple._

CIS.

Well, hardly. Aunt Charlotte hasn't arrived yet, so there's only old Bullamy.

BEATIE.

Isn't old Bullamy anybody?

CIS.

Old Bullamy--well, he's only like the guv'nor, a police magistrate at the Mulberry Street Police Court.

BEATIE.

Oh, does each police court have two magistrates?

CIS.

[_Proudly._] All the best have two.

BEATIE.

Don't they quarrel over getting the interesting cases? I should.

CIS.

I don't know how they manage--perhaps they toss up who's to hear the big sensations. There's a Mrs. Beldam, who is rather a bore sometimes; I know the Guv always lets old Bullamy attend to her. But, as a rule, I fancy they go half and half, in a friendly way. [_Lighting cigarette._] For instance, if the guv'nor wants to go to the Derby he lets old Bullamy have the Oaks--and so on, see?

[_He sits on the floor, comfortably reclining against BEATIE, and puffing his cigarette._

BEATIE.

Oh, I say, Cis, won't your mamma be angry when she finds I haven't gone home?

CIS.

Oh, put it on to your pupil. Say I'm very backward.

BEATIE.

I think you are extremely forward--in some ways. [_Biting the apple and speaking with her mouth full._] I do wish I could get you to concentrate your attention on your music lessons. But I wouldn't get you into a scrape!

CIS.

No fear of that. Ma is too proud of me.

BEATIE.

But there's your step-father.

CIS.

The dear old guv'nor! Why, he is too good-natured to say "Bo!" to a goose. You know, Beatie, I was at a school at Brighton when ma got married--when she got married the second time, I mean--and the guv'nor and I didn't make each other's acquaintance till after the honeymoon.

BEATIE.

Oh, fancy your step-father blindly accepting such a responsibility.

[_Gives him a cobnut to crack for her._

CIS.

Yes, wasn't the guv'nor soft! I might have been a very indifferent sort of young fellow for all he knew.

[_Having cracked the nut with his teeth, he returns it to her._

BEATIE.

Thank you, dear.

CIS.

Well, when I heard the new dad was a police magistrate, I _was_ scared. Said I to myself, "If I don't mind my P's and Q's, the guv'nor--from force of habit--will fine me all my pocket-money." But it's quite the reverse--he's the mildest, meekest----[_The door opens suddenly._] Look out! Some one coming!

[_They both jump up, BEATIE scattering the nuts that are in her lap all over the floor. CIS throws his cigarette into the fireplace and sits at the piano, playing a simple exercise, very badly. BEATIE stands behind him counting._

BEATIE.

One--and two--and one--and two.

_WYKE, the butler, appears at the door, and mysteriously closes it after him._

WYKE.

Ssss! Master Cis! Master Cis!

CIS.

Hallo--what is it, Wyke?

WYKE.

[_Producing a decanter from under his coat._] The port wine what you asked for, sir. I couldn't get it away before--the old gentlemen do hug port wine so.

CIS.

Got a glass?

WYKE.

Yes, sir. [_Producing wine-glass from his pocket, and pouring out wine._] What ain't missed ain't mourned, eh, Master Cis?

CIS.

[_Offering wine._] Here you are, Beatie dear.

BEATIE.

The idea of such a thing! I couldn't!

CIS.

Why not?

BEATIE.

If I merely sipped it I shouldn't be able to give you your music lesson properly. Drink it yourself, you dear, thoughtful boy.

CIS.

I shan't--it's for you.

BEATIE.

I can't drink it!

CIS.

You must.

BEATIE.

I won't!

CIS.

You're disagreeable!

BEATIE.

Not half so disagreeable as you are.

[_They wrangle._

WYKE.

[_To himself, watching them._] What a young gentleman it is! and only fourteen! Fourteen--he behaves like forty! [_CIS chokes as he is drinking the wine; BEATIE pats him on the back._] Why, even Cook has made a 'ash of everything, since he's been in the house, and as for Popham----! [_Seeing some one approaching._] Look out, Master Cis!

[_CIS returns to the piano, BEATIE counting as before. WYKE pretends to arrange the window curtains, concealing the decanter behind him._

BEATIE.

One and two--and one and two--and one, &c.

_Enter POPHAM, a smart-looking maid-servant._

POPHAM.

Wyke, where's the port?

WYKE.

[_Vacantly._] Port?

POPHAM.

Port wine. Missus is furious.

WYKE.

Port?

POPHAM.

[_Pointing to the decanter._] Why! There! You're carrying it about with you!

WYKE.

Why, so I am! Carrying it about with me! Shows what a sharp eye I keep on the guv'nor's wines. Carrying it about with me! Missus will be amused.

[_Goes out._

POPHAM.

[_Eyeing CIS and BEATIE._] There's that boy with _her_ again! Minx! Her two hours was up long ago. Why doesn't she go home? Master Cis, I've got a message for you.

CIS.

[_Rising from the piano._] For me, Popham?

POPHAM.

Yes, sir. [_Quietly to him._] The message is from a young lady who up to last Wednesday was all in all to you. Her name is Emma Popham.

CIS.

[_Trying to get away._] Oh, go along, Popham!

POPHAM.

[_Holding his sleeve._] Ah, it wasn't "Go along, Popham" till that music girl came into the house. I will go along, but--cast your eye over this before you sleep to-night. [_She takes out of her pocket-handkerchief a piece of printed paper which she hands him between her finger and thumb._] Part of a story in "Bow Bells," called "Jilted; or, Could Blood Atone?" Wrap it in your handkerchief--it came round the butter.

[_She goes out; CIS throws the paper into the grate._

CIS.

Bother the girl! Beatie, she's jealous of you!

BEATIE.

A parlour-maid jealous of _me_--and with a bit of a child of fourteen!

CIS.

I may be only fourteen, but I feel like a grown-up man! You're only sixteen--there's not much difference--and if you will only wait for me, I'll soon catch you up and be as much a man as you are a woman. Will you wait for me, Beatie?

BEATIE.

I can't--I'm getting older every minute!

CIS.

Oh, I wish I could borrow five or six years from somebody!

BEATIE.

Many a person would be glad to lend them. [_Lovingly._] And oh, I wish you could!

CIS.

[_Putting his arm round her._] You do! Why?

BEATIE.

Because I--because----

CIS.

[_Listening._] Look out! Here's the mater!

[_They run to the piano, he resumes playing, and she counting as before._

BEATIE.

One and two--and one--and two, &c.

_Enter AGATHA POSKET, a handsome, showy woman, of about thirty-six, looking perhaps younger._

AGATHA POSKET.

Why, Cis child, at your music again?

