05 365 
 
 twe 
 
BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
"TWENTY MINUTES" 
 DRAWING-ROOM DUOLOGUES 
 
 ETC 
 
 BY 
 
 HARRIET L. CHILDE PEMBERTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "GEESE," "HE, SHE, AND THE POKER," ETC. 
 
 SIXTEENTH THOUSAND 
 
 LONDON : 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD., 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 
 
 26, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, 
 STRAND. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 
 28, WEST 38TH STREET, 
 
[ The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction art reserved. ] 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE following pieces have been written with 
 a view to performance by amateurs, under the 
 simplest possible conditions. Of course, a stage 
 and footlights would tend to enhance their 
 effect ; but if these are not to be had, it does 
 pot affect the possibility of performance. I 
 have myself taken part in several of them, 
 simply standing up at the end of a drawing- 
 room, without even the assistance of a curtain 
 or of folding doors. In all the duologues (with 
 the exception of "The Train de Luxe from 
 Cannes"), and in the two monologues, the 
 action of the piece takes the actors off the 
 stage by any door out of the room which 
 may be convenient In " A Backward Child," 
 "Shattered Nerves," and "Nicknames," the 
 whole mis-en-sctne consists of a table and two 
 chairs, while in " Chatterboxes " nothing what- 
 ever is required. In "A Figure of Speech" 
 there ought to be something that represents a 
 window and a fireplace; but if quite imprac- 
 ticable, they might be dispensed with, without 
 materially affecting the piece. To " The Train 
 
 979 
 
4 Preface. 
 
 de Luxe from Cannes" I have added a note 
 with some suggestions which may help to 
 simplify seeming difficulties as to representa- 
 tion. With regard to requisite "properties," 
 too, they are all within the compass of any- 
 one to obtain, with the exception, perhaps, of 
 the parrot in " The Science of Advertisement." 
 This latter piece would, of course, be the better 
 for a stage, as it involves more characters than 
 the others, and consequently more action. But 
 this, too, I have had played without one, with 
 only folding doors between the actors and the 
 audience. 
 
 The average time of performance of the 
 duologues is a quarter of an hour ; the mono- 
 logues would hardly take so long ; and I do 
 not think that " The Science of Advertisement " 
 takes more than thirty-five minutes. 
 
 H. L. C. P. 
 
 12 PORTMAN STREET, 
 LONDON, W. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A BACKWARD CHILD (Duologue} , .7 
 
 CHATTERBOXES (Duologue) . . 20 
 
 SHATTERED NERVES (Duologue) .31 
 THE " TRAIN DE LUXE " FROM CANNES (Duologue} 44 
 
 I AND MY FATHER-IN-LAW (Monologue) . -57 
 
 A FIGURE OF SPEECH (Duologue) . . .64 
 
 MY MISSING SPECTACLES (Monologue) . . So 
 
 NICKNAMES (Duologue) . . . ,87 
 
 THE SCIENCE OF ADVERTISEMENT , , xoi 
 
Any Wigs, Costumes or Properties required in the per- 
 formance of these plays may be hired or purchased 
 reasonably from Messrs. C. H. Fox, Ltd., 27, Wellington 
 Street, Strand, London. 
 
TTie Amateur Fee for each and every representation of this 
 play is hilj-a-guinea* payable in advance to Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand. London. No 
 performance may take place unless a 'written authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 A BACKWARD CHILD, 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 
 Miss MILLIKEN (Governess). 
 FLORENCE (aged twelve). 
 
 Miss Milliken. (alone. Table, two chairs, 
 books, &c.). My first morning with my new 
 pupil ! I always feel a little nervous the first 
 morning with a new pupil. I never quite 
 know how we are to begin there is always 
 an uncertainty how we shall go on, not to 
 mention an extreme doubt as to how we shall 
 end. It's very like writing a novel. You 
 haven't the least idea what your opening 
 chapter will be ; your middle drags on any- 
 how ; and you conclude abruptly with a catas- 
 trophe. In all my previous situations as a 
 governess I have concluded abruptly with a 
 catastrophe. I wonder how I shall get on 
 with Florence? She seems a nice child, a 
 nice, quiet, well-behaved child. It is true I 
 have only seen her in the presence of her 
 parents. Her father spoils her, I can see. 
 Her mother says she is a very observant 
 child, but backward sadly backward with her 
 lessona. I'm not sorry for that I detest for- 
 
8 A Backward Child. 
 
 ward children. I have always been partic- 
 ularly successful with backward girls, and if 
 she is observant, her backwardness 
 
 (Enter Florence; skips behind Miss M. 
 Nearly tilts her backwards on her chair.) 
 
 Florence. Morning, Miss Milliken. 
 
 Miss M. Good morning, Florence. Do you 
 think that this is a becoming way of greeting 
 your governess the first 
 
 F. Oh ! I mustn't think. My Mamma says 
 it isn't good for young people to worry them- 
 selves with thinking. 
 
 Miss M. But it is high time you began 
 to think, my dear a great, big girl like 
 you ! 
 
 F. That's just it. I'm growing so fast, 
 don't you see. You can't expect body and 
 brain to grow at the same time. My Mamma's 
 doctor says so. 
 
 Miss M. I have nothing to do with the 
 body ; my business is to stimulate the brain. 
 Sit down. (Opens a book.) 
 
 F. (still standing). Miss Milliken, may I 
 ask you a riddle ? 
 
 MissM. A riddle? 
 
 F. Yes, a riddle. Why are you like a cup 
 of strong tea ? Made it myself. 
 
 Miss M. Made the strong tea yourself? 
 
 F. No, the riddle. Give it up? Like to 
 know the answer ? Because you stimulate the 
 brain. Not bad is it ? 
 
 Miss M. (aside). Humph! for a backward 
 
A Backward Child. 9 
 
 child ! (Aloud, sternly rapping the table?) I 
 must insist on your sitting down and beginning 
 your lessons. 
 
 (Florence wriggles into her chair ^ and puts her 
 elbows on the table?) 
 
 F. You know tea is like that. My Mamma's 
 doctor says 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what your Mamma's 
 doctor says, and take your elbows off the 
 table. (F. tilts her chair back?) I shall now 
 proceed to ask you a few questions from the 
 Book of General Knowledge, to see how far 
 your education really has gone. 
 
 F. Oh ! that's awfully old-fashioned and 
 behind the times ! Shall I tell you what you 
 ought to do ? You ought to lecture 
 
 Miss M. Exactly ; and you ought not. 
 
 F. Like they do at Girton, you know, and me 
 take notes. My Cousin Lucy says 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what your Cousin Lucy 
 says. Don't tilt your chair. 
 
 F. Why not ? 
 
 Miss M. Why not ? Because you'll be over 
 backwards directly. 
 
 F. I can't be more backward than I am ! 
 My Uncle John says I'm the most backward 
 child he knows. Not bad is it ? 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what your Uncle John 
 says, but attend to me. (Questions at random 
 from the book.) On what sea-coast is the town 
 of Joppa situated ? 
 
 F. (vaguely). I don't know! "There was 
 
io A Backward Child. 
 
 a young lady of Joppa, who came a Society 
 cropper " 
 
 Miss M. A what ? 
 
 F. Don't you know what a Society cropper 
 is ? Oh ! you are behind the times ! I say, 
 Miss Milliken, do tell me what you think. 
 When a person's in Society, like my Mamma, 
 and when a person, who's her friend, comes a 
 Society cropper, you know, like Mrs Ponsonby 
 Masher, do you think it's fair to chuck her over ? 
 
 Miss M. My dear, these are not questions I 
 can discuss with a child like you. 
 
 F. That's because you're not in Society, you 
 know ; but I've heard my Mamma and my Aunt 
 say 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what your Mamma and 
 your Aunt say. Attend to me. (Questions from 
 tJie book) What is the distance of the sun from 
 the earth ? 
 
 F. (vaguely gazing into space). Let me see, 
 as the blind man said ! 
 
 Miss M. My dear, a blind man couldn't have 
 said that. 
 
 F. Why couldn't he ? 
 
 Miss M. Because it is nonsense. 
 
 F. Oh! but lots of people talk nonsense. 
 My Papa often tells my Mamma not to talk 
 nonsense. 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what your Papa says to 
 your Mamma, but attend to me. (Questions 
 from the book.) Which of our English kings 
 lost his head ? 
 
A Backward Child. It 
 
 F. Oh ! lots of 'em ! 
 
 Miss M. Only one, my dear, only one. Which 
 was he ? 
 
 F. Oh ! you're not up to much ! My Papa 
 says most kings lose their heads in a great 
 crisis. My Papa's a Radical, and I'm a Radical 
 too. Are you ? 
 
 Miss M. When I ask you a serious historical 
 question, I don't expect you to treat it as a joke. 
 Do you hear ? Not one of my questions have 
 you answered. You are, without exception, the 
 most backward child I have ever had the mis- 
 fortune to teach. 
 
 F. And you're more behind the times than 
 most people. Where's the difference ? 
 
 Miss M. Don't argue. Now, let me see if 
 you can count. What does twice three make ? 
 
 F. (pertly). Why, six of course. What else 
 should it make ? 
 
 Miss M. Don't take me up like that. 
 
 F. Then don't you put me down like 
 that 
 
 Miss M. Let me tell you, Florence, that 
 repartee is highly unbecoming in a little girl. 
 Now, about your grammar. I suppose you've 
 been grounded in grammar ? 
 
 F. Oh ! you don't mean grounded ; you mean 
 floored. I've been floored in grammar heaps 
 and heaps of times ! 
 
 Miss M. I mean grounded. 
 
 F. No you don't. 
 
 Miss M. Yes I do, I tell you. Don't answer 
 
12 A Backward Child. 
 
 me. (Paused) How many parts of speech are 
 there ? (Silence on the part of Florence.} How 
 many parts of speech are there? (Continued 
 silence on the part of Florence} How many 
 parts of speech are there? (Angrily} Why 
 don't you answer ? 
 
 F. You told me not to answer, so I shan't. 
 
 Miss M. I did not mean you were not to 
 answer my questions. 
 
 F. Then why don't you say what you mean ? 
 
 Miss M. The fact is, you can't answer ! You 
 are without exception the most backward child 
 
 (Florence makes a grab at the book out of 
 Miss Millikeris hand} 
 
 Miss M. Give me back that book. 
 
 F. Not if I know it ! 
 
 Miss M. But you don't know it that's just 
 it. Give it me back this minute. 
 
 (Tries to get it back. Florence runs round 
 table. Change places} 
 
 F. I don't believe you could answer the 
 questions yourself. (Questions at random from 
 the book} Now What's the use of a sun-dial ? 
 
 Miss M. Every one knows that, I suppose. 
 If you want to know the time 
 
 F. "Ask the p'liceman. Every member of 
 the force, Has a watch and chain of course, If 
 you want to know the time, Ask the P'liceman." 
 (Strikes an attitude. Horror of Miss M} 
 Haven't you ever heard that, Miss Milliken ? 
 Oh ! you are behind the times ! IVe heard it 
 sung at the play. It's a Breach of Promise 
 
A Backward Child. 13 
 
 Case, I daresay you know what a " Breach of 
 Promise " is, Miss Milliken and she sings it in 
 the witness box, you know ; and there was a 
 little wretch of a lawyer sitting just below, as it 
 might be you, you know, Miss Milliken and 
 every now and then she bashed him on the 
 head. 
 
 Miss M. She what? 
 
 F. Bashed bashed him on the head. 
 
 Miss M. Conjugate the verb to bash. 
 
 F. Don't you know what " to bash " means ? 
 Oh ! you are behind the times ! 
 
 Miss M. Conjugate the verb to bash. 
 
 F. Present tense : I bash. Past tense : I 
 bashed. Future tense : I shall bash. 
 
 (Expressive action with the book over Miss 
 MJs head.) 
 
 Miss M. (apprehensively). That'll do that'll 
 do. Now, stand still and let me hear you 
 repeat some poetry. 
 
 F. (skips to the front}. Oh! I can do lots of 
 that. I'm an awfully clever actress real jam, 
 my Papa says and he knows ! 
 
 Miss M. Stop a minute. Put your hands 
 behind you. (F. reluctantly does so.) Feet 
 together first position. 
 
 F. (sulkily). It's awfully behind the times to 
 recite like that ! 
 
 Miss M. IVe no doubt you think your own 
 way is best, but you must learn to do as you 
 are told. Now, go on and say: "How doth 
 the little busy bee " 
 
14 A Backward Child. 
 
 F. " How doth the little busy bee 
 
 Delight to bark and bite, 
 And gather honey every day 
 To eat it up at night." 
 
 Miss M. Stop! stop! stop! That's not 
 right. 
 
 F. Yes, it is. 
 
 Miss M. No, it is not. 
 
 F. Indeed and indeed, Miss Milliken, I can 
 show it you in the book, "Alice in Wonder- 
 land." 
 
 Miss M. Dr Watts didn't write " Alice in 
 Wonderland," you little goose. 
 
 F. (beginning to cry). Oh, w-well if you 
 d-don't b-believe what I say I shall g-go 
 and t-tell my P-papa ! 
 
 Miss M. (aside). Oh, bless the child ! Now 
 she's going to cry ! This will never do my first 
 morning. (Aloud.} Well, go on, my dear child, 
 and say whatever you like. 
 
 F. May I say "The D-Duck and the It-Kan- 
 garoo " ? 
 
 Miss M. The Duck and the what ? 
 
 F. The Duck and the Kangaroo. 
 
 Miss M. I haven't the least idea who wrote 
 it, but you may, if you like. 
 
 F. Don't you know the Duck and the Kan- 
 garoo ? Oh 1 you are behind the times ! 
 
 Miss M. (severely). Well, go on. Hands 
 behind you (F.puts her hands behind her) 
 feet together first position. 
 
 F. (showing signs of crying again). But I 
 
A Backward Child. 1 5 
 
 can't say " The Duck and the Kangaroo " like 
 that, nobody could, not Toole nor Irving nor 
 the whole boiling of them couldn't ! 
 
 Miss M. Well, say it anyhow you like only 
 say it. 
 
 (Florence recites The Duck and the Kangaroo 
 with occasional hesitation and lapses of 
 memory. If preferred, any other nonsen- 
 sical piece may be substituted?) 
 
 F. " Said the Duck to the Kangaroo, 
 ' Good gracious ! how you hop 1 
 Over the land and water too, 
 As if you never would stop. 
 My life is a bore in this nasty pond, 
 And I long to get out in the world beyond ; 
 Oh ! take me a ride, oh ! do I 
 Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. 
 
 " Said the Kangaroo to the Duck, 
 
 (Pause. Florence at a loss. Then goes on 
 rapidly?) 
 
 ' I see but one objection, 
 Which is, if you'll pardon my being so bold, 
 Your feet are unpleasantly damp and cold, 
 
 And really might give me the rheu- 
 
 Matiz/ said the Kangaroo. 
 
 " Said the Duck : ' As I sat on the rocks, 
 
 I thought of it all completely, 
 And I've bought four pairs of worsted socks, 
 
 That fit my web feet neatly ; 
 
16 A Backward Child. 
 
 And I'll wrap myself in a cachemire cloak, 
 And every day a cigar I'll smoke, 
 
 And all for the sake of my own dear, true 
 
 Love of a Kangaroo ! ' 
 
 "Said the Kangaroo : ' I'm ready, 
 
 All in the moonlight pale ; 
 But to keep me straight, dear Duck, sit steady, 
 
 And quite at the end of my tail.' 
 So away they went with a hop and a bound 
 And they hopped the whole world three times 
 round, 
 
 And who so happy, oh who, 
 
 As the Duck and the Kangaroo ? " 
 
 (Florence imitates the hopping of a Kangaroo. 
 Horror of Miss M. Tableau?) 
 
 F. (after a pause). Don't you like it ? 
 
 Miss M. Like it? Where, may I ask, did 
 you learn such stuff ? 
 
 F. It's out of the Book of Nonsense. 
 
 Miss M. Just exactly what I should suppose. 
 How dare you stand there and talk nonsense to 
 me? I insist on your apologising this very 
 minute. Say : I am very sorry ; I beg your 
 pardon, my dear Miss Milliken. 
 
 F. I am very sorry ; I beg your pardon 
 
 Miss M. (prompting). My dear 
 
 F. Miss Milliken. How long do you think 
 it would take a kangaroo to hop round the 
 world ? 
 
 Miss M. It couldn't be done so don't ask 
 silly questions. 
 
A Backward Child. 1 7 
 
 F. Why couldn't it be done ? 
 
 Miss M. Could a kangaroo hop over the 
 sea ? No. So there's an end of it. 
 
 F. But / think that when they came to the 
 sea, most likely the duck 
 
 Miss M. Never mind what you think. Sit 
 down and don't speak another word till I tell 
 you. I am going to set you a copy. (Aside.} 
 This child is not only backward she is a per- 
 fect idiot ! 
 
 (Begins to write, bending her head very low like 
 a near-sighted person. F. examines Miss 
 M's hair with interest across the table.} 
 
 Miss M. (looking up suddenly}. What do 
 you want ? 
 
 F. I was only looking at the colour of your 
 hair. 
 
 Miss M. Then I beg you will desist. The 
 colour of my hair is no concern of yours. 
 
 F. But I can't help noticing, you know ; I'm 
 so awfully observant. My Mamma always says 
 I am, and your hair is so funny. 
 
 Miss M. Funny ! funny ! I have had my 
 hair called many things, yes, many things 
 golden tresses raven locks but never, no, 
 never, did I hear it stigmatized as funny ! What 
 do you mean, Miss ? 
 
 F. Well, it's not all one colour, you know. 
 There's little bits of yellow, and little bits of 
 brown, and at the roots it's quite white 
 
 Miss M. And if my hair were all the colours 
 of the rainbow, you ought not to make remarks. 
 
1 8 A Backward Child. 
 
 Remember, there is nothing so impertinent as a 
 personality. 
 
 F. What's a personality fr 
 
 Miss M. A rude remark on another person's 
 appearance. (Resumes her writing.} 
 
 F. Miss Milliken, do you think they make 
 hair-dye of poison ? 
 
 Miss M. (without looking up). Make hares 
 die of poison? Certainly not. It would be 
 very unwholesome. 
 
 F. Ah, well ! my Mamma says they do and 
 it isn't wholesome. It brings on fits, so I'd 
 advise you to be careful. Miss Milliken, how 
 old are you ? 
 
 Miss M. Don't ask impertinent questions. 
 
 F. It was the first question you asked me. 
 / don't care who knows how old I am. I was 
 twelve last birthday. 
 
 Miss M. Then I wonder you are not ashamed 
 to be so ignorant. 
 
 F. Oh ! don't you trouble yourself. I know 
 a thing or two that would make you sit up and 
 sneeze. 
 
 Miss M. Sit up and sneeze! I wish you 
 would sit up, sneezing or no sneezing. Your 
 chest is as flat as a pancake, and your back is a 
 regular hump ! You ought to be turned fore- 
 side behind ! 
 
 F. And if I was made inside out, you oughtn't 
 to make remarks. Remember, there's nothing 
 so impertinent as a personality. 
 
 Miss M. That is nor at all the same thing. 
 
. A Backward Child. 19 
 
 It is very impertinent of you to make personal 
 remarks, but for me it is different I am here to 
 make remarks. 
 
 F. Oh, I daresay. That's just what the little 
 special constable said to the big costermonger 
 " If I kill you, you know, it's nothing, but if you 
 kill me, by Jingo ! it's murder ! " 
 
 Miss M. (rising). Oh, well ! If you are going 
 to take to swearing, there is nothing more to be 
 done. That is the last straw that will break 
 
 F. The camel's back. Good old camel ! 
 
 Miss M. (in a fury). Camel, Miss ! Camel ! 
 I shall go and tell your Papa that you call me 
 a camel, and if he has a spark of gentlemanly 
 feeling, he will see me righted. 
 
 F. And I shall go and tell my Mamma that 
 you call me a hunchback, and if she's got an 
 atom of motherly pride she'll give you the 
 sack. 
 
 {Exeunt, if possible, by different doors. If 
 not, they race for the door ; Florence sets 
 Miss M. on one side and gets out first ^ 
 
 Miss M. (looking back}. I really can not 
 undertake such an exceedingly backward child ! 
 
 F. (the same). I really can't stand an old 
 duffer so awfully behind the times ! 
 
The Amateur Fee for each and every representation of this 
 play is half-a-guinea, payable in advance to Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand, London. No 
 performance may take place unless a -written authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 CHATTERBOXES. 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 VIOLET (in her bonnet). GEORGINA. 
 
 Scene: A Drawing-room. Enter simultaneously 
 from opposite sides y greeting each other. 
 
 Georgina. My dear Violet ! I'm so glad you've 
 come at last. You know, I've asked Mr Fitz- 
 Faust, the Professor of Palmistry, on purpose 
 to meet you 
 
 Violet. So awfully kind of you, dearest 
 Ever since I met him at dinner, and found out 
 he was a real Professor of Palmistry, I've been 
 dying to meet him again 
 
 G. And he has been here such an age, ex- 
 pecting you every moment, and now he has 
 only five minutes 
 
 V. Well, it isn't my fault, I assure you. If our 
 idiot of a footman hadn't made a mistake about 
 ordering the carriage, I should have been here 
 an hour ago. And he came to us with a first- 
 rate character, you know, and the man is a 
 perfect fool, my dear ! a perfect, absolute fool ! 
 Now, I'll just give you an instance 
 
 G. You can tell me about the footman 
 another time ; but if you really want to have 
 any talk with Professor Fitz-Faust about your 
 hand, you had better come at once. He has to 
 give a lecture in the country, and he has literally 
 only five minutes more he can call his own 
 
Chatterboxes. 
 
 F. Five ! Why, he's a rich man, my dear. 
 I've not had five minutes I could call my own 
 the whole day ! Not three ! Two hours with 
 my dressmaker to begin with, and you know 
 what that is ! Then a list of shopping commis- 
 sions from my sister-in-law in the country, a 
 yard long, dear, positively, I assure you ; and 
 not a single thing she couldn't have ordered 
 just as well by post. Oh ! I do think sisters-in- 
 law in the country are enough to drive one 
 crazy ! Don't you think they are ? 
 
 G. I haven't got a sister-in-law, you know, 
 either in the country or in the town. But 
 
 V. Oh, no ! of course you haven't. How stupid 
 of me to forget. But if you had a sister-in-law, 
 what should you do about attending to her silly 
 commissions ? Where would you draw the line ? 
 
 G. I shouldn't draw the line anywhere. I 
 should put my foot down at once. But, Violet, 
 if you don't draw the line in your conversation, 
 the line will draw Mr Fitz-Faust excuse my 
 bad joke but he has to catch a train 
 
 V. I draw the line ! My dear child, / don't 
 want to stop here all day talking. Ever since 
 I met Mr Fitz-Faust, and found out he was a 
 real Professor of Palmistry, I've been dying to 
 meet him again. I told you about my meeting 
 him, didn't I ? No ? Oh, well it was the night 
 I dined with the Finches 
 
 G. What, the Finches of Durham the rich 
 people the Gold-Finches, as they're called ? 
 
 V. Oh, no ! no ! Not those horrid people. 
 
22 Chatterboxes. 
 
 Good gracious, no ! We don't speak, ever since 
 they behaved so atrociously to my brother 
 Harry this time last year. Don't you remem- 
 ber ? Surely I must have told you the story ? 
 
 G. Oh, yes, of course, of course. I remember 
 perfectly ; how stupid of me 
 
 V. No, these people are Devonshire Finches, 
 Bull-Finch or Finch- Bull, I never can remember 
 which it is, a man with a beak, don't you know, 
 and teeth 
 
 G. And a chronic smile. I know. And 
 isn't there some odd story about his wife 
 having pawned her jewels 
 
 V. Oh ! I never heard that. I have been 
 told some very queer stories about her. You 
 remember the practical joke with the monkey 
 and the mustard plaster, and her bet with the 
 Bishop about dancing in tights but I never 
 heard about her pawning her jewels. Do tell me. 
 
 G. Oh, it's perfectly true, I believe. But it's 
 a long story (pausing), and if you really want 
 to have a talk with Mr Fitz- Faust about your 
 hand, you had better leave off chattering to me. 
 Because, when a man has to catch a train at 
 Waterloo 
 
 V. (crosses over, going towards door). Me 
 chattering 1 My dear Georgie, haven't I been 
 saying ever since I came into the room, that I'm 
 dying to meet Mr Fitz-Faust. (Stopping and 
 returning). As I was telling you, I sat opposite 
 to him at dinner, and I was so perfectly fasti* 
 nated by his appearance, that at last I couldn't 
 
Chatterboxes. 23 
 
 help saying to my next neighbour, " Can you 
 tell me who the mysterious looking man is 
 with the dreamy blue eyes ? " You know what 
 peculiarly beautiful blue eyes he has ? 
 
 G. Ye-e-s. His eyes are blue, certainly; 
 and his hair is red. 
 
 V. Brown. 
 
 G. Red. 
 
 V. Brown. 
 
 G. Red carrots. My dear Violet, you don't 
 suppose I've been entertaining the man for an 
 hour, and don't know the colour of his hair ? 
 
 V. My dear Georgie ! You don't suppose I've 
 sat opposite to him for two hours, and never 
 noticed whether his hair was brown or red ? 
 
 G. Yes, quite likely you never noticed. 
 
 F. Quite likely I never noticed ? 
 
 G. Yes, quite likely. You were evidently so 
 taken up with gazing at his " peculiarly beautiful 
 blue eyes," that you never got so far as his hair. 
 
 V. My dear Georgie ! To hear you talk, one 
 would think you imagined I was in love with 
 Mr Fitz-Faust 
 
 G. Oh, dear, no. I hold you guiltless of that! 
 
 V. Hold me guiltless of that ? What do you 
 mean ? 
 
 G. Why, if you were in love with Mr Fitz- 
 Faust, you'd be in a much greater hurry to hear 
 what he has to say about your hand, instead of 
 dawdling here, talking about nothing at all 
 
 V. (going). Me talking ! when I've been tell- 
 ing you ever since I came into the room that I'm 
 
24 Chatterboxes. 
 
 dying to see Mr Fitz-Faust again. Why on earth 
 didn't you take me to him at once ? And you 
 said yourself he had only five minutes to spare, 
 and that must be five minutes ago, and 
 
 G. (following V.). Well, for goodness gra- 
 cious 1 sake, go along into the next room do. 
 
 V. (at the door). By the way, I wonder 
 whether, after all, this is the Mr Fitz-Faust I 
 met at dinner. (Both come back.) 
 
 G. What makes you think it isn't ? 
 
 V. Because there are two. 
 
 G. This is the Professor. 
 
 V. But there are two Professors. 
 
 G. Well, this man's Christian name begins 
 with an R. Will that help you ? 
 
 V. Not a bit. They both begin with R. 
 One is Rupert and the other Robert Which 
 did your servant announce ? 
 
 G. I can't remember. 
 
 V. Well, try and think. 
 
 G. Mr Rupert Fitz-Faust Mr Robert Fitz- 
 Faust Mr Rupert Mr Robert oh ! I'm sure 
 I don't know which it was ! But which did 
 you meet at dinner ? 
 
 V. Oh, Rupert 
 
 G. Then why not come into the other room 
 and see for yourself if this is Rupert ? You're 
 just like my mother when she gets a letter in 
 a handwriting she doesn't know. She turns it 
 round, and she examines the postmark, and 
 she holds it up to the light, and she wonders 
 whom it can be from ! " Well, open it and 
 
Chatterboxes. 25 
 
 see," I always say ; but no, this never seems to 
 occur to her except as a kind of last resource, 
 when everything else has failed ! 
 
 V. (impatiently taking G. by the arm, and both 
 going). Well, who's talking now ? I do wish 
 you would come into the other room and let 
 me have a chance of showing my hand to Mr 
 Fitz-Faust before the five minutes is quite 
 gone ! (At the door.} By the way, there's just 
 one thing I want to ask you. You don't happen 
 to know if this Mr Fitz-Faust is married, do you? 
 
 G. (remonstrating as they both return}. Now, 
 what has that to do with your hand ? I thought 
 you merely wanted him to inspect it by the 
 light of science. Of course, if you contemplate 
 giving it away for good and all 
 
 V. My dear Georgie ! I should have thought 
 you would have known better than make silly 
 jokes like that. As if it could possibly matter 
 to me if Mr Fitz-Faust is married or not ! 
 
 G. Then why do you ask ? 
 
 V. Simply as a means of finding out which 
 it is. Because one of them is married. 
 
 G. But which ? 
 
 V. Oh ! the other one, of course. 
 
 G. Why of course ? 
 
 V. My Mr Fitz-Faust the one I met at 
 dinner, I mean is not married. 
 
 G. Sure? 
 
 V. Well of course. 
 
 G. But why of course ? 
 
 V. Really, Georgie, you're enough to pro- 
 
26 Chatterboxes. 
 
 voke a saint! The man I met at dinner 
 wasn't married. I know he wasn't. 
 
 G. Well, I hope he wasn't, dear, after the 
 fascination you seem to have found in his 
 " peculiarly beautiful blue eyes." 
 
 F. I know he wasn't ; he couldn't have 
 been. He hadn't any wife with him. 
 
 G. That doesn't necessarily prove anything. 
 But seriously, Violet, does it make any differ- 
 ence in your showing your hand to Mr Fitz- 
 Faust, his being married or not ? 
 
 V. Not the least in the world. Haven't I told 
 you already it was only to find out whether it 
 is the man I met at dinner because 
 
 G. Oh ! you are so exactly like my mother and 
 her letters ! Why on earth don't you open him 
 
 V. Why don't I do what ? 
 
 G. I mean, why don't you go into the next 
 room and settle the question by looking at 
 him ? He'll be going directly. 
 
 V. (going). Well, haven't I told you a 
 hundred and fifty times that I'm dying 
 
 G. (following). Yes, I really wonder you're 
 not dead by this time. 
 
 V. (at the door). Well, it's all your fault. 
 Every time I'm going you begin to talk. 
 Don't you see (returning} my only reason for 
 finding out which it is, is that, if it isn't the 
 professor of palmistry, it's his brother. 
 
 G. He's a professor of palmistry too. 
 
 V. No ; that's just what he isn't. He is a 
 professor of phrenology. 
 
Chatterboxes. 27 
 
 G. Well, it's all the same thing. 
 
 V. All the same thing ? My dear Georgie, 
 do you know what phrenology is ? 
 
 G. Perfectly. This sort of thing. (Passes her 
 hand over her head.} 
 
 V. Exactly. And do you suppose I'd ever 
 consent to place my head in any man's hands ? 
 
 G. Oh ! Why not a phrenologist as well 
 as a hairdresser ? 
 
 V. Well, a hairdresser is bad enough always 
 trying to make out one is gray as a badger 
 and as bald as a crow. But a phrenologist is 
 a hundred thousand times worse. His sole 
 object is to discover that one's head is a mass of 
 abnormal excrescences all lumps and bumps 
 and humps. Oh ! it's disgusting, dear posi- 
 tively disgusting ! And when all is said and 
 done, he doesn't pretend to tell more than 
 one's character. Now, I don't care a fig for 
 my character. 
 
 G. I'm sorry to hear that. 
 
 V. Fate ! fate ! Let me know my fate ! 
 
 G. Well, Fate will be off to Waterloo in 
 another minute. 
 
 V. Then it is the man of hands and not 
 the man of heads. 
 
 G. (pushing V. before her towards the door). 
 Haven't I been telling you so all along. Do 
 go, for goodness' sake ! (At the door). By the 
 way, I wish you had heard what he said to 
 Lady Mary. 
 
 V. Oh ! did he tell Lady Mary her fortune ? 
 
28 Chatterboxes. 
 
 (Both returning?) How delightful ! Do tell me. 
 Was it anything very extraordinary? 
 
 G. Well, first of all, he told her about that 
 affair with the Japanese, which was very odd, 
 you know, because I don't see how he could 
 have known anything about that. 
 