CIS.

Yes, ma, always at it. You'll spoil my taste by forcing it if you're not careful.

AGATHA POSKET.

We have no right to keep Miss Tomlinson so late.

BEATIE.

Oh, thank you, it doesn't matter. I--I--am afraid we're not making--very--great--progress.

CIS.

[_Winking at BEATIE._] Well, if I play that again, will you kiss me?

BEATIE.

[_Demurely._] I don't know, I'm sure. [_To AGATHA POSKET._] May I promise that, ma'am?

[_Sits in the window recess. CIS, joining her, puts his arm round her waist._

AGATHA POSKET.

No, certainly not. [_To herself, watching them._] If I could only persuade Æneas to dismiss this _protégée_ of his, and to engage a music-master, it would ease my conscience a little. If this girl knew the truth, how indignant she would be! And then there is the injustice to the boy himself, and to my husband's friends who are always petting and fondling and caressing what they call "a fine little man of fourteen!" Fourteen! Oh, what an idiot I have been to conceal my child's real age! [_Looking at the clock._] Charlotte is late; I wish she would come. It will be a relief to worry her with my troubles.

MR. POSKET.

[_Talking outside._] We smoke all over the house, Bullamy, all over the house.

AGATHA POSKET.

I will speak to Æneas about this little girl, at any rate.

_Enter MR. POSKET, a mild gentleman of about fifty, smoking a cigarette, followed by MR. BULLAMY, a fat, red-faced man with a bronchial cough and general huskiness._

MR. POSKET.

Smoke anywhere, Bullamy--smoke anywhere.

MR. BULLAMY.

Not with my bronchitis, thank ye.

MR. POSKET.

[_Beaming at AGATHA POSKET._] Ah, my darling!

MR. BULLAMY.

[_Producing a small box from his waistcoat pocket._] All I take after dinner is a jujube--sometimes two. [_Offering the box._] May I tempt Mrs. Posket?

AGATHA POSKET.

No, thank you. [_Treading on one of the nuts which have been scattered over the room._] How provoking--who brings nuts into the drawing-room?

MR. POSKET.

Miss Tomlinson still here? [_To BEATIE._] Don't go, don't go. Glad to see Cis so fond of his music. Your sister Charlotte is behind her time, my darling.

AGATHA POSKET.

Her train is delayed, I suppose.

MR. POSKET.

You must stay and see my sister-in-law, Bullamy.

MR. BULLAMY.

Pleasure--pleasure!

MR. POSKET.

_I_ have never met her yet, we will share first impressions. In the interim, will Miss Tomlinson delight us with a little music?

MR. BULLAMY.

[_Bustling up to the piano._] If this young lady is going to sing she might like one of my jujubes.

[_BEATIE sits at the piano with CIS and MR. BULLAMY on each side of her. MR. POSKET treads on a nut as he walks over to his wife._

MR. POSKET.

Dear me--how come nuts into the drawing-room? [_To AGATHA._] Of what is my darling thinking so deeply? [_Treads on another nut._] Another! My pet, there are nuts on the drawing-room carpet!

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, I want to speak to you, Æneas.

MR. POSKET.

About the nuts?

AGATHA POSKET.

No--about Miss Tomlinson--your little _protégée._

MR. POSKET.

Ah, nice little thing.

AGATHA POSKET.

Very. But not old enough to exert any decided influence over the boy's musical future. Why not engage a master?

MR. POSKET.

What, for a mere child?

AGATHA POSKET.

A mere child--oh!

MR. POSKET.

A boy of fourteen!

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To herself._] Fourteen!

MR. POSKET.

A boy of fourteen, not yet out of Czerny's exercises.

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To herself._] If we were alone now, I might have the desperation to tell him all!

MR. POSKET.

Besides, my darling, you know the interest I take in Miss Tomlinson; she is one of the brightest little spots on my hobby-horse. Like all our servants, like everybody in my employ, she has been brought to my notice through the unhappy medium of the Police Court over which it is my destiny to preside. Our servant, Wyke, a man with a beautiful nature, is the son of a person I committed for trial for marrying three wives. To this day, Wyke is ignorant as to which of those three wives he is the son of! Cook was once a notorious dipsomaniac, and has even now not entirely freed herself from early influences. Popham is the unclaimed charge of a convicted baby-farmer. Even our milkman came before me as a man who had refused to submit specimens to the analytic inspector. And this poor child, what is she?

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, I know.

MR. POSKET.

The daughter of a superannuated General, who abstracted four silk umbrellas from the Army and Navy Stores--and on a fine day too!

[_BEATIE ceases playing._

MR. BULLAMY.

Very good--very good!

MR. POSKET.

Thank you--thank you!

MR. BULLAMY.

[_To MR. POSKET, coughing and laughing and popping a jujube into his mouth._] My dear Posket, I really must congratulate you on that boy of yours--your stepson. A most wonderful lad. So confoundedly advanced too.

MR. POSKET.

Yes, isn't he? Eh!

MR. BULLAMY.

[_Confidentially._] While the piano was going on just now, he told me one of the most humorous stories I've ever heard. [_Laughing heartily and panting, then taking another jujube._] Ha, ha, bless me, I don't know when I have taken so many jujubes!

MR. POSKET.

My dear Bullamy, my entire marriage is the greatest possible success. A little romantic, too. [_Pointing to AGATHA POSKET._] Beautiful woman!

MR. BULLAMY.

Very, very. I never committed a more stylish, elegant creature.

MR. POSKET.

Thank you, Bullamy--we met abroad, at Spa, when I was on my holiday.

_WYKE enters with tea-tray, which he hands round._

MR. BULLAMY.

I shall go there next year.

MR. POSKET.

She lost her first husband about twelve months ago in India. He was an army contractor.

BEATIE.

[_To CIS at the piano._] I must go now--there's no excuse for staying any longer.

CIS.

[_To her disconsolately._] What the deuce shall _I_ do?

MR. POSKET.

[_Pouring out milk._] Dear me, this milk seems very poor. When he died, she came to England, placed her boy at a school in Brighton, and then moved about quietly from place to place, drinking----

[_Sips tea._

MR. BULLAMY.

Drinking?

MR. POSKET.

The waters--she's a little dyspeptic. [_WYKE goes out._] We encountered each other at the _Tours des Fontaines_--by accident I trod upon her dress----

BEATIE.

Good-night, Cis dear.

CIS.

Oh!

MR. POSKET.

[_Continuing to MR. BULLAMY._] I apologised. We talked about the weather, we drank out of the same glass, discovered that we both suffered from the same ailment, and the result is complete happiness.