 V. Very odd. I don't see how he could. 
 Had you heard it before ? 
 
 G. Oh, yes. 
 
 V. You had ? I thought no one knew it but 
 me. Who told you ? 
 
 G. Oh, a dozen people at the time. It made 
 rather a talk, you know. 
 
 V. What else did he tell her ? 
 
 G. He told her that she had more heart than 
 head 
 
 V. That might easily be. 
 
 G. That she would be left three fortunes 
 
 V. How awfully jolly ! 
 
 G. That she would spend the first, lose the 
 second, and the third oh, the third would 
 prove her curse. 
 
 V. Prove her curse ? How ? 
 
 G. He didn't say how. 
 
 V. Oh ! He ought to have said how. 
 
 G. Further, he told her that she would be in 
 a bad balloon accident, and finally would marry 
 a chemist. 
 
 V. A chemist ? Why a chemist ? 
 
 G. Well, why not ? 
 
 V. Perhaps he meant a scientific man of some 
 sort a professor of chemistry. 
 
Chatterboxes. 29 
 
 G. He said a chemist 
 
 F. (looking at her own hand). I wonder what 
 it is in one's hand that shows one will marry a 
 chemist. 
 
 G. If you're so anxious to know, why on 
 earth don't you go and ask him? (Looking 
 through the door.) Ah ! too late ! There he 
 goes, tearing down the stair like a lunatic. 
 
 V. Gone! 
 
 G. Bang there goes the front door. Gone ! 
 He has given you a liberal five minutes, and if 
 he catches his train at Waterloo 
 
 V. Well, it's all your fault 
 
 G. All my fault ? 
 
 F. Yes, all your fault, contradicting every 
 single thing I said, and splitting straws about 
 trifles. 
 
 G. You've no one but yourself to blame, 
 chatter, chatter, chatter, like a hundred and fifty 
 thousand magpies. 
 
 V. Enough to make a saint swear ! 
 G. Enough to drive any one out of one's 
 senses ! 
 
 F. I suppose you had your own reasons for 
 wishing to keep us apart ? 
 
 G. I suppose you had something better to 
 do that made you so late ? 
 
 F. Your manoeuvres are entirely futile, I 
 assure you. 
 
 G. The loss is nobody's but your own. 
 
 F. Loss ? What do you mean by loss ? 
 
 G. Loss of Mr Fitz- Faust 
 
30 Chatterboxes. 
 
 \ Pooh ! Mr Fitz- Faust may go to 
 Waterloo, for all I care. 
 
 G. Well, he's gone there so that's all right. 
 Only you won't get your fate foretold now. 
 
 V. No I'm so glad ! 
 
 G. Glad? 
 
 V. Yes, glad. If he's got nothing better to 
 tell me than that I shall be thrown out of a 
 balloon and marry a chemist, I don't know 
 that I care so much ! 
 
 G. Oh ! who knows. You may be destined 
 to marry a duke or an ambassador. 
 
 V. Well, do you know, Georgie, it's a very 
 curious thing, but I have been told more than 
 once that I should marry an attach^. 
 
 G. Ah, well ! an attach^ in the hand, you 
 know 
 
 V. Is worth two ambassadors in the bush. 
 
 G. Exactly ! Now shall I tell you what 
 Mr Fitz- Faust foretold for me ? 
 
 V. Oh, do, there's a dear ! Do you know 
 I've always thought there must be 
 
 G. Hush ! on one condition 
 
 V. Yes 
 
 G. That you'll come into the next room and 
 have some tea. 
 
 V. Delighted, my dear ! Ever since I came in- 
 to the room I've been dying to have some tea 
 
 G. (both going). Come along, then. (To 
 audience?) The only way to stop a chatterbox 
 is to give her something to put in her mouth. 
 
 (Exeunt.} 
 
The Amateur Fee for each and every representation of this 
 play is hilf- a- guinea, payable in advance to Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand, London. No 
 performance may take place unless a written authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 SHATTERED NERVES. 
 
 A DUOLOGUE. 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 MRS PIERCEY-SHARP, M.D. LADY FLORA. 
 
 Scene : Mrs Piercey- Sharp's consulting-room. 
 
 Mrs Piercey- Sharp alone. (L ooks at her ivatch. ) 
 A quarter to three. I think I have kept Lady 
 Flora waiting long enough to give her an idea 
 of the extent of my medical practice. To judge 
 by her letter she is an ordinary specimen of the 
 modern malade imaginaire. (Reads.) " Dear 
 Madam, I am suffering from sleeplessness, low 
 spirits, and extreme weakness; in fact, my nerves 
 are completely shattered. I have tried every- 
 thing and everybody, but nothing and nobody, 
 not even Dr MacMuff himself, has done me any 
 lasting good." I never heard of MacMuff doing 
 anybody good yet. (Reads.) " So, having 
 heard of you as a nervous specialist, I am 
 anxious to try you." That's the worst of my 
 patients they do try me ! Oh, dear ! I'm sick 
 of being consulted by these worrying women. 
 I think I shall make a new departure and 
 advertise myself, " Mrs Piercey-Sharp, consult- 
 ing specialist for nervous young men." Oh ! 
 there are plenty of them about too. Fin de 
 
32 Shattered Nerves. 
 
 stick young men. I don't know how Mr 
 Piercey-Sharp might like it, but as he does 
 not practise (except on the banjo, and he's 
 very much out of practice even on that), I 
 don't see how he could expect to be called in 
 for a consultation. (Looks at her watch.) Ten 
 minutes to three. Yes, I can see her now. 
 (Rings.} After a pause, enter 
 
 Lady Flora. (Mrs P.-S. assumes professional 
 manner). So sorry not to have been able to see 
 you sooner, but the fact is my last patient has 
 only this moment left me. 
 
 Lady Flora (in a very weak voice). Yes, I've 
 been waiting ever since two o'clock, and it's so 
 bad for my nerves to be kept waiting. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Ah ! I see your nerves are 
 shattered. Now if you could describe me your 
 symptoms I should be better able to diagnose 
 the case. (Aside.} Always use a long word to 
 a nervous woman : it gives her confidence. 
 (Places a chair for Lady F., who turns its back 
 to the light.) Facing the light, if you please. 
 ( Turns chair round.) 
 
 Lady F. (as before). But I never face the 
 light. It's so bad for my nerves to face the 
 light. (Submits all the same, and sits.) And now 
 I'll try and tell you something of what I feel. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. I beg your pardon, but could 
 you raise your voice a little. I can hardly hear 
 what you say. 
 
 Lady F. I don't think I could. It's so bad 
 for my nerves for me to raise my voice. But 
 
Shattered Nerves. 33 
 
 as I was saying, sometimes I feel as if as if I 
 didn't feel anything at all. And sometimes I 
 feel as if I'd got nothing at all in my head no 
 brains whatever, in fact ; and that cant be right 
 And sometimes I feel as if my head were going 
 round and round and round ! ( While describing 
 her case her voice improves.} 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Like a weathercock ; just so. 
 Oh, your nerves are quite shattered. 
 
 Lady F. (quite pleased}. That's just it. And 
 sometimes, particularly at night, I feel as if I 
 were being smothered and it's so bad for my 
 nerves for me to feel smothered. And then I 
 scream, shriek, yell, and then I wake up. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. (aside). Yes, wake up the house- 
 hold, I suppose. (Aloud.) Oh, your nerves 
 are decidedly shattered. 
 
 Lady F. That's just what it is. And some- 
 times I feel oh ! so bad ! as if I couldn't 
 stand anything. If my maid runs a hairpin 
 into me, I throw the brushes at her, simply. 
 I pay her extra so she understands but it's 
 very bad for my nerves for me to have to throw 
 the brushes at her. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Nothing could be worse, except, 
 perhaps, to have the brushes thrown at you. 
 Oh, your nerves are completely shattered. 
 
 Lady F. That's just what it is ! (Aside.) 
 Dear me ! what a comfort it is to have found 
 someone who thoroughly understands me at 
 last. It's so bad for my nerves not to be 
 understood. (Aloud.) Well, and then I take 
 c 
 
34 Shattered Nerves. 
 
 cold very easily, and my whole life is positively 
 spent in avoiding draughts. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Ah ! you must have enough to do. 
 
 Lady F. I have. It's so bad for my nerves 
 to be in a draught, and people are too incon- 
 siderate ! They will put me to sit either 
 between two doors or two windows, or a 
 window and a door, or a door and a fireplace, 
 or two fireplaces, or two fans, and youVe no 
 idea what a draught two fans can create ! 
 And they will not see the necessity for stop- 
 ping up the keyholes. But the amount of 
 air that comes in by the keyhole is sometimes 
 enough to bring on inflammation of the wind- 
 pipe ! (In tier excitement she speaks very loud.} 
 
 Mrs P.-S. (putting her hands to her ears). I beg 
 your pardon, but could you control your voice a 
 little? I am not deaf. (Aside.} Shattered nerves! 
 
 Lady F. {fretfully). But it 's so bad for my 
 nerves for me to control my voice. And so, as I 
 was saying, the only thing for me to do in a 
 draught, is to breathe through the nose, and not 
 speak. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. (aside). Safe, if not sociable ! 
 (Aloud.} My dear Lady Flora, there is no 
 doubt of it, your nerves are completely shat- 
 tered com-pletely. Now I should like to 
 ask you a few questions. (Pauses ; then sud- 
 denly.) What do you drink ? 
 
 Lady F. Linseed tea very weak. You 
 see there 's nothing else I can touch with 
 any safety. Wine well nobody in their 
 
Shattered Nerves. 3 5 
 
 senses drinks wine nowadays. Coffee, cocoa, 
 milk, they're all played out, aren't they? 
 Tea well tea is sheer poison, unless each 
 person has a separate pot. Hot water is 
 too weakening, cold water too bracing. Sir 
 Maximilian Croker ordered me ammoniated 
 quinine at all my meals, and I took it for a 
 year, till I found myself getting deaf, so I 
 went to MacMuff, and he said if I'd taken it 
 another week I should have been dead ! And 
 he told me linseed tea is the only thing for 
 everybody and I hear they've a perfectly 
 excellent recipe for it at the clubs ! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. (making a note). Ah ! MacMuff 
 has taken shares in a linseed tea plantation. 
 Now what time do you go to bed ? 
 
 Lady F. Oh, I've given up going to bed. You 
 see, about two months ago I had a pain in my 
 elbow here, just on the bone. Such a funny pain! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Hum ! funny bone, funny pain. 
 Naturally. Yes ? 
 
 Lady F. Well, I tried everything ; and at 
 last I went to Miss Hartmann you know 
 Japanese gymnastics. And she told me that 
 my elbows were very congested, and that the 
 worst thing for me, with my congested elbows, 
 was to sleep in a bed, and that we should all 
 be much healthier if we slept in hammocks. 
 So I've had one hung from the ceiling of 
 my room ; and she said the higher the better, 
 the getting in and out would be such good 
 exercise 
 
36 Shattered Nerves. 
 
 Mrs JP.-S. (making a note). Miss Hartmann 
 has a brother in the stores who gets a com- 
 mission on every hammock he sells. Now do 
 you take a hot or a cold bath ? 
 
 Lady F. Oh, neither. I gave up bathing ages 
 ago ! It's so bad for my nerves to take a bath. 
 You know Croker never allows any of his patients 
 to do it. He says that no one who takes a bath 
 can possibly be in a good state of health. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. I know he does. And he pre- 
 scribes spirits of wine, doesn't he ? 
 
 Lady F. Eau de Cologne. He orders all his 
 patients to rub themselves from head to foot 
 with Eau de Cologne. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. (making a note.) Hum. Lady 
 Croker's money was made in Eau de Cologne. 
 Now what sort of clothing do you wear. 
 You've not given that up, I see. 
 
 Lady F. Well no. I went to a man in Paris 
 I forget his name and he told me that the 
 less clothing I wore the better ; but I thought 
 on the whole it would be such a shock 
 
 Mrs P.-S. To your friends. I think you were 
 perfectly right. (Makes a note) And now 
 what about your diet ? 
 
 Lady F. Oh ! I've tried everything. I used to 
 be told that little and often was the thing for me; 
 but now I find that much and often suits me best. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Just what I should imagine with 
 shattered nerves like yours. 
 
 Lady F. At eight, when I'm called, buttered 
 toast and two cups of tea linseed tea, you 
 
Shattered Nerves. 37 
 
 know. At nine, when I'm half through my 
 dressing, Brand's essence ; at ten, breakfast 
 
 Mrs P.-S. And what do you understand by 
 breakfast ? 
 
 Lady F. Poached eggs, broiled ham, kidneys, 
 muffin, pickled sardines, marmalade, and that 
 sort of thing. At half-past eleven more Brand's 
 essence ; at half-past twelve a glass of port 
 wine 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Port wine ? I thought you told 
 me you never drank anything but linseed tea ? 
 
 Lady F. Oh, well, it's only on Mondays when 
 I go through the weekly bills. It's so bad for 
 my nerves to go through the weekly bills ! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Nothing could be worse, (aside) 
 except perhaps to go through the Bankruptcy 
 Court. (Aloud.} What time do you have 
 luncheon ? 
 
 Lady F. Two o'clock (dejectedly), and I can not 
 say I have much appetite for my luncheon ! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Ah ! I'm not surprised to hear 
 that. (Makes a note.} 
 
 Lady F. At three I have a cup of coffee 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Coffee? 
 
 Lady F. Oh, well, it's only when I have 
 friends to luncheon. It's so bad for my nerves 
 to have friends ! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Nothing could be worse, (aside} 
 except, perhaps, to have enemies. Yes ? 
 
 Lady F. After that I get on pretty well 
 through the afternoon with a few meat lozenges, 
 till five o'clock tea linseed tea, of course 
 
38 Shattered Nerves. 
 
 when I make a point of eating a good meal of 
 bread and butter and cake, and I generally 
 forte myself to eat some sandwiches, as it is 
 such a long time to go without food till dinner, 
 and it's so bad for my nerves to go without 
 food. Eight o'clock dinner, as a rule. Of 
 course if it is later I have a cup of beef tea 
 while I'm dressing. Arrowroot when I go to 
 bed, and sandwiches by my bedside in case I 
 should wake in the night and feel hungry. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. But tell me now do you ever 
 feel hungry ? 
 
 Lady F. Never in the ordinary sense of the 
 term. You understand I don't eat because I'm 
 hungry. It's so bad for my nerves for me to 
 be hungry. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Ah ! Your nerves are more than 
 shattered ! Now let me see. (Counts on her 
 fingers?) Tea and buttered toast at eight; Brand's 
 essence at nine ; breakfast at ten ; more Brand at 
 half-past eleven; port wine at half-past twelve 
 
 Lady F. Only on Mondays 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Luncheon at two ; coffee at three; 
 meat lozenges at four ; tea with sandwiches at 
 five ; dinner at eight ; arrowroot at bedtime ; 
 sandwiches in the night. Is that all ? 
 
 Lady F. (considering). Yes that's all. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. You're sure that is all? 
 
 Lady F. Yes. Now. do you consider that 
 much ? 
 
 Mrs P.-S. A good deal for one whose 
 nerves are shattered like yours. 
 
Shattered Nerves. 39 
 
 Lady F. I see you understand my case. Now 
 isn't it hard that I, of all people in the world, 
 should be such a martyr to my nerves ? Dear 
 Mrs Piercey-Sharp, if I were careless or impru- 
 dent, like some persons I know, I could under- 
 stand it. But I positively assure you my nerves 
 are never out of my thoughts for a moment. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. You needn't tell me that. 
 
 Lady F. (in a tone of the deepest self-interest). 
 I never accept an invitation, I never engage in 
 any occupation, I never take up a new book, 
 I never form a fresh friendship, without consider- 
 ing the effect it may have on my nerves. I 
 assure you I'm not exaggerating. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. No, no, no; I don't suppose you are. 
 
 Lady F. (as before). I have specifics for every 
 infection, antidotes for every poison. I (in a 
 tone of triumph} I have got a microbe-killer ! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Ah you have. I hope it's pro- 
 perly broken in ? 
 
 Lady F. (nervously). Oh well I believe it 
 is. But is that very important ? 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Of the utmost importance. Don't 
 you see, if your microbe-killer isn't properly 
 broken in, instead of killing the microbe, it 
 might kill you. 
 
 Lady F. Might it really ? 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Oh, it's very well known ! There's 
 nothing so dangerous as an untrained microbe- 
 killer. We don't understand much as yet about 
 their manners and customs but they're not 
 things to play tricks with or make pets of. 
 
40 Shattered Nerves. 
 
 Well I think I quite understand your case 
 (Assumes very professional manner^ You are 
 suffering, Lady Flora, from (Lady F. shows the 
 greatest interest] from an attack of acute self- 
 concentration which has resulted in a very 
 dilapidated state of the nerves. Now, if you 
 will follow the regimen which I shall prescribe, 
 I think we shall see a marked improvement in 
 the course of the next few weeks. In the first 
 place, I must restrict you to three meals a day 
 breakfast, luncheon, and dinner 
 
 Lady F. But I shall feel so hungry and 
 it's so bad for my nerves to feel hungry. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Not at all. It's so bad for your 
 nerves not to feel hungry. Secondly, I should 
 like you to take an iced shower-bath every 
 morning at six 
 
 Lady F. An iced shower-bath ? But I shall 
 be knocked silly. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Not at all ; you're too far gone 
 for that And, most important of all I must 
 insist on your going through my new method 
 
 Lady F. (eagerly). And that is 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Shaking a good sound shaking 
 two or three times a day. Never heard of it ? 
 No, I daresay not. It's quite new. But it's far 
 more efficacious than massage, or gymnastics, 
 or hypnotism for shattered nerves like yours. 
 
 Lady F. (rather beivildered). But but how 
 am I to get it done ? 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Oh, it's very easily done. Your 
 maid, at whom you throw the brushes, might 
 
Shattered Nerves. 4 1 
 
 do it for you ; or your husband, he's bigger and 
 stronger most likely; or I'll come and do it 
 myself, if you like. 
 
 Lady F. Oh thanks ; but I'll see if I can 
 get it done at home first, if you will write full 
 instructions. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Oh yes, I'll write full instructions. 
 Finally, avoid specifics against infection, destroy 
 your antidotes to poison, and have nothing 
 whatever to do with the microbe-killer. 
 
 Lady F. But I shall never feel safe ! and 
 it's so bad for my nerves not to feel safe ! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Not at all ; you'll feel ever so 
 much safer. Give up worrying your nerves 
 and your nerves will give up worrying you. 
 It's the simplest thing in the world. 
 
 Lady F. (annoyed}. I don't believe you do 
 understand my case after all. Perhaps you will 
 be so good as to tell me what you really believe 
 to be the matter with me. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. My dear lady, there is nothing 
 whatever the matter with you. 
 
 Lady F. (rising in anger). Nothing the 
 matter with me ? 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Nothing whatever. (Rises also.} 
 
 Lady F. (as before). Do you call nerves 
 nothing ? 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Not much. 
 
 Lady F. Not much ! I should like to know 
 how you'd like to have such nerves as mine ! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Oh, I wouldn't have them on 
 any account not if you'd pay me to have them, 
 
4 2 Shattered Nerves. 
 
 I wouldn't ! They are sometimes temper, some- 
 times selfishness, very often a disordered liver, 
 the result of overeating. Oh yes ! I know 
 I'm brutal, but brutality is the only cure for 
 shattered nerves like yours. 
 
 Lady F. I don't know what you mean by 
 brutality; but let me tell you, Mrs Piercey- 
 Sharp, it is a very great impertinence to say 
 what you think, and it is exceedingly bad for 
 my nerves 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Not at all. It's the best thing in 
 the world for your nerves for me to say what I 
 think. 
 
 Lady F. (excited). Don't contradict me ; it's 
 exceedingly bad for my nerves to be contradicted. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Not at all ; it's the best thing in 
 the world for your nerves, to be contradicted. 
 And as my fee for a first consultation is three 
 guineas, I am bound for that to give my patients 
 an honest opinion. (Bows.) 
 
 Lady F. (very excited}. Three guineas ? You 
 expect me to pay you three guineas for telling 
 me I've nothing the matter with me ? Why, do 
 you know that Croker and MacMuff themselves 
 don't take more for telling me I've every com- 
 plaint under the sun ? 
 
 Mrs P.-S. If you were satisfied with Croker 
 and MacMuff, why did you come to me ? 
 
 Lady F. (as before). Why did I come to you ? 
 I really don't know why I did come to you ! 
 Because because I wanted change. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Hum ! Pity you could hardly 
 
Shattered Nerves. 43 
 
 expect a specialist to give change for three 
 guineas ! (Looks at her watch.} Very sorry, 
 Lady Flora, but I have an appointment at half- 
 past three, and I think my carriage is at the door. 
 
 Lady F. (wildly excited). Oh yes ! dismiss my 
 case that's all of a piece with the rest. Now, 
 Croker and MacMuff would sit and listen to me 
 by the hour. Oh ! these women doctors are no 
 good at all ! I shall go back to the men. It's 
 the worst thing in the world for my nerves, not 
 to be listened to. (Going.} Do you still per- 
 sist I have nothing the matter with me ? 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Nothing whatever, if you'd only 
 believe it. 
 
 Lady F. I won't believe it. I don't wish to 
 believe it. There'd be an end of my nerves 
 altogether if I believed it ! 
 
 Mrs P.-S. Yes, there would be an end of 
 your nerves your shattered nerves ! 
 
 Lady F. I know it, and it would be the worst 
 thing in the world for my nerves if there was 
 to be an end of them ! (At the door.} Good 
 morning, Mrs Piercey-Sharp. You won't be 
 surprised if I let the whole of London know 
 what I think of you. 
 
 Mrs P.-S. (following). I shall be greatly in- 
 debted to you Lady Flora. My fortune will be 
 made. (Aside.} I thought the truth would do 
 it ! There's nothing pays like novelty. Now, 
 she may go back to Croker and MacMuff, and I 
 I shall prescribe for " the Nervous Man ! " 
 
 (Exeunt} 
 
The Amateur Fee for each and every representation of this 
 play is hilj-a'guinea, payable in advance to Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand, London. No 
 performance may take place unless a written authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 THE -TRAIN DE LUXE" FROM 
 
 CANNES. 
 
 A DUOLOGUE. 
 
 CHARACTERS / 
 
 MADAME DE ROCHEVILLE (A Widow). 
 CAPTAIN HAMILTON-SCOTT. 
 
 . sleeping-car for two in the " Train de 
 luxe " from the south of France. Two 
 berths one over the other. Time 9 p.m. 
 Madame de Rocheiiille alone. 
 
 Mdme. de R. (looking at her watch). Nine 
 o'clock. Well, I'm tired to death, and I shan't 
 be sorry to go to sleep. In the whole of my 
 life not even when M. de Rocheville was alive 
 have I ever been so worried as in these last 
 few hours. And after the charming time I was 
 having at Monte Carlo too. Why, I've thrown 
 up a hundred and fifty engagements to come 
 back to Cannes to look after Clara; for after 
 all, she is my niece, and I am her aunt and 
 guardian, though it is supremely ridiculous, of 
 course, that I should be, considering I'm not 
 more than than ten years older than she is. 
 And what is the result of my self-sacrifice ? 
 I return to Cannes to be told that Clara has 
 this morning eloped with a Captain Hamilton- 
 
The " Train de Luxe " from Cannes. 45 
 
 Scott, and to find every clique in the place, 
 French, English, American, united for once, and 
 all up in arms not with Clara, not with the 
 man, but with me. What right had I to go off 
 and amuse myself and leave poor little Clara 
 behind ? What could I expect if I left a 
 pretty girl of seventeen to look after herself? 
 Expect! Why, for one thing, I never ex- 
 pected any relation of mine to make a fool 
 of herself. Ever since I left, this Captain 
 Hamilton-Scott seems to have been paying 
 her attention, till her silly little head has 
 been turned. Clara is just one of those 
 romantic girls with money who, sooner or 
 later, must fall a prey to a fortune-hunter ; 
 but as I'm really fond of the child, I'd rather 
 it were later than sooner. So when she wrote 
 to me, " We are perfectly devoted, and he is 
 so good-looking. Will you give your con- 
 sent?" what could I do but wire back, 
 "Certainly not." He's after her money, of 
 course. I never heard of any Captain Hamil- 
 ton-Scott. I knew a Captain Hamilton 
 once. (Sighs and pauses?) For the matter of 
 that, I've known hundreds of Hamiltons and 
 thousands of Scotts ; but a Hamilton-Scott 
 never. There is " adventurer " stamped on 
 every letter of the combination. And I give 
 up everything to rescue Clara from the jaws 
 of this monster. Come straight away by an 
 early train after a ball, arrive in Cannes half 
 dead and entirely bored, to find Clara gone. 
 
46 The " Train de Luxe " from Cannes. 
 
 Such an elopement as the child had planned 
 too ! She goes off by the train this morning 
 she and somebody's governess who is travel- 
 ling the same route and he is to follow to- 
 night by the train de luxe. Hum ! So you're 
 in the train, are you, Captain Hamilton-Scott, 
 and you think you are going to meet Clara 
 on the Paris platform and be married quietly 
 in England whether her aunt likes it or not 
 Don't you flatter yourself. I'm in the train 
 too. Like your conscience, if you've got one, 
 I shall make a coward of you yet. ( Yawns.) 
 Oh, what a bore it all is ! No wonder I'm 
 sleepy. Whatever possessed my brother George 
 to make a guardian of me. Well, if I'm to 
 have all the worry of it, I'll be a guardian 
 with a vengeance. I'll be a tyrant, a mar- 
 plot, a killjoy ; I'll cut off the supplies ; I'll 
 stop her allowance ; I'll intercept their letters ; 
 I'll (yawns) I'll go to bed. (Takes off her 
 jacket?) I was awfully lucky to get a place 
 at all at the last minute. The train is simply 
 crammed. I asked the conductor who had 
 taken the second place, and he said a Ger- 
 man lady, who would not have finished her 
 coffee for another hour. So much the better 
 for me. I can take my choice and make 
 myself comfortable. (Takes off her hat and 
 contemplates the berths?) Shall I remain below 
 or go aloft? Aloft, I think; it's safer. If I 
 stay below, the German will most likely sit 
 upon me, or put her bag on my head, or 
 
The " Train de Luxe" from Cannes. 47 
 
 smother me with her plaid. Of course she'll 
 have a plaid ; all Germans have plaids. (Feels 
 the sheets?) Wringing wet ! They always are. 
 I must go to bed in my Newmarket (puts 
 on Newmarket coaf) and my cap (takes a 
 travelling-cap from her bag : puts it on) and 
 my boots. No. I really can't go to bed in 
 my boots ! ( Unbuttons her boots and puts them 
 in a corner of the compartment?) Now, how 
 am I to get aloft ? (Calls the conductor. Steps 
 brought in. She climbs to the upper berth, and 
 the steps are removed?) Really, this is rather 
 jolly. (Arranges pilloiv under her head?) Rocked 
 by the gentle motion of the train (drowsily) 
 wonder who Captain Hamilton-Scott is ? Of 
 course he's nobody ; but still he must be 
 somebody (more drowsily, eyes shut} funny 
 my first love should have been Captain 
 Hamilton; and Clara's first love should be 
 Captain Hamilton-Scott. Must be some 
 attraction Hamiltons and Claras. (Sleeps.) 
 (Enter Captain Hamilton- Scott, with Glad- 
 stone bag and plaid rug?) 
 
 Capt. H.-S. This is what they call a train de 
 luxe ! The luxury of a badly cooked dinner ; 
 the luxury of wine ordinary very ordinary ! 
 the luxury of a bed five feet two ; ( feels the 
 sheets) sheets wringing wet, that of course ; 
 smoking forbidden, that de rigueur. And I 
 suppose I'm deuced lucky to have got a place 
 at all at the last minute. Train crammed. 
 Asked the conductor who'd taken the second 
 
48 The " Train de Luxe " from Cannes. 
 
 place, and he said, "A little English milord, re- 
 turning to school ; gone to bed an hour ago." 
 Eton boy, I suppose. (Glances at upper berth. 
 Just sees a cap and part of a long coat.} Seems 
 he has gone to bed, taken the best place, and 
 made himself jolly comfortable too, the young 
 rascal ! Hum. If I'd known all I was in for, 
 I'll be hanged if I'd gone through with it in this 
 fashion ; no, not even with the thought of Clara 
 at the end of it ! Clara Clara odd at my age 
 that I should be playing the fool for a girl of 
 seventeen. People think it's her money, of 
 course. But it isn't. It was her name Clara 
 Carew that attracted me at first. I knew 
 another Clara Carew once, and something in 
 this Clara's eyes reminded me of something in 
 the other Clara's eyes. Hum. I wonder what 
 has become of her the other one, I mean. Oh, 
 Lord ! how I was in love with her once ! And 
 she led me the life of a dog, and the conse- 
 quence was I I went to the dogs, of course. 
 ( Yawns} And here I am at eight-and-thirty, 
 playing this fool's game of an elopement with 
 an heiress of seventeen, just because her name 
 is Clara Carew, and she's got the trick of look- 
 ing like my first love. Nobody believes that, of 
 course; her aunt and guardian will believe it 
 least of all. And it doesn't look well, I admit. 
 ( Yawns.) I'm too sleepy to puzzle it out now. 
 (Takes off his boots.) Beastly cold! I shan't 
 sleep, I know be shaken to death down here. 
 Confound that boy. I've half a mind to pull 
 
The " Train de Luxe " from Cannes. 49 
 
 him down. Poor little beggar ! He's sleeping 
 the sleep of the innocent. (Rolls himself in the 
 plaid, over head and all, and stretches himself 
 on the lower berth.} Shan't sleep know I 
 shan't. (Drowsily.} Wonder if Clara Carew is 
 any relation to the other one ? Of course she 
 can't be but still she might be. ( Very droivsily 
 shuts his eyes} Funny my first love should be 
 Clara* an' my last love Clara. Some a'traction 
 for me and Claras. (Sleeps.} 
 
 (Interval, during which the night is supposed 
 to pass while the journey continues. Soft 
 Music. If possible, lower a curtain, and 
 when it is raised again let the light be 
 rather stronger} 
 
 Mdme. de R. (waking}. Dear me ! it's getting 
 quite light ; we shall be in Paris before long. 
 And really I have had quite a comfortable 
 night. (Sits up.) Well, as there isn't too much 
 time to lose, and I don't like being hurried, I 
 may as well put my boots on. Where are 
 my boots ? Oh, I remember they're down 
 below. And that fool of a conductor has taken 
 away the steps. I suppose I must jump. 
 (Prepares to jump, and then recoils} No. I 
 can't jump ; all my hair would come off I 
 mean come down. I wonder if rny companion 
 would hand them up ? (Peers over the side} 
 Fast asleep ! How those Germans do sleep ! 
 And didn't I say she would have a plaid. Well 
 it will be a kindness to wake her. We shall be 
 in Paris before we know where we are. (Leans 
 P 
 
50 The " Train de Luxe" from Cannes. 
 
 over the side.) Don't you think you had better 
 wake up ? We shall be in Paris directly. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. (waking). Be in Paris directly? 
 Why, I've only just got to sleep. It's all very 
 fine for you you managed to get the best 
 place, you little monkey ! 
 
 Mdme. de R. (aside). Little monkey ! Well, 
 it's the first time in my life I've been called a 
 little monkey. What extraordinary peoplethese 
 Germans are ! (Aloud.) I beg your pardon, 
 but would you mind handing me up my boots ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Hand you up your boots? You're 
 a cool hand, anyhow. 
 
 Mdme. de R. (impatiently). Cool feet, if you 
 like ! Do be so good as to hand me up my 
 boots. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Why don't you jump down and 
 get them ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. I'm afraid of spraining my 
 ankle ! 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Muff, eh ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. No not a muff boots boots. 
 (Aside.) She doesn't understand English, I 
 suppose. Oh, what is the German for boots ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Why, you're not half a boy! 
 
 Mdme. de R. Half a boy ! I'm not a bit of a 
 boy. What should make you think I am ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. The conductor says you are a 
 young milord returning to school. 
 
 Mdme. de R. A young milord returning to 
 school ? Either you or the conductor must be 
 I aim Madame de Rocheville. 
 
The " Train de Luxe" from Cannes. 51 
 
 Capt H-S. (aside, horror-stricken). Madame 
 de Rocheville ! The aunt and guardian. Good 
 heavens! and I called her a little monkey! 
 What shall I do ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. The conductor told me that you 
 were a German lady. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. (aside). A German lady. I 
 must keep that up. (Aloud.) Ya ! ya ! 
 (Remains in his berth completely enveloped in his 
 plaid, even over his head^) 
 
 Mdme. de R. And now that you understand 
 I am not a boy, but Mdme. de Rocheville, 
 perhaps you would be so kind as to hand me 
 up my boots. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Das weiss ich nicht (Aside.) 
 My only chance is to keep her up there. 
 
 Mdme. de R. (aside.') Oh, what is the German 
 for boots? (Aloud.} Boots boots it is a 
 very simple thing I am asking. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Das weiss ich nicht. 
 
 Mdme. de R. It is. (Aside.} What is the 
 German for boots ? (Aloud.) What am I to do 
 when I get to Paris if I haven't got my boots on ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Das weiss ich nicht. 
 