[_He bends over AGATHA POSKET gallantly._

AGATHA POSKET.

Æneas!

[_He kisses her, then CIS kisses BEATIE, loudly; MR. POSKET and MR. BULLAMY both listen puzzled._

MR. POSKET.

Echo?

MR. BULLAMY.

Suppose so!

[_He kisses the back of his hand experimentally; BEATIE kisses CIS._

MR. BULLAMY.

Yes.

MR. POSKET.

Curious. [_To MR. BULLAMY._] Romantic story, isn't it?

BEATIE.

Good-night, Mrs. Posket! I shall be here early to-morrow morning.

AGATHA POSKET.

I am afraid you are neglecting your other pupils.

BEATIE.

Oh, they're not so interesting as Cis--[_correcting herself_] Master Farringdon. Good-night.

AGATHA POSKET.

Good-night, dear.

[_BEATIE goes out quietly; AGATHA POSKET joins CIS._

MR. POSKET.

[_To MR. BULLAMY._] We were married abroad without consulting friends or relations on either side. That's how it is I have never seen my sister-in-law, Miss Verrinder, who is coming from Shropshire to stay with us--she ought to----

_WYKE enters._

WYKE.

Miss Verrinder has come, ma'am.

MR. POSKET.

Here she is.

AGATHA POSKET.

Charlotte?

_CHARLOTTE, a fine handsome girl, enters, followed by POPHAM with hand luggage._

AGATHA POSKET.

[_Kissing her._] My dear Charley.

[_WYKE goes out._

CHARLOTTE.

Aggy darling, aren't I late! There's a fog on the line--you could cut it with a knife. [_Seeing CIS._] Is that your boy?

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes.

CHARLOTTE.

Good gracious! What is he doing in an Eton jacket at his age?

AGATHA POSKET.

[_Softly to CHARLOTTE._] Hush! don't say a word about my boy's age yet awhile.

CHARLOTTE.

Oh!

AGATHA POSKET.

[_About to introduce MR. POSKET._] There is my husband.

CHARLOTTE.

[_Mistaking MR. BULLAMY for him._] Oh! how could she! [_To MR. BULLAMY, turning her cheek to him._] I congratulate you--I suppose you ought to kiss me.

AGATHA POSKET.

No, no!

MR. POSKET.

Welcome to my house, Miss Verrinder.

CHARLOTTE.

Oh, I beg your pardon. How do you do?

MR. BULLAMY.

[_To himself._] Mrs. Posket's an interfering woman.

MR. POSKET.

[_Pointing to MR. BULLAMY._] Mr. Bullamy.

[_MR. BULLAMY, aggrieved, bows stiffly._

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To CHARLOTTE._] Come upstairs, dear; will you have some tea?

CHARLOTTE.

No thank you, pet, but I should like a glass of soda water.

AGATHA POSKET.

Soda water!

CHARLOTTE.

Well dear, you can put what you like at the bottom of it.

[_AGATHA POSKET and CHARLOTTE go out, POPHAM following._

POPHAM.

[_To CIS._] Give me back my "Bow Bells," when you have read it, you imp.

[_Goes out._

CIS.

By Jove, Guv, isn't Aunt Charlotte a stunner?

MR. POSKET.

Seems a charming woman.

MR. BULLAMY.

Posket's got the wrong one! That comes of marrying without first seeing the lady's relations.

CIS.

Come along, Guv--let's have a gamble--Mr. Bullamy will join us.

[_Opens the card-table, arranges chairs and candles._

MR. BULLAMY.

A gamble?

MR. POSKET.

Yes--the boy has taught me a new game called "Fireworks;" his mother isn't aware that we play for money, of course, but we do.

MR. BULLAMY.

Ha, ha, ha! Who wins?

MR. POSKET.

He does now--but he says I shall win when I know the game better.

MR. BULLAMY.

What a boy he is!

MR. POSKET.

Isn't he a wonderful lad? And only fourteen, too. I'll tell you something else--perhaps you had better not mention it to his mother.

MR. BULLAMY.

No, no, certainly not.

MR. POSKET.

He's invested a little money for me.

MR. BULLAMY.

What in?

MR. POSKET.

Not _in_--_on_--on Sillikin for the Lincolnshire Handicap. Sillikin to win and Butterscotch one, two, three.

MR. BULLAMY.

Good Lord!

MR. POSKET.

Yes, the dear boy said, "Guv, it isn't fair you should give me all the tips, I'll give you some,"--and he did--he gave me Sillikin and Butterscotch. He'll manage it for you, if you like. "Plank it down," he calls it.

MR. BULLAMY.

[_Chuckling and choking._] Ha! ha! Ho! ho! [_Taking a jujube._] This boy will ruin me in jujubes.

CIS.

All ready! Look sharp! Guv, lend me a sov to start with?

MR. POSKET.

A sov to start with? [_They sit at the table. AGATHA POSKET and CHARLOTTE come into the room._] We didn't think you would return so soon, my darling.

AGATHA POSKET.

Go on amusing yourselves, I insist, only don't teach my Cis to play cards.

MR. BULLAMY.

Ho! ho!

MR. POSKET.

[_To MR. BULLAMY._] Hush! Hush!

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To CHARLOTTE._] I'm glad of this--we can tell each other our miseries undisturbed. Will you begin?

CHARLOTTE.

Well, at last I am engaged to Captain Horace Vale.

AGATHA POSKET.

Oh! Charley, I'm so glad!

CHARLOTTE.

Yes--so is he--he says. He proposed to me at the Hunt Ball--in the passage--Tuesday week.

AGATHA POSKET.

What did he say?

CHARLOTTE.

He said, "By Jove, I love you awfully."

AGATHA POSKET.

Well--and what did you say?

CHARLOTTE.

Oh, I said, "Well, if you're going to be as eloquent as all that, by Jove, I can't stand out." So we settled it, in the passage. He bars flirting till after we're married. That's my misery. What's yours, Aggy?

AGATHA POSKET.

Something awful!

CHARLOTTE.

Cheer up, Aggy! What is it?

AGATHA POSKET.

Well, Charley, you know I lost my poor dear first husband at a very delicate age.

CHARLOTTE.

Well, you were five-and-thirty, dear.

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, that's what I mean. Five-and-thirty is a very delicate age to find yourself single. You're neither one thing nor the other. You're not exactly a two-year-old, and you don't care to pull a hansom. However, I soon met Mr. Posket at Spa--bless him!

CHARLOTTE.

And you nominated yourself for the Matrimonial Stakes. Mr. Farringdon's The Widow, by Bereavement, out of Mourning, ten pounds extra.