 Mdme. de R. (aside.} Well, I can't sit here 
 for ever trying to remember what the German 
 for boots is. I must make a spring. 
 
 (Gathers herself together and jumps doivn. 
 Capt. H.-S. is so surprised that he sits up 
 suddenly, throwing off his plaid. Mdme. 
 de R. screams arid covers her face with 
 her hands.) 
 
52 The " Train de Luxe" from Cannes. 
 
 Mdme. de R. It's a man ! What do you 
 mean by calling yourself a German lady ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. My dear Madam, 7 never said 
 so. Please to recollect it was you who said 
 so 
 
 Mdme. de R. It was that wicked conductor. 
 Perfidious villain ! 
 
 Capt. H.-S. And he said you were a boy! 
 He has played a trick upon us both. It is 
 really most embarrassing ! 
 
 Mdme. de R. (still with her hands over her 
 face). It is more than embarrassing ! Arid I 
 want to put my boots on ! Please to look the 
 other way while I put my boots on. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Oh, certainly. 
 
 (He turns his back. She sits on the edge of 
 the lower berth and begins to put her boots 
 on. Pause?) 
 
 Mdme. de R. I beg your pardon, but have 
 you got such a thing as a button-hook ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. I believe I have. 
 
 Mdme. de R. Would you mind lending it to 
 me ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. I shall be most happy. 
 
 (Opens bag and gets out button-hook. Hands 
 it to tier without turning round.} 
 
 Mdme. de R. Thanks. (Aside.) It's the 
 most embarrassing situation I have ever been 
 placed in ! I, an aunt and a guardian ! If I 
 weren't an aunt and a guardian of course it 
 wouldn't matter. Why was I ever made an 
 aunt and a guardian ? 
 
The " Train de Luxe" from Cannes. 53 
 
 Capt. H.-S. (aside). It's the most deuced 
 awkward thing that has ever happened to me 
 in my life. Madame de Rocheville, too, of all 
 people in the world ! She must be upon our 
 track ! Oh, I wish I hadn't been such a con- 
 founded fool as to consent to an elopement. 
 Elopements are altogether played out out of 
 date altogether. (Aloud.) Oh, Clara ! Clara ! 
 
 Mdme. de R. (turning sharply on him). 
 Don't call me Clara, Sir. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. (turning in surprise and facing 
 her). My dear Madam, I wasn't addressing you ! 
 I shouldn't have presumed I I shouldn't have 
 dared I I haven't the pleasure I I " 
 
 (Breaks off nervously as she looks fixedly at 
 him. A pause, during which each stares 
 at the other. Mutual recognition gradu- 
 ally steals over their features) 
 
 Mdme. de R. (with a fascinating smile). 
 Surely I used to have the pleasure of knowing 
 you ? a few years ago ? Captain Hamilton ? 
 (He bows.} How d'you do? Have you quite 
 forgotten Clara Carew ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Forgotten ! I have never for- 
 gotten. (She holds out her hand, which he takes 
 solemnly. Paused) Why did you frighten me 
 by telling me you were Mdme. de Rocheville ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. I am Madame de Rocheville. 
 Why shouldn't I be? Didn't you know I had 
 married the Marquis de Rocheville ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. (coldly). I knew nothing about 
 you. 
 
54 The " Train de Luxe" from Cannes. 
 
 Mdme. de R. Well, I did ; but he has been 
 dead three years. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. But the Madame de Rocheville I 
 was thinking of is an aunt, and a guardian. 
 
 Mdme. de R. And why shouldn't I be an aunt 
 and a guardian, if I choose ? (Aside.} What 
 does he know about it ? Can it be ? Is it 
 likely, I wonder? (Aloud.} Captain Hamilton, 
 youVe you've not turned into into Hamilton- 
 Scott, have you, by any chance ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Why shouldn't I have turned 
 into Hamilton-Scott, if I choose ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. But have you ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. And if I have what then ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. (impatiently, stamping her foot} 
 But have you ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. I have. I took the name of Scott 
 two years ago on the death of an uncle. (Aside.) 
 The sooner we have it out the better ! 
 
 Mdme. de R. Ah ? I knew you were in the 
 train somewhere, but I never thought Fate 
 would deliver you into my hands like this ! 
 And you can tell me to my face that you have 
 never forgotten me ? You, who are running 
 away with my niece and ward a child of 
 seventeen. Captain Hamilton-Scott, you ought 
 to be ashamed of yourself ! 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Perhaps I am, Madame ; but at 
 least it is not for^0# to tell me so. 
 
 Mdme. de R. Not for me to tell you so ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. No ; not for you to tell me so. 
 You at least might believe that for me there 
 
The " Train de Luxe" from Cannes. 55 
 
 was still some magic in a name and a look. 
 Have you never been told that your niece 
 resembles you ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. I shall never give my consent 
 to your marrying my niece so don't think it. 
 Never ! 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Dog in the manger ! 
 
 Mdme. de R. What do you imply by that ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. I leave the interpretation to your 
 own conscience. 
 
 Mdme. de R. Oh, gracious ! We shall be in 
 Paris in a few minutes, and I've not yet buttoned 
 my boots ! 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Can I be of any assistance to 
 you ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. Oh, thanks ; if you wouldn't mind. 
 (He kneels down and begins to button her boots.) 
 
 Capt. H.-S. (pausing). Ah ! I little thought 
 that I should ever kneel at your feet again ! 
 
 Mdme. de R. How nicely you do use a 
 button-hook ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. (flinging it to the other side of 
 the carnage]. You're just the same as you 
 used to be ! Flippant ! Heartless ! Enough 
 to drive a fellow mad ! 
 
 Mdme. de R. And you're just the same as 
 you used to be just the same touchy, tire- 
 some, exacting. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. I, the same. Why I've been to 
 the dogs since last I saw you ! 
 
 Mdme. de R. Ah, you have ? And back 
 again ? After such a journey you could hardly 
 
56 The " Train de I.uxe" from Cannes. 
 
 expect me to let you marry my poor little niece, 
 could you ? 
 
 Capt. H.-S. Perhaps not ; but it would be no 
 reason would it why you should not let me, 
 let me Clara, do you think I want a copy now 
 I have found the original ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. I don't know. What business 
 had you to be content at all with a copy ? Ah! 
 Here we are in Paris. Thanks so much for the 
 button-hook. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. It was a little thing to place at 
 your disposal mayn't I place something more 
 all I have ? 
 
 Mdme. de R. We'll talk about that when we 
 get to the hotel. Only one thing remember. I 
 shall never give my consent to your marrying 
 my niece. 
 
 Capt. H.-S. That I quite understand and if 
 you will only give your consent to something 
 else I shall never regret this long journey in a 
 detestable " Train de Luxe " I 
 
 [It would be best to play this duologue between fold- 
 ing doors, which could be shut during the pause in the 
 middle and at the close, as the action of the piece does 
 not, as in some of the others, take the actors naturally 
 off the stage. The sleeping-cars would not be so difficult 
 to arrange as might seem on first thoughts. A sofa 
 placed against the wall would make the lower one ; while 
 a little ingenuity on the part of a local carpenter would 
 contrive the upper one. Two uprights with boards across 
 and a mattress would be quite sufficient, so long as it 
 was secure.] 
 
The Amateur Fee for each and every representation of this 
 play is hilj-a-%uinea* payable in advance to Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand. London. No 
 performance may take place unless a 'written authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 I AND MY FATHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 A MONOLOGUE. 
 
 (Alone, pacing the room) 
 
 I knew it must come to this at last ! Jack 
 and I have had a row, and with all the mean- 
 ness of a man he has managed to get the last 
 word by bouncing out of the room and banging 
 the door. And all for what, if you please ? 
 All for just nothing at all. But that's always 
 the way. Everything is always about nothing. 
 Just because what do you think simply 
 because merely because Fve overdrawn my 
 account for the third time in the last twelve- 
 month ! The first time it occurred he paid up 
 like a man and placed a fresh sum to my credit. 
 The next time he grumbled, like a man ; but 
 when I said : Jack dear, do it the second time, 
 he did it the second time. And now that it 
 has occurred again he has been swearing like 
 a man ; oh very like a man ! and when I 
 began : Jack darling do it the third time, he 
 replied he'd be hanged if he would ! It was in 
 vain I argued that I must dress, must give to 
 charities, must have everything I want. He 
 answered that I must cut my coat according to 
 my cloth, and that charity ought to begin at 
 home, and all those ridiculous old platitudes 
 
58 / and my Father -in- Law. 
 
 which people always fall back upon when they're 
 angry. And then he bounced out of the room 
 and his last words were : It's no use my talking. 
 I shall send my father to you and perhaps he'\\ 
 be able to make you listen to reason. (Flings 
 herself into a chair.} Oh ! I'm the most miser- 
 able of women ! I've quarrelled with Jack ; 
 I've not got a sixpence ; and Sir John is coming 
 to make me listen to reason ! I don't want to 
 listen to reason, I don't want to see Sir John ! 
 I can manage Jack all right by myself, but Sir 
 John terrifies me out of my senses. The first 
 time he came to see us after we were married, 
 he asked me if I kept a meat-book ; and he 
 hoped I should always be content with a low 
 rate of interest for my money. I said : Dear 
 Sir John, I will never condescend to anything 
 low, I like all things high high game, high 
 steppers, high rate of interest. I believe he 
 observed after that he was afraid I was flippant, 
 and he trusted Jack wouldn't find out that he 
 had made a very poor bargain. And this is 
 the man who is coming to make me listen to 
 reason ! Hush ! there 's the bell ! (Listens.) 
 Surely he can't be coming already. No ; I 
 don't think it was the front door bell after all. 
 It was only the muffin-man. Now, how shall 
 I take Sir John ; I think I'll try the pathetic, 
 on my knees so (kneels], hands clasped so 
 (clasps her hands). " Yes, I know ! I know ! 
 call me anything you please foolish, idiotic, 
 mad as a hundred hatters I'm all that and 
 
/ and my Father-in-Law. 59 
 
 worse ! I've nothing to say for myself ; I've 
 nothing to plead as an excuse. But consider 
 my youth, consider my inexperience, consider 
 the atmosphere in which I was" brought up ! 
 Why, in my family we were taught to chuck 
 away pounds as if they were farthings ; taught, 
 think of that ! Oh ! instead of gazing at me 
 with that stern countenance, take me and teach 
 me to do better. You could teach me if you 
 would ; and I I would learn, oh so willingly ! " 
 Here I shall break down utterly, so (Collapses 
 on the floor?) And then he will take me 
 by the two hands so (extends Jier hands) 
 and raise me up tenderly so (rises slowly 
 to her feet) and kiss me kindly on both 
 cheeks, so (makes as if she were being 
 kissed} and then he will say : " Bless you 
 my dear child ; " and so the victory will re- 
 main with me. Yes ; only I can't quite fancy 
 Sir John blessing me. Hush ! there's the bell. 
 (Listens?) It is the front door this time. He's 
 really coming. (Stands waiting} No. He 
 doesn't seem to be coming after all. I wonder 
 who it is. (Looks out of the window} Only 
 old Lady Alicia leaving her cards ! Now, 
 how shall I take Sir John ? (Reflects} I think 
 I shall try the indignant, very upright, so 
 (draws herself up} head well back, so (throws 
 her head back}. " Let me tell you, Sir John, 
 once for all, that I am not accustomed to be 
 addressed in such terms as foolish, idiotic, 
 much less as mad as a hundred hatters ; and 
 
60 / and my Father-in- Law. 
 
 I must insist yes, I must insist on your 
 giving me the explanation I have a right to 
 expect. When I no, don't interrupt me, 
 please when I did your son the honour of 
 marrying him, it was on the distinct under- 
 standing that I was to do as I liked. In my 
 family we understand the value of money 
 every bit as well as you, only we understand 
 it in a somewhat different way. But if the 
 manner of my upbringing was to be flung in 
 my teeth as a cause of complaint, you should 
 have had it put in the settlements. As this 
 was not done, neither my husband nor my 
 father-in-law has any right to call my conduct 
 in question, and that there may be no mistake, 
 I take this opportunity of putting my foot 
 down at once." Here I shall stamp my foot. 
 (Stamps.} Sir John's breath will be quite 
 taken away, he will spread out his hands in 
 a deprecating kind of way, so (spreads out 
 her hands) and will murmur hurriedly : " My 
 dear lady, I assure you I meant nothing of 
 the kind." And the victory will remain with 
 me. Yes ; only I can't quite fancy Sir John's 
 breath being taken away. Hush ! there's the 
 bell. This must be him. (Listens.) He's had 
 plenty of time to get Jack's message. (Stands 
 waiting.) No ; he doesn't seem to be coming 
 after all. I suppose it was only the post. 
 Now, how shall I take Sir John ? (Reflects.) 
 I think yes, I know, I'll try the familiar and 
 the pert. Throw myself into a chair, so 
 
/ and my Father-in- Law. 61 
 
 (throws herself into a chair] look at him 
 archly, so (looks over Jier shoulder). " You 
 know you don't mean it, really. You were 
 never hard upon a woman in your life, Sir 
 John. I'm sure you never were. Now look 
 here, it's no use pretending that you're not 
 like the rest of them. You like to see a pretty 
 woman well-dressed. Nonsense ! don't talk to 
 me ; of course you do ! A man of your taste 
 and all. Eh ? Aha ! I've found you out." 
 Here I shall shake my finger at him, so 
 (shakes her finger). " And I'm not a bit afraid 
 of you, you know, not a bit. No ; I never 
 was ; from the very first I always thought 
 you and I would understand each other. And 
 I'm sure we do, don't we, perfectly. Now, 
 give me a kiss and let's make it up. That's 
 right. I'm sure you feel better now, don't 
 you ? " If I had a fan I should tap him with 
 it here. Then Sir John will chuck me under 
 the chin, so (chucks herself under the chin) 
 and call me "a little puss!" And so the 
 victory will remain with me. (Rises.) Yes ; 
 only I can't quite fancy Sir John chucking 
 me under the chin, or calling me "a little 
 puss." Hush ! there's somebody coming up- 
 stairs. It must be him. There can't be any 
 mistake this time. I hear the tramp of feet ! 
 (Stands waiting.) No ; it's only the servant. 
 (Turns as if addressing someone at the door?) 
 What is it? A letter? Give it to me. (A 
 letter is handed in tc her; continues as if still 
 
62 / and my Fat her -in- Law. 
 
 addressing some one at the door.} What? I 
 can't hear what you say. A gentleman wants 
 to know if I will see him? Didn't he give 
 his name? What? He didn't give his name 
 because he said I should understand ? (Aside.) 
 Yes, of course, I understand. Why didn't you 
 say I was not at home ? What ? I hadn't 
 given any orders. Well, say I'm very sorry, 
 but I can't see anyone this afternoon. What ? 
 I wish you would speak a little more distinctly. 
 Very particular ? Yes, I know he's very parti- 
 cular; that's why I don't want to see him. 
 Say I'm very sorry, but I can't see anyone 
 this afternoon. That will do. (To herself 
 again.} I wonder if he'll take offence at such 
 a message. It's rather a dreadful thing to 
 say to one's father-in-law. Falls rather flat, 
 too, after the way in which I meant to receive 
 him. ( Whilst talking she opens her letter.} 
 Hullo ! why, what in the name of fortune is 
 this ? (Reads.) " Dear Madam, We have the 
 honour to inform you that, under the will of 
 the late Mr Puffin, you are become entitled 
 to fifteen thousand pounds, free of legacy duty, 
 which will be paid into your account, so soon 
 as the necessary formalities have been gone 
 through. One of our firm will wait upon you 
 with this letter to take any instructions you 
 may have to make. We remain, Madam, yours 
 obediently, Brown, Jones & Robinson." Dear 
 old Mr Puffin ! I lent him a hymn-book once 
 in church, and he always said he would re- 
 
/ and my Father-in- Law. 63 
 
 member me in his will ; but, of course, I never 
 thought he would. Fifteen thousand pounds! 
 Now, let Sir John come and make me listen 
 to reason ! I shall know how to take him. 
 ( Walks round triumphantly, brandishing tlie 
 letter : stops suddenly?) One of the firm would 
 call. Then it was one of the firm who wanted 
 to see me. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! I hope my 
 message wasn't given correctly. Don't want to 
 see him ; of course I want to see him most 
 particularly. Perhaps he's not gone yet ; I'd 
 better go down myself and see. (Exit in a 
 great hurry?) 
 
The Amateur Fee for each and every representation of this 
 play is hilj-a-%uinea< pay ible in advance fo Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand. London. \o 
 performance may take place unless a ivritten authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 A FIGURE OF SPEECH: 
 
 A DUOLOGUE. 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 
 SOLOMON BOODLE (An elderly bachelor). 
 JANE BOODLE (his sister, also elderly). 
 
 Scene: Any room. Door on one side. Win- 
 dow at back. Fire-place. Solomon 
 Boodle alone \ seated at a writing-table. 
 Reads from a sheet of paper in his hand. 
 
 "A marriage is arranged and will shortly 
 take place between Solomon Boodle, Esq., and 
 Miss Cleopatra B. Scraggs, of New York." 
 Yes, I think that reads very well. Now I will 
 just address the envelope to the editor of the 
 Morning Post, and then I will post it myself 
 before I break the news of my engagement to 
 my sister Jane. I really don't quite know how 
 Jane may take it ; she has been a very good 
 sister to me, and we have put up our horses 
 together for so long that I think yes, I cer- 
 tainly think it would be better to post this 
 before I tell her of my engagement. It will 
 strengthen my position a good deal, and I 
 sometimes feel in the presence of Jane as if my 
 position required strengthening. (Directs and 
 stamps the envelope. Then goes towards the door 
 
A Figiire of Speech. 65 
 
 as if about to leave the room. Enter Jane very 
 briskly almost knocking him down. She has the 
 " Morning Post " in her hand. Solomon retreats 
 nervously, hiding his letter behind his back.} 
 
 Jane. I've no patience ! I really haven't ! 
 
 5. No you never had, Jane. That's a very 
 old story. 
 
 / It's the truth, and though you are as meek 
 as Moses, I think this will ruffle zvzn you. We 
 don't think alike on every subject, I know, 
 Solomon, but we always have agreed that matri- 
 mony is a mistake, haven't we. 
 
 6\ Oh yes, certainly, we always have agreed. 
 
 /. And that the older people grow, the bigger 
 mistake it is. Now just listen to this. (Reads 
 from the "Morning Post."} "A marriage is 
 arranged, and will shortly take place between 
 Sir Henry Greenacre, and Miss Cornelia Slamm, 
 of New York." What do you think of that ? 
 
 5. (aside). It's the counterpart of my own 
 case. (Aloud nervously.) Why, it's Henry 
 Greenacre ! 
 
 J. Well of course it is. Haven't I just read it ? 
 What I ask is, what do you think of that ? 
 
 vS. What do I think of it ? (Blows his nose 
 nervously.} What do / think ; well, really. 
 What do you think, yourself, Jane ? 
 
 /. What do / think ? Why, that there's no 
 fool like an old fool. 
 
 5. Oh ! you would hardly call Henry Green- 
 acre old, would you Jane ? Remember, he and 
 I were boys together. 
 
 s 
 
66 A Figure of Speech. 
 
 J. Well, I'll say there's no fool like an elderly 
 fool, Solomon, if you prefer it. You can hardly 
 deny Sir Henry Greenacre is elderly. Why, 
 he wanted to marry me thirty years ago. 
 
 5. (blowing his nose again nervously). Ah ! 
 yes, yes, to be sure, so he did. I'd forgotten 
 that now, Jane ; upon my word I had. (Tries 
 to edge slowly nearer the door.) 
 
 J. I daresay you have, but I haven't. It was 
 perfectly rational that Henry Greenacre should 
 want to marry me, thirty years ago, perfectly 
 rational from his point of view. But it would be 
 perfectly irrational if he wanted to marry me now. 
 
 5. Perfectly 
 
 /. {turning sharply on him). And it is 
 absolutely unnatural that he should want to 
 marry anyone else ! (Solomon makes no answer, 
 but blows his nose nervously again.) Solomon, 
 you've got a cold. 
 
 5. Thank you, Jane ; no, I think not. 
 
 J. Nonsense, don't talk to me. You've blown 
 your nose three times. Folks don't blow their 
 noses three times in five minutes for nothing. 
 Where are you going ? Not out, surely ? 
 
 5. Well, I was thinking of taking a little 
 turn in the sunshine, Jane 
 
 /. What, with a cold ? I've no patience ! 
 
 5. Just a little turn in the sunshine, Jane ; it 
 will do me good, positively it will. 
 
 /. Sunshine? Fiddlesticks! There's no sun- 
 shine. It's raining. 
 
 S. Is it indeed? I wasn't aware. Still I 
 
A Figure of Speech. 67 
 
 think I won't forego my usual constitutional, 
 Jane ; just as far as the post office and back. 
 (Nearly reaches the door, when Jane interposes?) 
 
 J. What ! go out in the rain with a cold upon 
 you like that ? I've no patience ! If you have 
 any letters to post give them to me. 
 
 5. (trying to slip the letter into his pockef). 
 Thank you, Jane, you're very kind, but it's not 
 worth while for you to go out in the rain. 
 (Aside.) I'll take it myself, later. 
 
 J. Give it to me, Solomon ; give it to me. 
 I've got half-a-dozen things to do out of doors, 
 rain or no rain, and the post-office is all on the 
 way. Give it to me. (She takes the letter from 
 him after a feeble resistance on Jiis part. Looks 
 at the address?) The Editor of the Morning 
 Post. What are you writing to him about ? 
 
 S. (looking out of the window ivith his back 
 toivards her). Oh, nothing, my dear ; nothing. 
 Dear me, Jane, how wonderfully those carna- 
 tions have improved since they have been 
 planted out, haven't they ? 
 
 /. (observing him keenly). What's the matter 
 with you this morning, Solomon ? You're not 
 well. 
 
 5. (irritably?). I beg your pardon, my dear 
 Jane, I am perfectly well. 
 
 /. Perfectly well ? I've no patience ! If you 
 were perfectly well your head wouldn't be in 
 such a muddle. 
 
 S. (as before}. I am not aware that my observa- 
 tion on the carnations betokens a muddled head. 
 
68 A Figure of Speech. 
 
 J. Oh, it's all very well to make the carna- 
 tions into a scape-goat 
 
 S. My dear Jane, if we talk of muddles, can 
 there be any greater muddle than to confuse a 
 carnation with a scapegoat ? Can there ? 
 
 /. Oh, don't ramble on like that. I've no 
 patience! (Tapping the letter severely?) Would 
 you have wasted an envelope, a stamp, too, and 
 have put nothing inside, if your head hadn't 
 been in a muddle ? 
 
 S. Oh well when I said nothing, I meant 
 a figure of speech merely. 
 
 /. Oh ! You've sent a figure of speech to 
 the Morning Post. Well, I'm glad to hear it 
 is only that. I was beginning to think that 
 perhaps your marriage " had been arranged and 
 would shortly take place.' 1 Now, what is it ? 
 
 . (feebly). What is what ? 
 
 /. What's your figure of speech to the Editor 
 of the Morning Post ? 
 
 5. (as before). Would you mind, Jane, taking 
 the letter to the post at once I'll tell you 
 what it's about after but I want to catch 
 the next post. (Sinks into a chair and wipes 
 his head with his handkerchief.} 
 
 J. (eyeing him critically}. Didn't I say your 
 head was in a muddle, Solomon ? The London 
 post doesn't go out till this evening. Tell me 
 what you're sending to the Morning Post. I'm 
 not going to post your letter in the dark. 
 
 S. I don't want you to post my letter in the 
 dark. I want you to post it now. 
 
A Figure of Speech. 69 
 
 /. Solomon, I'd advise you not to give me 
 
 crooked answers 
 
 S. (irritably). And I'd advise you not to 
 ask me cross questions. You're in a very bad 
 temper this morning, Jane. 
 
 /. I've a right to be in a bad temper, after 
 reading that ridiculous announcement about 
 Henry Greenacre and Cornelia Slamm of New 
 York ! (Solomon gets up and pokes tlte fire) 
 And if you weren't feeling ill you'd see it in the 
 same light as I do (sarcastically), unless, perhaps, 
 you're sending a similar announcement to the 
 Morning Post. If you are, Solomon, it's no use 
 
 beating about the bush 
 
 5. (irritably}. I'm not beating about the bush, 
 
 I'm poking the fire 
 
 /. Because in twenty-four hours I shall be 
 reading it for myself: "A marriage is arranged 
 and will shortly take place between Solomon 
 
 Boodle, Esq., and Mary Ann Snooks 
 
 5. (excitedly]. No! Miss Cleopatra B. 
 Scraggs, of New York. Oh Lord ! I've done 
 it now ! (Sinks into arm-chair.) 
 J. You haven't ? 
 
 S. I have. I've let the cat out of the bag ! 
 /. What cat ? 
 
 5. Cleopatra! No! no! That's only a figure 
 of speech. Cleopatra B. Scraggs is not a cat, 
 she is an angel ! 
 
 /. That must be a figure of speech too. An 
 angel would never think of marrying you, 
 Solomon. She would look higher, naturally. 
 
70 A Figure of Speech. 
 
 Now, because you've lost your head there's no 
 reason why I should lose mine. (Sits down 
 facing him.) Do you mean to tell me that you 
 think you are engaged to be married ? 
 
 6". There's no thinking about it. 
 
 J. No; I can hardly believe you can have 
 given it serious thought. To whom do you 
 think you're engaged ? 
 
 5. To whom do I think I am engaged ? To 
 Miss Cleopatra B. Scraggs of New York. I 
 am engaged to her, Jane and she is engaged 
 to me ! 
 
 /. Yes that's more likely. Cleopatra Scraggs! 
 Why, it's worse than Cornelia Slamm ! 
 
 (fretfully). No, I don't think it's worse. 
 There mayn't be much to choose between them, 
 but I don't think it's worse. 
 
 /. A Boodle marry a Scraggs! Come, 
 Solomon, say it's a figure of speech say it's a 
 figure of speech 
 
 5. A figure of speech. (Ecstatically). Ah ! 
 you should see my Cleopatra ! A figure indeed 
 a fine figure of a woman and as for speech 
 such words, Jane, such turns of phrases, such a 
 pronunciation I don't know anything like it 
 in the English language. 
 
 /. I should be sorry for the English language 
 if you did. (Gets up and paces the room) I've 
 no patience ! Solomon, when your god-parents 
 gave you that name, they fondly hoped you 
 would live up to it! If they could only hear 
 you now, twaddling on about a figure of speech! 
 
A Figure of Speech. 71 
 
 Solomon Boodle, you are a can you remember 
 what rhymes with Boodle ? 
 
 S. (considering). Why, yes, to be sure, 
 Jane I have it, Yankee-doodle! Ah! we 
 shall indeed rhyme together our life will be 
 one long poem 
 
 /. One long parody of a poem ! I've no 
 patience ! No, Solomon ; the word I meant 
 that rhymes with Boodle is an English word 
 that begins with an N. Now, will you leave 
 off figures of speech and flowers of rhetoric, 
 and if you are engaged to Cleopatra Scraggs 
 which I don't altogether believe be so good 
 as to tell me one thing. Where did you meet 
 her first ? 
 
 S. On the Pier at Brighton. 
 
 /. On the Pier at Brighton ! Well, I don't 
 see how you can make a poem out of a be- 
 ginning like that. 
 
 5. Yes on the Pier at Brighton, I was 
 walking with by the way it was Henry 
 Green acre 
 
 /. What, Sir Henry Greenacre who is en- 
 gaged to Miss Slamm ? 
 
 5. To be sure there was Greenacre and 
 Lord Tom Noddy and me ; and Greenacre 
 stopped and spoke to a lady and then he 
 turned towards us, and he said, " Miss Scraggs, 
 allow me to introduce my two oldest friends, 
 Lord Thomas Noddy Mr Boodle 
 
 /. And she took you for Lord Tom Noddy, of 
 course. I said I didn't believe you were engaged ! 
 
72 A Figure of Speech. 
 
 S. Jane! why should you insult me by 
 supposing she mistook me for Tom ? 
 
 J. Because she looked for the title, Solomon, 
 and she thought you more likely to adorn it 
 than Lord Thomas. She could get plain 
 Solomon Boodle in New York. 
 
 S. Jane ! why should you humiliate me by 
 calling me plain Solomon Boodle ? 
 
 /. Not you. I say she took Lord Thomas 
 for plain and so he is. Now, since when do 
 you imagine that you have been engaged to 
 Miss Scraggs ? 
 
 S. Well, Jane, if you insist upon knowing, I 
 proposed to her two or three days ago 
 
 /. Yes; but a proposal does not necessarily con- 
 stitute an engagement especially in your case, 
 You've done this sort of thing once or twice 
 before, you know, Solomon. The question is : 
 Has Miss Scraggs accepted your proposal ? 
 
 S. (nervously). She has as good as done so 
 as good as done so. 
 
 /. Now, Solomon, no more figures of speech, 
 if you please ! As good as done generally 
 means as good as not done. Did she say yes ? 
 
 S. No ; she said 
 
 /. bhe said no ? There ! 
 
 5. No, she didn't say no. She said : Mr 
 Boodle, I will think it over, and give you my 
 answer in a few days. 
 
 J. Didn't I say you weren't engaged ? 
 
 5. You don't mean that you think by her not 
 pronouncing a decided " Yes" that J have lost her? 
 
A figure of Speech. 73 
 
 /. " She who hesitates is lost." We have it 
 on the best authority. Cleopatra Scraggs hesi- 
 tated, therefore she is lost ; that's logic, I fancy. 
 And do you mean to tell me that in the face of 
 that answer, " Mr Boodle, I will think it over," 
 you presumed to send this paragraph to the 
 Morning Post about a marriage being arranged 
 and shortly taking place ? 
 
 5. To tell you the truth, dear Jane, not 
 knowing quite how you would take it 
 
 J. You might have known, seeing how I have 
 taken a similar situation at least three times 
 before in your history. 
 
 5. I thought it would strengthen my position 
 with regard to you. 
 
 /. It would have weakened your position 
 with regard to Miss Scraggs. She may or may 
 not intend to accept you, but she won't like it 
 taken for granted. We none of us do. (Aside) 
 I think I shall post the announcement after all. 
 (Moves towards the door.} 
 
 S. Where are you going, Jane ? 
 
 /. To the post office, to be sure. Didn't you 
 say you wanted this letter posted ? 
 
 6\ Not if you think it will weaken my posi- 
 tion with Cleopatra. Not that I believe for one 
 moment that it will. Cleopatra ! Cleopatra ! 
 Ah, Jane, is it not a name full of suggestion ? 
 
 /. Very and so is Solomon ; but put the 
 two together, " I, Solomon, take thee, Cleo- 
 patra," and could anything be more ridiculous ? 
 
 S. And pray, Jane, why ridiculous ? Do you 
 
74 A Figure of Speech. 
 
 imagine that every name is ridiculous that isn't 
 as short as your own ? Cleopatra ! Cleopatra ! 
 The name in itself suggests a dream of beauty ! 
 
 /. (turning on him). And what good will 
 a dream of beauty do you ? Will a dream of 
 beauty mend your socks, have your shirts pro- 
 perly aired, or sew the buttons on your gloves ? 
 Will a dream of beauty see that your egg is 
 boiled three minutes and a half, and your toast 
 brought up fresh and fresh ? Will a dream of 
 beauty put your feet in mustard when you have 
 a cold, or rub your chest with Elliman ? Will a 
 dream of beauty consider your comforts or 
 expect you to consider hers ? Will a dream of 
 beauty sit soberly by the fireside, or take you 
 mooning round the garden when the dew is 
 falling ? I've no patience ! If you want a 
 dream of beauty, go to sleep, Solomon, go to 
 sleep, and wake up more like yourself a wiser 
 man and remember that it is best to suffer 
 " present ills, than fly to those we know not of.' 1 
 
 5. (comes nearer, and tries to take her Jiand). 
 Really, my dear Jane, I never meant to imply 
 that you are "a present ill." I never went so 
 far as that, Jane ; indeed I never did. Who is 
 indulging in figures of speech now ? 
 
 /. Then why should you want to fly to Cleo- 
 patra Scraggs ? You don't suppose that the 
 situation of perpetual gooseberry would quite 
 suit me, do you ? No ; you can't expect me to 
 play second fiddle when I've always 
 
 Bossed the show ! Ah ! you don't know 
 
A Figure of Speech. 75 
 
 that phrase, Jane. But I picked it up from 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 /. A New York figure of speech, I suppose. 
 Well, if that's the sort of thing you have picked 
 up from Miss Scraggs, I think you had better 
 drop it. Ah ! there's the postman. 
 