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, Charley, and in less than a month I went triumphantly over the course. But, Charley dear, I didn't carry the fair weight for age--and that's my trouble.

CHARLOTTE.

Oh, dear!

AGATHA POSKET.

Undervaluing Æneas' love, in a moment of, I hope, not unjustifiable vanity, I took five years from my total, which made me thirty-one on my wedding morning.

CHARLOTTE.

Well, dear, many a misguided woman has done that before you.

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, Charley, but don't you see the consequences? It has thrown everything out. As I am now thirty-one, instead of thirty-six as I ought to be, it stands to reason that I couldn't have been married twenty years ago, which I was. So I have had to fib in proportion.

CHARLOTTE.

I see--making your first marriage occur only fifteen years ago.

AGATHA POSKET.

Exactly.

CHARLOTTE.

Well then, dear, why worry yourself further?

AGATHA POSKET.

Why, dear, don't you see? If I am only thirty-one now, my boy couldn't have been born nineteen years ago, and if he could, he oughtn't to have been, because, on my own showing, I wasn't married till four years later. Now you see the result!

CHARLOTTE.

Which is, that that fine strapping young gentleman over there is only fourteen.

AGATHA POSKET.

Precisely. Isn't it awkward! and his moustache is becoming more and more obvious every day.

CHARLOTTE.

What does the boy himself believe?

AGATHA POSKET.

He believes his mother, of course, as a boy should. As a prudent woman, I always kept him in ignorance of his age--in case of necessity. But it is terribly hard on the poor child, because his aims, instincts, and ambitions are all so horribly in advance of his condition. His food, his books, his amusements are out of keeping with his palate, his brain, and his disposition; and with all this suffering--his wretched mother has the remorseful consciousness of having shortened her offspring's life.

CHARLOTTE.

Oh, come, you haven't quite done that.

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, I have--because, if he lives to be a hundred, he must be buried at ninety-five.

CHARLOTTE.

That's true.

AGATHA POSKET.

Then, there's another aspect. He's a great favourite with all our friends--women friends especially. Even his little music mistress and the girl-servants hug and kiss him because he's such an engaging boy, and I can't stop it. But it's very awful to see these innocent women fondling a young man of nineteen.

CHARLOTTE.

The women don't know it.

AGATHA POSKET.

But they'd like to know it. I mean they ought to know it! The other day I found my poor boy sitting on Lady Jenkins's lap, and in the presence of Sir George. I have no right to compromise Lady Jenkins in that way. And now, Charley, you see the whirlpool in which I am struggling--if you can throw me a rope, pray do.

CHARLOTTE.

What sort of a man is Mr. Posket, Aggy?

AGATHA POSKET.

The best creature in the world. He's a practical philanthropist.

CHARLOTTE.

Um--he's a Police Magistrate, too, isn't he?

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, but he pays out of his own pocket half the fines he inflicts. That's why he has had a reprimand from the Home Office for inflicting such light penalties. All our servants have graduated at Mulberry Street. Most of the pictures in the dining-room are genuine Constables.

CHARLOTTE.

Take my advice--tell him the whole story.

AGATHA POSKET.

I dare not!

CHARLOTTE.

Why?

AGATHA POSKET.

I should have to take such a back seat for the rest of my married life.

[_The party at the card-table breaks up._

MR. BULLAMY.

[_Grumpily._] No, thank you, not another minute. [_To MR. POSKET._] What is the use of talking about revenge, my dear Posket, when I haven't a penny piece left to play with?

MR. POSKET.

I'm in the same predicament! Cis will lend us some money, won't you, Cis?

CIS.

Rather!

MR. BULLAMY.

No, thank ye, that boy is one too many for me. I've never met such a child. Good-night, Mrs. Posket. [_Treads on a nut._] Confound the nuts!

AGATHA POSKET.

Going so early?

CIS.

[_To MR. POSKET._] I hate a bad loser, don't you Guv?

AGATHA POSKET.

Show Mr. Bullamy down stairs, Cis.

MR. BULLAMY.

Good-night, Posket. Oh! I haven't a shilling left for my cabman.

CIS.

I'll pay the cab.

MR. BULLAMY.

No, thank you! I'll walk. [_Opening jujube box._] Bah! Not even a jujube left and on a foggy night, too! Ugh!

[_Goes out._

_Enter WYKE with four letters on salver._

CIS.

[_To WYKE._] Any for me?

WYKE.

One, sir.

CIS.

[_To himself._] From Achille Blond; lucky the mater didn't see it.

[_Goes out._

[_WYKE hands letters to AGATHA POSKET, who takes two, then to MR. POSKET, who takes one._

AGATHA POSKET.

This is for you, Charley--already.

[_WYKE goes out._

CHARLOTTE.

Spare my blushes, dear--it's from Horace, Captain Vale. The dear wretch knew I was coming to you. Heigho! Will you excuse me?

MR. POSKET.

Certainly.

AGATHA POSKET.

Excuse me, please?

CHARLOTTE.

Certainly, my dear.

MR. POSKET.

Certainly, my darling. Excuse me, won't you?

CHARLOTTE.

Oh, certainly.

AGATHA POSKET.

Certainly, Æneas.

[_Simultaneously they all open their letters, and lean back and read._

AGATHA POSKET.

[_Reading._] Lady Jenkins is not feeling very well.

CHARLOTTE.

If Captain Horace Vale stood before me at this moment, I'd slap his face!

AGATHA POSKET.

Charlotte!

CHARLOTTE.

[_Reading._] "Dear Miss Verrinder,--Your desperate flirtation with Major Bristow at the Meet on Tuesday last, three days after our engagement, has just come to my knowledge. Your letters and gifts, including the gold-headed hair-pin given me at the Hunt Ball, shall be returned to-morrow. By Jove, all is over! Horace Vale." Oh, dear!

AGATHA POSKET.

Oh, Charley, I'm so sorry! However, you can deny it.

CHARLOTTE.

[_Weeping._] That's the worst of it, I can't.

MR. POSKET.

[_To AGATHA POSKET._] My darling, you will be delighted. A note from Colonel Lukyn.

AGATHA POSKET.

Lukyn--Lukyn? I seem to know the name.

MR. POSKET.

An old schoolfellow of mine who went to India many years ago. He has just come home. I met him at the club last night and asked him to name an evening to dine with us. He accepts for to-morrow.

AGATHA POSKET.

Lukyn, Lukyn?

MR. POSKET.

Listen. [_Reading._] "It will be especially delightful to me, as I believe I am an old friend of your wife and of her first husband. You may recall me to her recollection by reminding her that I am the Captain Lukyn who stood sponsor to her boy when he was christened at Baroda."