 S. The postman ! That means a letter for 
 me Cleopatra's answer, of course. Oh, Jane ! 
 I feel so nervous. (Goes towards the door, but 
 Jane interposes^) 
 
 J. No, Solomon, you won't go out into the pas- 
 sage with a cold. I'll fetch the letters. (Places 
 Jier back against the door.) But first, in case you 
 find yourself more engaged than at present you 
 seem to be, what do you expect me to do ? 
 
 S. Wouldn't it be time enough to talk that 
 over when we see what sort of an answer it is ? 
 I feel so nervous, Jane. 
 
 y. Time enough for you, Solomon, but not for 
 me. Before I fetch that letter, be so good as to 
 tell me what position you expect me to take up. 
 
 . For the present, Jane, I should be obliged 
 if you would take up your usual position in 
 the chair there by the fireplace. I feel so 
 nervous, and you make me more so by your 
 unexpected questions. 
 
 /. That's all very fine ; but what am I to 
 do if your Dream of Beauty claims my chair ? 
 
 5. (feebly). Oh, do whatever you like, 
 Jane ! I feel so nervous. 
 
 /. Whatever I like ! If I were to do what I 
 like, do you know what it would be ? 
 
76 A Figure of Speech. 
 
 S. Oh, don't ask me riddles at such a 
 moment ! It is inhuman ! Let me know the 
 worst, Jane, let me know the worst (Makes 
 again for the door. Jane interposes} 
 
 J. If I were to do what I liked, I should give 
 Cleopatra Scraggs the sack and get you out of it. 
 
 S. (helplessly). I'm not in any sack, Jane. 
 I'm not, indeed. Oh, Jane ! dear Jane, this is 
 no moment for figures of speech ! Let me 
 know the worst. 
 
 J. And if the worst comes to the worst, 
 you're sure you wouldn't like me to get you 
 out of it? (Solomon trembles all over with 
 nervousness.} It wouldn't be the first time, 
 you know, Solomon. (Pauses.} When you 
 thought you were engaged to your cousin 
 Sophia, I got you out of it remember ? And 
 when you thought you were engaged to Mrs 
 Mayne-Chance, the golden-haired widow, I got 
 you out of that remember ? And when you 
 thought you were engaged tc Juliette de Vere, 
 the actress, I got you out of that too remember? 
 
 5. Yes, I remember penectly. You have 
 been a very good sister to me, Jane, a very 
 good sister. (Comes nearer.} And do you 
 know, Jane, it has always been a mystery to 
 me how you did it. 
 
 J. (laughing). Would you like to know 
 how I did the trick, Solomon ? I don't mind 
 telling you now. You see I had to guard 
 against letting you in for breach of promise, 
 or anything of that sort. 
 
A Figure of Speech. 77 
 
 5. Yes, that was the cleverness of it. 
 
 /. Exactly. That was the cleverness of it. 
 Well, in the case of your cousin Sophia, I put 
 it about that you had only two hundred a year, 
 and couldn't settle that. Naturally, Sophia's 
 mother made her break it off. 
 
 5. My dear Jane, how could you ? 
 
 /. That was the cleverness of it. In the 
 case of Mrs Mayne-Chance, I told her that 
 you drank, and as she had already had one 
 husband who drank, she naturally didn't wish 
 to have another. 
 
 5. My dear Jane, how could you dare ? 
 
 J. That was the cleverness of it. And in the 
 case of Juliette de Vere, the actress, well, I 
 simply introduced her to a handsomer man 
 than you. 
 
 5. My dear Jane, how could you presume ? 
 
 /. Oh ! that was the cleverness of it. (Opens 
 the door?) 
 
 S. Where are you going ? 
 
 J. To get the letters. (Pauses?) You're sure 
 you wouldn't like me to get you out of it ? 
 
 6". (indignantly}. Jane, how can you ! 
 (Calling her back?) Jane ! Jane ! 
 
 /. Well. 
 
 S. (confidentially}. My dear Jane, if if I 
 only say if if Miss Scraggs' answer should not 
 be everything we could wish, do you think you 
 have quite exhausted the list of your subterfuges? 
 
 J. No ; I don't suppose so. (Considers?) For 
 instance, I might give out that you were a 
 
78 A Figure of Speech. 
 
 lunatic, or a gambler. There's not much 
 difference to my mind. 
 
 S. Thank you, Jane ; thank you. Suppose 
 we read Miss Scraggs' answer first. (Exit Jane. 
 Returns immediately with a letter?) 
 
 J. There is only one letter for you. (Hands 
 it to him.} 
 
 S. Only one in the world for me. You say 
 truly, Jane. (Looks at the address?) Why, this 
 isn't from Cleopatra. 
 
 J. I see it isn't. It's Sir Henry Greenacre's 
 handwriting. 
 
 S. To tell of his stupid engagement, I sup- 
 pose. Who cares to hear about that ! (Sits 
 down miserably in a chair, and tosses the letter to 
 Jane?) You can read it, if you like. It interests 
 you more than me. 
 
 /. Interests me ! I've no patience. (Opens 
 the letter and reads?) "My dear old friends." 
 It's for us both, you see. " I wish to be the 
 first to inform you of my newly-found happi- 
 ness." Rather late in the day. " My newly 
 found happiness, and all the more so as I see 
 that the papers, with their usual orficiousness, 
 have already announced the fact of my ap- 
 proaching marriage, and not only so, but with 
 their usual inaccuracy have made an egregious 
 blunder of the lady's name. I am engaged to 
 be married not as the papers have it, to Miss 
 Cornelia Slamm of New York, but to Miss 
 Cleopatra Scraggs. 
 
 S. (bounding out of his chair). What ? 
 
A Figure of Speech. 79 
 
 /. Miss Cleopatra Scraggs. 
 
 5. Let me see. (Snatches the letter out of 
 Jane's hand.) " Engaged to be married, not as 
 the papers have it, to Miss Cornelia Slamm of 
 New York, but to Miss Cleopatra Scraggs." 
 (Drops back into his chair.) Then her answer to 
 me the other day : Mr Boodle, I will think it 
 over, was 
 
 /. A figure of speech, I should say, Solo- 
 mon. Decidedly a figure of speech. Well, as 
 I said before, there's no fool like an old fool 
 but better him than you. Didn't I tell you 
 you weren't engaged ? 
 
 5. You did, Jane, you did. 
 
 /. Didn't I tell you she wanted a title ? 
 
 5. You did indeed, Jane, you did indeed ! 
 And you were right, as you always are. (Shakes 
 his head.) My dream of beauty is dissipated ! 
 
 y. Well, that will be for Henry Greenacre to 
 find out. We mustn't judge too harshly. As 
 for you and me, Solomon (draws his arm 
 through hers\ we always have agreed that 
 matrimony is a mistake haven't we ? 
 
 5. (with conviction). Not only have, but 
 always will, Jane. 
 
 J. (laugliing, and holding up the letter to the 
 "Morning Post"\ And this announcement 
 about your marriage arranged, that will shortly 
 take place. 
 
 5. (gaily). A figure of speech, Jane, a 
 figure of speech nothing more. 
 
 (Curtain, or exit arm in arm.) 
 
Fhe Amateur Fee for each and every representation oj this 
 play is hilj- a- guinea, pay ible in advance 1o Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand. London. No 
 performance may take place unless a -written authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 MY MISSING SPECTACLES, 
 
 A MONOLOGUE. 
 
 (Enter Aunt Maria, looking for her spectacles. 
 
 They are all the while pushed up on to her 
 
 forehead, a fact of wJiicli she is not aivare.) 
 
 Aunt Maria. I can't think what has become 
 of my spectacles. They are not in my pocket, 
 they are not in my work-basket, and I can't find 
 them upstairs. I strongly suspect that naughty 
 boy George has been playing me a practical 
 joke, and hidden them away somewhere in here. 
 I let him have this room to himself, and I don't 
 very often come in here. Oh dear ! oh dear ! 
 what it is to have a nephew spending his holi- 
 days with one ! Nobody knows till they have 
 tried. It was all very well when he was six 
 he was younger then, so was I. But now that 
 he is sixteen why, he has actually had visiting 
 cards printed he would smoke if I'd let him, 
 monkey! and I've good reason to suspect that 
 he has started a serious flirtation. Humph! 
 There are some things I can see without my 
 spectacles, Master George. All the same, I'd 
 give anything to find them again. I wonder 
 where they are. I'm sure he has hidden them 
 somewhere. (SearcJies along the chimney-piece.) 
 Ah ! here they are. No, they're not. What 
 
My Missing Spectacles. 8 1 
 
 have I got hold of, I wonder ? ( Takes up a pipe 
 and holds it to the light.) Why, I do believe it's 
 a pipe a nasty, disgusting pipe! (Turns it 
 round.} Yes, it is ; it's a pipe ! I can see that 
 without my spectacles. No, Master George, I 
 shan't let you smoke pipes so long as you 
 spend your holidays with me. I shall confiscate 
 the pipe. (Puts the pipe in her pocket?) Now, 
 where in the world can those spectacles be ? 
 I'm certain he has hidden them somewhere. 
 He thinks I keep too sharp an eye upon him. 
 (Continues to search along the chimney -piece.} 
 Well, they don't seem to be here, anyhow. 
 Very odd. Whose photograph is this, I wonder ? 
 It is a photograph ; I can see that without my 
 spectacles. (Takes up the photograph, and holds 
 it in various positions till she gets a good light on 
 it} Oh ! oh ! oh ! if it isn't an actress a be- 
 dizened actress ! Tights, too. Oh, yes, I can 
 see that without my spectacles. No, Master 
 George, I shan't allow you to have actresses' 
 photographs so long as you spend your holidays 
 with me. I shall confiscate the actress. (Puts 
 the pJiotograph in her pocket?) Now, where in 
 the world can those spectacles be ? I am 
 positive he has hidden them somewhere. If I 
 wasn't before, I am now. Actresses indeed! 
 (Searches the sofa. Discovers the " Pink 
 'un " behind the cushions} Newspapers ! 
 Now, how often have I told George that I 
 will not have newspapers hidden away behind 
 the sofa-cushions. It is just what his father 
 F 
 
82 My Missing Spectacles. 
 
 used to do. Most curious how family traits 
 come out. What do they want to hide them 
 away for ? ( Thumps the cushions and re-arranges 
 them. Holds up the paper.) The Sporting Times. 
 A nice sort of paper to be lying about in my 
 house. Such a colour, too a pink one ! Sport- 
 ing Times indeed ! Oh yes, I can see that with- 
 out my spectacles. It's printed large enough 
 for the blind. No, Master George, I shan't 
 allow you to read The Sporting Times so long 
 as you spend your holidays with me. I shall 
 confiscate The Sporting Times. (Puts the paper 
 in her pocket.) Now where in the world can 
 those spectacles be ? I'm convinced he has 
 hidden them somewhere. He thinks I can't 
 see without my spectacles, but can't I ? (Con- 
 tinues her search. Comes upon a bottle of soda- 
 water and a brandy.-flask. Starts back in horror 
 and points melodramatically^) There what do 
 I see? Bottles! Bottles! Oh! I can see 
 them without my spectacles! (Takes up the 
 soda-water bottle?) Soda-water, well, that won't 
 do him much harm. It's lowering, but his 
 vitality will be all the better for being lowered. 
 (Takes up the brandy-flask^) Brandy ! That is 
 poison ! (Smells it.) Oh yes, there is no doubt 
 about it; this is brandy. I can smell that with- 
 out my spectacles. No, Master George, I shan't 
 allow you to drink brandy so long as you spend 
 your holidays with me. I shall confiscate the 
 brandy (puts the brandy -flask in her pocket) 
 and you may finish the soda- water if you like. 
 
My Missing- Spectacles. 83 
 
 Now where in the world can those tiresome 
 spectacles be ? The longer I search the more 
 positive I am that George has hidden them 
 somewhere. (Searches the writing- table. Sits 
 and looks carefully through the blotting-book.) 
 Not here, not here. Hum. A bill. Cannot 
 see what it is for (Holds up the bill and vainly 
 tries to make out] but it has got no receipt- 
 stamp on it, so it's not paid. I can see that 
 much without my spectacles. I shall confiscate 
 it, and send it by the next mail to George's 
 father in India. (Turns over another leaf.) 
 Another bill cannot see what this is for, but 
 this has got no stamp either, so that's not paid. 
 I shall send them both by the next mail to 
 George's father in India. (Puts both bills in her 
 focket.) Oh, bother those spectacles ! where 
 can they be ? Aha ! a letter a half-finished 
 letter in George's handwriting. I can see that 
 much without my spectacles. 
 
 Now, am I justified in perusing George's cor- 
 respondence ? Yes, on the whole, I think I am ; 
 seeing that George is spending his holidays with 
 me, that he is only sixteen, and that he has 
 horribly precocious tastes for pipes, brandy, 
 pink papers, and ladies in tights, I think I 
 cannot be too careful in exercising a wise 
 supervision over the acquaintances he makes 
 and the individuals to whom he pens epistles. 
 (Takes the letter and holds it at every possible 
 angle, vainly trying to read zV.) Only, how am 
 \ to peruse it without my spectacles? (Tries 
 
84 My Missing Spectacles. 
 
 again, with the same result?) Oh, that cowardly 
 boy! That is why he has hidden my spec- 
 tacles that I might not be able to peruse his 
 letter. But I'll be even with him yet. I will 
 peruse it. (Tries again.) There is a big M I 
 can make that out, and a very big D, and a curl 
 that looks like the tail of a g. Beginning with 
 D and ending with g what can that be, I 
 wonder? I have it. It is "My darling" I'm 
 sure it is I'm certain it is I'm positive it is! 
 But My Darling who? Oh, if I could only 
 find my spectacles ! If I could only find my 
 spectacles f I will find them. (Dashes wildly 
 round the room, displacing everything.} No, 
 they are not anywhere here. They must be 
 in my pocket, after all. (Turns everything out 
 of her pocket, pipe, photograph, brandy flask, news- 
 paper, bills ; turns the pocket inside out.} Not 
 even there ! Foiled, outwitted, baffled by a 
 boy ! (Drops into a chair and clasps her fore- 
 head with her hands. Suddenly feels her spec- 
 tacles. Snatches them off. Holds them at arms' 
 length and stares at them as if they were un- 
 canny?) Now, how in the world can they have 
 got there? Who can have put them there? 
 Not I, I'm certain. George must have done it, 
 as a practical joke, when I was asleep after 
 luncheon. Oh ! he's quite capable of it quite. 
 A boy who can smoke pipes, and have actresses' 
 photographs, and read pink papers, and write 
 love-letters Ah ! that reminds me ; I can 
 peruse that epistle now. I said I would find 
 
My Missing Spectacles. 85 
 
 my spectacles, and I have. (Draws chair for- 
 ward, puts on spectacles, and reads.} *' My 
 Darling " didn't I say it was " darling " ? 
 " My Darling Bella." Now, who can his dar- 
 ling Bella be ? I don't know anyone of the 
 name of Bella. (Reads} " You don't know 
 how I adore you." Oh, George ! what a dis- 
 graceful sentiment ! (Reads.} " And how I am 
 counting the minutes till I can see you. I will 
 meet you to-morrow at the Aquarium, and we 
 will have a real good time, won't we ? I shall 
 tell my Aunt that I have an appointment with 
 the dentist " Tell your Aunt you have an 
 appointment with the dentist, you wicked, 
 wicked boy! Oh, George! George! what do 
 you think will become of you ? And I've al- 
 ways done my best to impress upon you the 
 feelings of a gentleman. Oh ! I do hope- 
 yes, I do most devoutly hope and trust you 
 will be kept awake all night with the tooth- 
 ache. Yes, I do ! It will be a judgment on 
 you a fit and proper judgment. (Listening} 
 Oh dear ! I do believe that's George whistling 
 in the passage. He mustn't find me here, con- 
 fiscating his property and reading his corre- 
 spondence. That would never do ; it would 
 spoil everything. N (Starts up from her chair} 
 But I shall confiscate this letter. (Puts the 
 letter in her pocket} " Darling Bella " indeed ! 
 and then she won't get it, anyway, even if he 
 doesn't have the toothache, which I sincerely 
 trust he will. (Stumbles over the pipe, brandy 
 
86 My Missing Spectacles. 
 
 flask, 6r., which she has dropped on the floor!) 
 