AGATHA POSKET.

[_Giving a loud scream._] Oh!

MR. POSKET.

My dear!

AGATHA POSKET.

I've twisted my foot.

MR. POSKET.

How _do_ nuts come into the drawing-room?

CHARLOTTE.

[_Quietly to AGATHA POSKET._] Aggy?

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To CHARLOTTE._] The boy's god-father.

CHARLOTTE.

When was the child christened?

AGATHA POSKET.

A month after he was born. They always are.

MR. POSKET.

[_Reading the letter again._] This is _very_ pleasant.

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To MR. POSKET._] Let--let me see the letter, I--I may recognise the handwriting.

MR. POSKET.

[_Handing her the letter._] Certainly, my pet. [_To himself._] Awakened memories of Number One. That's the worst of marrying a widow; somebody is always proving her previous convictions.

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To CHARLOTTE._] "No. 19a, Cork Street!" Charley, put on your things and come with me.

CHARLOTTE.

Agatha, you're mad!

AGATHA POSKET.

I'm going to shut this man's mouth before he comes into this house to-morrow.

CHARLOTTE.

Wait _till_ he comes.

AGATHA POSKET.

Yes, till he stalks in here with his "How d'ye do, Posket? Haven't seen your wife since the year '66, by Gad, sir!" Not I! Æneas!

MR. POSKET.

My dear.

AGATHA POSKET.

Lady Jenkins--Adelaide--is very ill; she can't put her foot to the ground with neuralgia.

[_Taking the letter from her pocket, and giving it to him._

MR. POSKET.

Bless me!

AGATHA POSKET.

We have known each other for six long years.

MR. POSKET.

Only six weeks, my love.

AGATHA POSKET.

Weeks _are_ years in close friendship. My place is by her side.

MR. POSKET.

[_Reading the letter._] "Slightly indisposed, caught trifling cold at the Dog Show. Where do you buy your handkerchiefs?" There's nothing about neuralgia or putting her foot to the ground here, my darling.

AGATHA POSKET.

No, but can't you read between the lines, Æneas? That is the letter of a woman who is not at all well.

MR. POSKET.

All right, my darling, if you are bent upon going I will accompany you.

AGATHA POSKET.

Certainly not, Æneas--Charlotte insists on being my companion; we can keep each other warm in a closed cab.

MR. POSKET.

But can't I make a third?

AGATHA POSKET.

Don't be so forgetful, Æneas--don't you know that in a four-wheeled cab, the fewer knees there are the better.

[_AGATHA POSKET and CHARLOTTE go out._

_CIS comes in hurriedly._

CIS.

What's the matter, Guv?

MR. POSKET.

Your mother and Miss Verrinder are going out.

CIS.

Out of their minds? It's a horrid night.

MR. POSKET.

Yes, but Lady Jenkins is ill.

CIS.

Oh! Is ma mentioned in the will?

MR. POSKET.

Good gracious, what a boy! No, Cis, your mother is merely going to sit by Lady Jenkins' bedside, to hold her hand, and to tell her where one goes to--to buy pocket-handkerchiefs.

CIS.

By Jove! The mater can't be home again till half-past twelve or one o'clock.

MR. POSKET.

Much later if Lady Jenkins' condition is alarming.

CIS.

Hurray! [_He takes the watch out of MR. POSKET'S pocket._] Just half-past ten. Greenwich mean, eh, Guv?

[_He puts the watch to his ear, pulling MR. POSKET towards him by the chain._

MR. POSKET.

What an extraordinary lad!

CIS.

[_Returning watch._] Thanks. They have to get from here to Campden Hill and back again. I'll tell Wyke to get them the worst horse on the rank.

MR. POSKET.

My dear child!

CIS.

Three-quarters of an hour's journey from here at least. Twice three-quarters, one hour and a half. An hour with Lady Jenkins--when women get together, you know, Guv, they do talk--that's two hours and a half. Good. Guv, will you come with me?

MR. POSKET.

Go with you! Where?

CIS.

Hotel des Princes, Meek Street. A sharp hansom does it in ten minutes.

MR. POSKET.

Meek Street, Hotel des Princes! Child, do you know what you're talking about?

CIS.

Rather. Look here, Guv, honour bright--no blab if I show you a letter.

MR. POSKET.

I won't promise anything.

CIS.

You won't! Do you know, Guv, you are doing a very unwise thing to check the confidence of a lad like me?

MR. POSKET.

Cis, my boy!

CIS.

Can you calculate the inestimable benefit it is to a youngster to have some one always at his elbow, some one older, wiser, and better off than himself?

MR. POSKET.

Of course, Cis, of course, I _want_ you to make a companion of me.

CIS.

Then how the deuce can I do that if you won't come with me to Meek Street?

MR. POSKET.

Yes, but deceiving your mother!

CIS.

_Deceiving_ the mater would be to tell her a crammer--a thing, I hope, we're both of us much above.

MR. POSKET.

Good boy, good boy.

CIS.

_Concealing_ the fact that we're going to have a bit of supper at the Hotel des Princes, is doing my mother a great kindness, because it would upset her considerably to know of the circumstances. You've been wrong, Guv, but we won't say anything more about that. Read the letter.

[_Gives MR. POSKET the letter._

MR. POSKET.

[_Reading in a dazed sort of a way._] "Hotel des Princes, Meek Street, W. Dear Sir,--Unless you drop in and settle your arrears, I really cannot keep your room for you any longer. Yours obediently, Achille Blond. Cecil Farringdon, Esq." Good heavens! You have a room at the Hotel das Princes!

CIS.

A room! It's little better than a coop.

MR. POSKET.

You don't occupy it?

CIS.

But my friends do. When I was at Brighton I was in with the best set--hope I always shall be. I left Brighton--nice hole I was in. You see, Guv, I didn't want my friends to make free with your house.

MR. POSKET.

Oh, didn't you?

CIS.

So I took a room at the Hotel des Princes--when I want to put a man up he goes there. You see, Guv, it's _you_ I've been considering more than myself.

MR. POSKET.

But you are a mere child.

CIS.

A fellow is just as old as he feels. I feel no end of a man. Hush, they're coming down! I'm off to tell Wyke about the rickety four-wheeler.

MR. POSKET.

Cis, Cis! Your mother will discover I have been out.

CIS.

Oh, I forgot, you're married, aren't you?

MR. POSKET.

Married!

CIS.

Say you are going to the club.

MR. POSKET.

But that's not the truth, sir!

CIS.

Yes it is. We'll pop in at the club on our way, and you can give me a bitters.

[_Goes out._

MR. POSKET.

Good gracious, what a boy! Hotel des Princes, Meek Street! What shall I do? Tell his mother? Why, it would turn her hair grey. If I could only get a quiet word with this Mr. Achille Blond, I could put a stop to everything. That is my best course, not to lose a moment in rescuing the child from his boyish indiscretion. Yes, I must go with Cis to Meek Street.

_Enter AGATHA POSKET and CHARLOTTE, elegantly dressed._

AGATHA POSKET.

Have you sent for a cab, Æneas?

MR. POSKET.

Cis is looking after that.

AGATHA POSKET.

Poor Cis! How late we keep him up.

_CIS comes in._

CIS.

Wyke has gone for a cab, ma dear.

AGATHA POSKET.

Thank you, Cis darling.

CIS.

If you'll excuse me, I'll go to my room. I've another bad headache coming on.

AGATHA POSKET.

[_Kissing him._] Run along, my boy.

CIS.

Good-night, ma. Good-night, Aunt Charlotte.

CHARLOTTE.

Good-night, Cis.

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To herself._] I wish the cab would come.

[_AGATHA POSKET and CHARLOTTE look out of the window._

CIS.

[_At the door._] Ahem! Good-night, Guv.

MR. POSKET.

You've told a story--two, sir! You said you were going up to your room.

CIS.

So I am--to dress.

MR. POSKET.

You said you had a bad headache coming on.

CIS.

So I have, Guv. I always get a bad headache at the Hotel des Princes.

[_Goes out._

MR. POSKET.

Oh, what a boy!

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To herself._] When will that cab come?

MR. POSKET.

Ahem! My pet, the idea has struck me that, as you are going out, it would not be a bad notion for me to pop into my club.

AGATHA POSKET.

The club! You were there last night.

MR. POSKET.

I know, my darling. Many men look in at their clubs every night.

AGATHA POSKET.

A nice example for Cis, truly! I particularly desire that you should remain at home to-night, Æneas.

MR. POSKET.

[_To himself._] Oh, dear me!

CHARLOTTE.

[_To AGATHA POSKET._] Why not let him go to the club, Agatha?

AGATHA POSKET.

He might meet Colonel Lukyn there.

CHARLOTTE.

If Colonel Lukyn is there we shan't find him in Cork Street!

AGATHA POSKET.

Then we follow him to the club.

CHARLOTTE.

Ladies never call at a club.

AGATHA POSKET.

Such things have been known.

_WYKE enters._

WYKE.

[_Grinning behind his hand._] The cab is coming, ma'am.

AGATHA POSKET.

Coming? Why didn't you bring it with you?

WYKE.

I walk quicker than the cab, ma'am. It's a good horse, slow, but very certain.

AGATHA POSKET.

We will come down.

WYKE.

[_To himself._] Just what the horse has done. [_To AGATHA POSKET._] Yes, ma'am.

[_WYKE goes out._

AGATHA POSKET.

Good-night, Æneas.

MR. POSKET.

[_Nervously._] I wish you would allow me to go to the club, my pet.

AGATHA POSKET.

Æneas, I am surprised at your obstinacy. It is so very different from my first husband.

MR. POSKET.

Really, Agatha, I am shocked. I presume the late Mr. Farringdon occasionally used his clubs.

AGATHA POSKET.

Indian clubs. Indian clubs are good for the liver, London clubs are not. Good-night!

MR. POSKET.

I'll see you to your cab, Agatha.

AGATHA POSKET.

No, thank you.

MR. POSKET.

Upon my word!

CHARLOTTE.

[_To AGATHA POSKET._] Why not?

AGATHA POSKET.

He would want to give the direction to the cabman!

CHARLOTTE.

The first tiff. [_To MR. POSKET._] Good-night, Mr. Posket.

MR. POSKET.

Good-night, Miss Verrinder.

AGATHA POSKET.

[_To MR. POSKET._] Have you any message for Lady Jenkins?

MR. POSKET.

Confound Lady Jenkins.

AGATHA POSKET.

I will deliver your message in the presence of Sir George, who, I may remind you, is the permanent Secretary at the Home Office.

[_AGATHA POSKET and CHARLOTTE go out; MR. POSKET paces up and down excitedly._

MR. POSKET.

Gurrh? I'm not to go to the club! I set a bad example to Cis! Ha! ha! I am different from her first husband. Yes, I am--I'm alive for one thing. I--I--I--I--I'm dashed if I don't go out with the boy.

CIS.

[_Putting his head in at the door._] Coast clear, Guv? All right.

_Enter CIS, in fashionable evening dress, carrying MR. POSKET'S overcoat and hat._

CIS.

Here are your hat and overcoat.

MR. POSKET.

Where on earth did you get that dress suit?

CIS.

Mum's the word, Guv. Brighton tailor--six months' credit. He promised to send in the bill to you, so the mater won't know. [_Putting MR. POSKET'S hat on his head._] By Jove, Guv, don't my togs show you up?

MR. POSKET.

I won't go, I won't go. I've never met such a boy before.

CIS.

[_Proceeds to help him with his overcoat._] Mind your arm, Guv. You've got your hand in a pocket. No, no--that's a tear in the lining. That's it.

MR. POSKET.

I forbid you to go out!

CIS.

Yes, Guv. And I forbid you to eat any of those devilled oysters we shall get at the Hotel des Princes. Now you're right!

MR. POSKET.

I am not right!

CIS.

Oh, I forgot! [_He pulls out a handful of loose money._] I found this money in your desk, Guv. You had better take it out with you; you may want it. Here you are--gold, silver, and coppers. [_He empties the money into MR. POSKET'S overcoat pocket._] One last precaution, and then we're off.

[_Goes to the writing-table, and writes on a half-sheet of note-paper._

MR. POSKET.

I shall take a turn round the Square, and then come home again! I will not be influenced by a mere child! A man of my responsible position--a magistrate--supping slily at the Hotel des Princes, in Meek Street--it's horrible.

CIS.

Now, then--we'll creep downstairs quietly so as not to bring Wyke from his pantry. [_Giving MR. POSKET paper._] You stick that up prominently, while I blow out the candles.

[_CIS blows out the candles on the piano._

MR. POSKET.

[_Reading._] "Your master and Mr. Cecil Farringdon are going to bed. Don't disturb them." I will not be a partner to any written document. This is untrue.

CIS.

No, it isn't--we are going to bed when we come home. Make haste, Guv.

MR. POSKET.

Oh, what a boy.

[_Pinning the paper on to the curtain._

CIS.

[_Turning down the lamp, and watching MR. POSKET._] Hallo, Guv! hallo! You're an old hand at this sort of game, are you?

MR. POSKET.

How dare you!

CIS.

[_Taking MR. POSKET'S arm._] Now, then, don't breathe.

MR. POSKET.

[_Quite demoralised._] Cis! Cis! Wait a minute--wait a minute!

CIS.

Hold up, Guv. [_WYKE enters._] Oh, bother!

WYKE.

[_To MR. POSKET._] Going out, sir?

MR. POSKET.

[_Struggling to be articulate._] No--yes--that is--partially--half round the Square, and possibly--er--um--back again. [_To CIS._] Oh, you bad boy!

WYKE.

[_Coolly going up to the paper on curtains._] Shall I take this down now, sir?

MR. POSKET.

[_Quietly to CIS._] I'm in an awful position! What am I to do?

CIS.

Do as I do--tip him.

MR. POSKET.

What!

CIS.

Tip him.

MR. POSKET.

Oh, yes--yes. Where's my money?

[_CIS takes two coins out of MR. POSKET'S pocket and gives them to him without looking at them._

CIS.

[_To MR. POSKET._] Give him that.

MR. POSKET.

Yes.

CIS.

And say--"Wyke, you want a new umbrella--buy a very good one. Your mistress has a latch-key, so go to bed."

MR. POSKET.

Wyke!

WYKE.

Yes, sir.

MR. POSKET.

[_Giving him money._] Go to bed--buy a very good one. Your mistress has a latch-key--so--so you want a new umbrella!

WYKE.

All right, sir. You can depend on me. Are you well muffled up, sir? Mind you take care of him, Master Cis.

CIS.

[_Supporting MR. POSKET; MR. POSKET groaning softly._] Capital, Guv, capital. Are you hungry?

MR. POSKET.

Hungry! You're a wicked boy. I've told a falsehood.

CIS.

No, you haven't, Guv--he really does want a new umbrella.

MR. POSKET.

Does he, Cis? Does he? Thank heaven!

[_They go out._

WYKE.

[_Looking at money_] Here! What, twopence! [_Throws the coins down in disgust._] I'll tell the missus.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

THE SECOND ACT

_The scene is a supper-room at the Hotel des Princes, Meek Street, with two doors--the one leading into an adjoining room, the other into a passage--and a window opening on to a balcony._

_ISIDORE, a French waiter, is showing in CIS and MR. POSKET._

CIS.

Come on, Guv--come on. How are you, Isidore?

ISIDORE.

I beg your pardon--I am quite well, and so are you, zank you.

CIS.

I want a pretty little light supper for myself and my friend, Mr. Skinner.

ISIDORE.

Mr. Skinner.

MR. POSKET.

[_To CIS._] Skinner! Is some one else coming?

CIS.

No, no. You're Skinner.

MR. POSKET.

Oh!

[_Wanders round the room._

CIS.

Mr. Skinner, of the Stock Exchange. What have you ready?

ISIDORE.

[_In an undertone to CIS._] I beg your pardon--very good--but Monsieur Blond he say to me, "Isidore, listen now; if Mr. Farringdon he come here, you say, I beg your pardon, you are a nice gentleman, but will you pay your little account when it is quite convenient, before you leave the house at once."

CIS.

Quite so, there's no difficulty about that. What's the bill?

ISIDORE.

[_Gives the bill._] I beg your pardon. Eight pounds four shillings.

CIS.

Phew! Here go my winnings from old Bullamy and the Guv. [_Counting out money._] Two pounds short. [_Turning to MR. POSKET, who is carefully examining the scratches on the mirrors._] Skinner! Skinner!

MR. POSKET.

Visitors evidently scratch their names on the mirrors. Dear me! Surely this is a spurious title--"Lottie, Duchess of Fulham!" How very curious!

CIS.

Skinner, got any money with you?

MR. POSKET.

Yes, Cis, my boy.

[_Feels for his money._

CIS.

You always keep it in that pocket, Skinner.

MR. POSKET.

[_Taking out money._] Oh, yes.

[_CIS takes two sovereigns from MR. POSKET and gives the amount of his bill to ISIDORE, who goes to the sideboard to count out change._

CIS.

No putting the change to bed, Isidore,

MR. POSKET.

What's that?

CIS.

Putting the change to bed! Isidore will show you. [_To ISIDORE, who comes to them with the change and the bill on a plate._] Isidore, show Mr. Skinner how you put silver to bed.

ISIDORE.

Oh, Mr. Farringdon, I beg your pardon--no, no!

MR. POSKET.

It would be most instructive.

ISIDORE.

Very good. [_Goes to the table, upon which he puts plate._] Say I have to give you change sixteen shillings.

MR. POSKET.

Certainly.

ISIDORE.

Very good. Before I bring it to you I slip a little half-crown under the bill--so. Then I put what is left on the top of the bill, and I say, "I beg your pardon, your change." You take it, you give me two shillings for myself, and all is right.

MR. POSKET.

[_Counting the silver on the bill with the end of his glasses._] Yes, but suppose I count the silver, it is half-a-crown short!

ISIDORE.

Then I say, "I beg your pardon, how dare you say that?" Then I do so. [_He pulls the bill from the plate._] Then I say, "The bill is eight pounds four shillings [_handing the plate_], count again."

MR. POSKET.

Ah, of course, it's all right now.

ISIDORE.

Very good, then you give me five shillings for doubting me. Do it; do it.

MR. POSKET.

[_In a daze, giving him the five shillings._] Like this?

ISIDORE.

Yes, like that. [_Slipping the money into his pocket._] I beg your pardon--thank you. [_Handing CIS the rest of the change._] Your change, Mr. Farringdon.

CIS.

Oh, I say, Isidore.

_BLOND, a fat, middle-aged French hotel-keeper, enters with a letter in his hand._

ISIDORE.

Monsieur Blond.

BLOND.

Good evening, Mr. Farringdon.

ISIDORE.

[_Quietly to BLOND._] Ze bill is all right.

CIS.

Good evening. [_Introducing MR. POSKET._] My friend, Mr. Harvey Skinner, of the Stock Exchange.

BLOND.

Very pleased to see you. [_To CIS._] Are you going to enjoy yourselves?

CIS.

Rather.

BLOND.

You usually eat in this room, but you don't mind giving it up for to-night--now, do you?

CIS.

Oh, Achille!

BLOND.

Come, come, to please me. A cab has just brought a letter from an old customer of mine, a gentleman I haven't seen for over twenty years, who wants to sup with a friend in this room to-night. It's quite true. [_Giving CIS a letter._]

CIS.

[_Reading to himself._] "19A, Cork Street. Dear Blond,--Fresh, or rather, stale from India--want to sup with my friend, Captain Vale, to-night, at my old table in my old room. Must do this for Auld Lang Syne. Yours, Alexander Lukyn." [_To BLOND._] Oh, let him have it. Where will you put us?

BLOND.

You shall have the best room in the house, the one next to this. This room--pah! Come with me. [_To MR. POSKET._] Have you known Mr. Farringdon for a long time?

MR. POSKET.

No, no. Not very long.

BLOND.

Ah, he is a fine fellow--Mr. Farringdon. Now, if you please. You can go through this door.

[_Wheels sofa away and unlocks the door._

CIS.

[_To MR. POSKET._] You'll look better after a glass or two of Pommery, Guv.

MR. POSKET.

No, no, Cis--now, no champagne.

CIS.

No champagne, not for my friend, Harvey Skinner! Come, Guv--dig me in the ribs--like this. [_Digging him in the ribs._] Chuck!

MR. POSKET.

[_Shrinking._] Oh, don't!

CIS.

And say, Hey! Go on, Guv.

MR. POSKET.

I can't--I can't. I don't know what it may mean.

CIS.

[_Digging him in the ribs again._] Go on--ch-uck!

MR. POSKET.

What, like this? [_Returning the dig._] Ch-uck.

CIS.

That's it, that's it. Ha, ha! You are going it, Guv.

MR. POSKET.

Am I, Cis? Am I? [_Waving his arm._] Hey!

CIS AND MR. POSKET.

Hey!

CIS.

Ha, ha! Come on! Serve the supper, Achille.

BLOND.

Ah! he is a grand fellow, Mr. Farringdon. [_CIS and MR. POSKET go into the other room._] [_To ISIDORE._] Replace the _canapé._

[_There is a sharp knock at the other door. BLOND follows CIS and MR. POSKET into the other room, then locks the door on the inside._

ISIDORE.

Come in, please.

_COLONEL LUKYN and CAPTAIN VALE enter the room. LUKYN is a portly, grey-haired, good-looking military man; VALE is pale-faced and heavy-eyed, while his manner is languid and dejected._

LUKYN.

This is the room. Come in, Vale. This is my old supper-room--I haven't set foot here for over twenty years. By George, I hope to sup here for another twenty.

VALE.

[_Dejectedly._] Do you? In less than that, unless I am lucky enough to fall in some foreign set-to, I shall be in Kensal Green.

LUKYN.

[_Looking round the room sentimentally._] Twenty years ago! Confound 'em, they've painted it.

VALE.

My people have eight shelves in the Catacombs at Kensal Green.

LUKYN.

Nonsense, man, nonsense. You're a little low. Waiter, take our coats.

VALE.

Don't check me, Lukyn. My shelf is four from the bottom.

LUKYN.

You'll forget the number of your shelf before you're half way through your oysters.

VALE.

[_Shaking his head._] An oyster merely reminds me of my own particular shell.

[_ISIDORE begins to remove VALE'S coat._

LUKYN.

Ha, ha! Ha, ha!

VALE.

Don't, Lukyn, don't. [_In an undertone to LUKYN._] It's very good of you, but, by Jove, my heart is broken. [_To ISIDORE._] Mind my flower, waiter, confound you.

[_He adjusts flower in his button-hole._

ISIDORE.

You have ordered supper, sir?

LUKYN.

Yes, on the back of my note to Mr. Blond. Serve it at once.

ISIDORE.

I beg your pardon, sir, at once.

[_He goes out._

LUKYN.

So, you've been badly treated by a woman, eh, Vale?

VALE.

Shockingly. Between man and man, a Miss Verrinder--Charlotte. [_Turning away._] Excuse me, Lukyn.

[_Produces a folded silk handkerchief, shakes it out, and gently blows his nose._

LUKYN.

[_Lighting a cigarette._] Certainly--certainly--does you great credit. Pretty woman?

VALE.

Oh, lovely! A most magnificent set of teeth. All real, as far as I can ascertain.

LUKYN.

No?

VALE.

Fact.

LUKYN.

Great loss;--have a cigarette.

VALE.

[_Taking case from LUKYN._] Parascho's?

LUKYN.

Yes. Was she--full grown?

VALE.

[_Lighting his cigarette._] Just perfection. She rides eight-stone fifteen, and I have lost her, Lukyn. Beautiful tobacco.

LUKYN.

What finished it?

VALE.

She gave a man a pair of worked slippers three days after our engagement.

LUKYN.

No?

VALE.

Fact. You remember Bristow--Gordon Bristow?

LUKYN.

Perfectly. Best fellow in the world.

VALE.

He wears them.

LUKYN.

Villain! Will you begin with a light wine, or go right on to the champagne?

VALE.

By Jove, it's broken my heart, old fellow. I'll go right on to the champagne, please. Lukyn, I shall make you my executor.

LUKYN.

Pooh! You'll outlive me! Why don't they bring the supper? My heart has been broken like yours. It was broken first in Ireland in '55. It was broken again in London in '61, but in 1870 it was smashed in Calcutta, by a married lady that time.

VALE.

A married lady?

LUKYN.

Yes, my late wife. Talk about broken hearts, my boy, when you've won your lady, not when you've lost her. [_Enter ISIDORE with a tray of supper things._] The supper. [_To VALE._] Hungry?

VALE.

[_Mournfully._] Very.

_Enter BLOND, with an envelope._

BLOND.

Colonel Lukyn.

LUKYN.

Ah, Blond, how are you? Not a day older. What have you got there?

BLOND.

[_Quietly to LUKYN in an undertone._] Two ladies, Colonel, downstairs in a cab, must see you for a few minutes alone.

LUKYN.

Good gracious! Excuse me, Vale. [_Takes the envelope from BLOND, and opens it: reading the enclosed card._] Mrs. Posket--Mrs. Posket! "Mrs. Posket entreats Colonel Lukyn to see her for five minutes upon a matter of urgent necessity, and free from observation." By George! Posket must be ill in bed--I thought he looked seedy last night. [_To BLOND._] Of course--of course. Say I'll come down.

BLOND.

It is raining outside. I had better ask them up.

LUKYN.

Do--do. I'll get Captain Vale to step into another room. Be quick. Tell 'em I am quite alone.

BLOND.

Yes, Colonel.

[_Hurries out._

CIS.

[_In the next room rattling glasses and calling._] Waiter! Waiter! Waiter-r-r! Where the deuce are you?

ISIDORE.

Coming, sir, coming. I beg your pardon.

[_Bustles out._

LUKYN.