 Lord ! what am I to do with all these ? 
 (Picks them up hurriedly and thrusts tJtem all 
 into her pocket again?) He'll think the cat has 
 been here, or a ghost, walking off with all his 
 things. I can't get them into my pocket. It's 
 very odd, I got them in before. (Inadvertently 
 pushes spectacles up on her forehead as before.} 
 Oh, well, I can't bother to find my pocket ; 
 
 1 shall have George here in another minute. 
 (Gathers the things up in her hands, dropping 
 one as fast as she gets another. Finally carries 
 them all to the door?) Now, Master George, 
 don't you attempt to play practical jokes with 
 your Aunt's spectacles again. They're sure to 
 recoil on your own head if you do. Remember, 
 too, there are some things I can see without 
 spectacles, and (looks helplessly round] I don't 
 know now where they are. I thought I had 
 found them I certainly thought I had found 
 them. I can't begin to look for them all over 
 again, and George upon me, too ! Gracious 
 goodness ! there he is ! (Drops all the confis- 
 cated property and bolts.) 
 
The Amateur Fee for each and every representation of this 
 play is hit/- a- guinea, payable in advance to Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand, London. No 
 performance may take place unless a written authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 NICKNAMES. 
 
 CHARACTERS : 
 
 JULIANA (otherwise Pussy). 
 
 ANASTATIA (otherwise Nan^ her married sistef). 
 
 (Scene : A Drawing-room in Juliands Flat. 
 Enter Anastatia in her bonnet?) 
 
 Anastatia. Yes ; Juliana has got very nice 
 rooms, certainly ; rather more expensively 
 furnished than she can afford, I should say, 
 but nice undoubtedly nice more's the pity! 
 It may seem captious on my part, but I freely 
 confess that had I found a look-out over 
 chimney pots and potent kitchen odours in 
 the passage, I should have been a great deal 
 better pleased. There would then have been 
 more chance of persuading her to leave this 
 flat and live with us. This life of independ- 
 ence is so exceedingly objectionable. It is 
 positively shocking ! As I said to John only 
 yesterday at breakfast or was it at dinner? 
 no, I think it was breakfast " that any young 
 woman should wish to live alone is a sign that 
 her moral sense is not in the right place ; and 
 it is my duty to rescue my sister before her 
 moral sense has become permanently dislo- 
 cated." But here, in the lap of luxury, what 
 am I to go upon ? How am I to bring it home 
 
88 Nicknames. 
 
 to her? (Looking round.) Her surroundings 
 really appear so exceedingly correct ! (Exa- 
 mines books on table?) " Tennyson " John's 
 present to her last birthday ; " Work and 
 Wages." Humph ! I wonder how much she 
 understands of either! (Turns over news- 
 papers^) Standard, Queen, Spectator, last week's 
 number I forwarded ; just the very papers she 
 would see with us. I wish I had something to 
 go upon. There must be something if I could 
 only find it ! (Takes up photographs?) Mine- 
 John's mine again me and baby Aunt 
 Susan very correct ; too correct, I am inclined 
 to think. Aha! what is this? (Picks up tele- 
 gram from the floor.) A telegram. (Reads.} 
 " Do not expect me do not expect me, to- 
 night. Tommy." Good heavens ! Has it 
 come to this already ? I have something to 
 go upon now ; I have something to bring home 
 to her now ! I've a telegram to go upon, and 
 a Tommy to bring home to her. Apparently 
 she is quite prepared to bring him home to 
 herself! Oh ! I was indeed right. Juliana's 
 moral sense can not be in the right place. But 
 I mustn't let her suspect my discovery. (Puts 
 telegram in her pocket?) I must draw her on to 
 implicate herself and then (Enter Juliana?) 
 
 /. Hullo, Nan ; how are you ? 
 
 A. Quite well, dear, thank you. (Goes to 
 embrace /., who languidly drops into a chair?) 
 Your servant said you would be in directly, so 
 I thought I might come in and wait. 
 
Nicknames. 89 
 
 /. Delighted. (Aside?) Lucky I didn't leave 
 cigarettes and Tommy's banjo about ! Sorry I 
 wasn't in, Nan ; only just back from Matinee 
 at Gaiety. 
 
 A. Indeed. Do you go to the theatre alone? 
 
 /. No ; took Cooey. 
 
 A. (aside.) Now, I wonder whether " Cooey " 
 is a man or a woman ? These detestable nick- 
 names! (Aloud.) And who is Cooey? 
 
 /. One of my pals. Sit down, Nan, won't 
 you. How's Jack ? (A. Sits.) 
 
 A. John is very well, thank you, dear; you 
 know my dislike of nicknames, and Jack is so 
 peculiarly repulsive 
 
 /. Oh, no ; don't think he is ; least, you 
 oughtn't to say so, Nan. And how's little 
 Dot? 
 
 A. Dorothea has grown so fast lately that I 
 am thankful to say the ridiculous nickname is 
 no longer applicable. 
 
 /. Pity ; Dorothea's so frightful 
 
 A. Frightful ! Most people consider the 
 child an angel of beauty ! 
 
 J. (quite unmoved). I low are Tweedledum 
 and Tweedledee. Beg pardon, Nan ; cant call 
 them anything else. Don't remember their 
 names. 
 
 A. (stiffly). If you mean the twins, they 
 are quite well, thank you. But when children 
 have been christened Anastatius and Alex- 
 ander, I really can not see the sense of calling 
 them Tweedledum and Tweedledee! 
 
QO Nicknames. 
 
 J. Can't you now, really ? D'you know 
 think most people would. 
 
 A. There is not even the excuse of brevity, 
 that one poor prop by which nicknames usually 
 take their stand. 
 
 J. Soon dwindle down to Dum and Dee. 
 
 A. (indignantly). I daresay ! and from that 
 get corrupted into Dumb and Deaf; and so my 
 boys would be branded with infirmities by which 
 they are not afflicted. / know how misapprehen- 
 sions may be traced to a miserable nickname ! 
 
 /. All right. Let's talk of something else. 
 How d'you like my flat, Nan? 
 
 A. One word more before we quit the subject. 
 Don't call me "Nan." 
 
 /. Not call you "Nan?" 
 
 A. No; dontczll me Nan. 
 
 /. But I've called you Nan all my life. 
 
 A. Then the sooner you leave off the better. 
 The bad habits of a day are hard enough to 
 uproot, but the bad habits of a lifetime 
 
 /. (interrupting). Bad habits of a fiddle- 
 stick. What d'you expect me to call you ? 
 
 A. Anastatia, of course. 
 
 J. (drawing a long breath). An-as-ta-tia ! 
 Mean it ? Seriously ? 
 
 A. Do I ever jest? 
 
 J. Can't say you do. (Pause. J. draws a 
 long breatJi again.} Anastatia, how d'you like 
 my flat ? 
 
 A. Well, it seems nice enough (pointedly) 
 so far as it goes. 
 
Nicknames. 91 
 
 /. How d'you know how far it goes ? Been 
 over it already my absence ? 
 
 A. You misunderstand me. I was referring, 
 not to its area, but to its its . In fact, how- 
 ever nice your flat may be, dear Juliana, I cannot 
 quite sanction 
 
 /. One word before we proceed. Don't call 
 me Juliana. 
 
 A. Not call you Juliana ? 
 
 /. No. Don't call me Juliana. 
 
 A. But I have always called you Juliana. 
 
 J. I know. Sooner you leave off the better. 
 Bad habits of a day hard enough, you know 
 but bad habits of a lifetime 
 
 A. (interrupting). Don't talk to me of bad 
 habits. What do you expect me to call you ? 
 
 /. Pussy. 
 
 A. What? 
 
 J. Pussy. 
 
 A. You expect me me, with my peculiar 
 horror of nicknames to call you Pussy ? 
 
 J. Why not ? All my pals call me Pussy. 
 
 A. I daresay your "pals "do (pointedly) 
 male as well as female, I don't doubt But you 
 don't class me as " a pal," I suppose. 
 
 /. No, don't say I do. 
 
 A. I should hope not. And your " pals " 
 may call you what they please, but I shall not 
 exchange the good old family name of Juliana 
 for a pert nickname. Pussy, indeed ! 
 
 /. All right ; then I can call you Nan. 
 
 A (stiffly). As you please. 
 
92 Nickname*. 
 
 J. And I can call John, Jack 
 
 A. No, you won't! 
 
 /. And I can call the children Dot and Dum 
 and Dee. 
 
 A. No, you will not. (Aside.} I suppose I 
 shall have to concede the point for the present, 
 or I shall never persuade her to give up living 
 alone. (Aloud, with a show of conciliation^) 
 Well, well, we won't discuss that now. Give 
 and take, give and take, as I always say to the 
 children, and compromise is the creed of all 
 sensible people. 
 
 J. Capital! To return to our muttons. Anas- 
 tatia, how d'you like my flat ? 
 
 A. Pretty well P- Pussy, pretty well. 
 
 /. Glad you've not fallen in love with it. 
 Fact is getting bored with it myself. 
 
 A. (aside). This is better luck than I ex- 
 pected ! (Aloud.) I'm not surprised, my dear, 
 b-it of course I was determined all along to 
 express no opinion. 
 
 /. Poky, isn't it ? 
 
 A. Since you ask me that Is just what I 
 should call it poky. 
 
 /. Then we've no lift, and I can't stand eighty- 
 five steps every time I go out. 
 
 A. It's enough to bring on heart disease ! 
 
 /. Three times a day, that's my average 
 going out lowest average. Five hundred and 
 ten steps down and up three thousand five 
 hundred and seventy steps a week down and 
 up. 
 
Nicknames. 93 
 
 A. It's a positive Eiffel Tower ! Now there is 
 just the charm of our dear, old, rambling country- 
 house : only one storey dear, think of that ! 
 
 /. (turning over papers on table as if looking 
 for something). Then what with other people 
 tramping up and down staircase and cards 
 for me getting mixed with cards for other 
 people and my walls torn open find escape 
 other people's gas it's not like living alone. 
 (Aside.} Wonder what's become of Tommy's 
 telegram ? (Aloud.) Sooner live in a Hotel, 
 any day. 
 
 A. (aside). A Hotel! Oh my goodness! 
 Juliana in a hotel. What an idea ! (Aloud?) 
 After all, P-Pussy, darling if to be alone is what 
 one desires there is no loneliness like that which 
 one can find in the centre of a family. (Aside?) 
 I think I have led up to that rather effectively. 
 
 J. Shouldn't have thought so, if you hadn't 
 told me.; sorry to hear that's your experience. 
 Afraid doesn't speak well for John and Doro- 
 thea and Anastatius and Alexander. (Draws 
 a long breath) Declare if I had to say it often, 
 would be worse than eighty-five steps ! 
 
 A. (disconcerted}. Oh I wasn't speaking 
 from my own experience. 
 
 J. Couldn't speak from any one else's. (Aside, 
 looking about tJie floor). What can have become 
 of Tommy's telegram ? Read it in such a 
 hurry. Don't remember if it said ' coming ' or 
 ' not coming.' And Cooey waiting to know if 
 I'll dine at the Bachelors ! 
 
94 Nicknames. 
 
 A. (aside). If Juliana is going to live in a 
 Hotel, the sooner I come to the point the 
 better. P-Pussy ? 
 
 /. Yes, An-as-tatia. 
 
 A. Would you give me your attention for a 
 moment? Thank you. Now I wish to make 
 myself plain 
 
 /. No need, dear. Nature made you that 
 
 A. When I say plain, I mean intelligible. 
 Now what do you suppose was my object in 
 coming here to-day? Primarily you, of course 
 
 /. Not an object. Decline to be classed as 
 an object 
 
 A. When I say object I mean motive ; and 
 the motive of my visit to-day was to bring you 
 a proposal 
 
 /. Don't want to hear it from you. 
 
 A. Don't want to hear it from me ? 
 
 J. No. Tell him to come himself. 
 
 A. 1z\\him? Tdlw/io? 
 
 J. I don't know whoever he is tell him to 
 propose in person. 
 
 A. I don't mean a proposal of marriage. 
 
 /. Oh ! disappointed. Fact is getting 
 tired of living alone. 
 
 A. When I say proposal I mean a proposition. 
 
 /. Euclid ? Don't understand it. 
 
 A. You are tired of living alone. Of course 
 you are. Home life is every true woman's 
 natural atmosphere. This natural atmosphere 
 I offer to you. My dear child, come and make 
 your home with me 
 
Nicknames. 95 
 
 / Oh Lord ! I mean oh thanks awfully. 
 (Aside.) Now how am I to get out of this ? 
 
 A. You have tried a flat it has failed ; You 
 have courted solitude ; it palls. / will not fail 
 you, and life with me will not 
 
 / Pall. (Aside.) Oh ! but it would. 
 
 A. (effusively). Let us agree to try one 
 another. 
 
 /. (always impassive). Oh we should not 
 a doubt of it awfully ! 
 
 A. My arms are open to receive you. 
 
 / And Jack? 
 
 A. John. 
 
 /. John. Are John's arms open to receive 
 me too ? 
 
 A. Of course. I would not have made this 
 offer without consulting him. 
 
 /. Good old Jack ! 
 
 A. John. 
 
 /. John. (Aside.) Now how am I to get 
 out of this ? (Aloud.) It's awfully kind of 
 you, but I'm afraid you won't bargain to have 
 us all. 
 
 A. All ? You can bring your maid of course, 
 but you won't require any other servants. 
 
 J. Don't mean servants but there's Fitz 
 and Muffin and Jumbo and Tommy. 
 
 A. (aside). Tommy! (Aloud.) And pray 
 who are Fitz and Muffin and Jumbo and 
 Tommy ? Pals ? 
 
 /. Not exactly only dogs and Tommy's a 
 cat. 
 
96 Nicknames. 
 
 A. Oh. (Aside.) No, the telegram could not 
 have been from the cat. 
 
 /. Tommy's awfully nasty with children. 
 Afraid he'd tear Dorothea and Anastatius and 
 Alexander (heaves a sigh) to little bits. 
 
 A. Couldn't you give Tommy away ? 
 
 / Couldn't ! Beloved beast ! 
 
 A. (aside). Evidently recalls tender me- 
 mories. (Aloud.) Well, well, we won't discuss 
 that now. Anyhow you'll come. Let us con- 
 sider that as settled. 
 
 /. Thanks awfully I (Aside.) Now how 
 am I to get out of this ? (Aloud.) If you take 
 me won't mind taking me just as I am 
 bad habits and all ? 
 
 A. Bad habits ? I trust you have not con- 
 tracted any bad habits, my dear. 
 
 /. Afraid you'll think so. 
 
 A. (severely.) You don't smoke, Juliana? 
 
 /. Yes, Nan, I do. What's more don't 
 mean to give it up. 
 
 A. But consider the bad example you would 
 set to Dorothea, Anastatius, and Alexander. 
 
 /. I know. Better think twice before you let 
 wolf like me into your sheepfold. (Aside.) 
 Think smoke '11 choke her. 
 
 A. (aside). I suppose I must swallow it! 
 (Aloud) Well, well, we won't discuss that now. 
 I can only hope that the healthier moral atmo- 
 sphere you will breathe with us will purify your 
 taste above tobacco. 
 
 /. (aside.) Smoke hasn't choked her after 
 
Nicknames. 97 
 
 all. Now, how am I to get out of this ? (Aloud 
 after slight pause?) It's awfully kind of you, 
 Nan. (gesture of protest on part of A.) awfully 
 kind of Jack) too (A. murmurs "Jo An ") but 
 don't you think shall be in the way? See 
 Dot's growing so fast 
 
 A. My dear, must I remind you again that I 
 hold nicknames in peculiar horror. When you 
 come to live with us I trust you will so far 
 respect my wishes as to call the children 
 
 J. Dorothea and Anastatius, and Alexander ? 
 Don't expect me call them that every day ? 
 
 A. Certainly. Why not ? 
 
 y. Dorothea and Anastatius, and Alexander, 
 all day and every day ? Monday morning till 
 Saturday night ? Sundays too ? No. Should 
 die of it. Sooner stay here with three thousand 
 five hundred and seventy steps ! (Rising.} 
 Look here, Nan. If I make my home with you 
 must be on distinct understanding doesn't 
 entail extra exertion over your ridiculous 
 names. Let it be: Nan, Jack, Dot, Dum, 
 and Dee I'll come perhaps. But if it's to be: 
 Anastatia, John, Dorothea, Anastatius, and 
 Alexander can't do it at the price. That's 
 my ultapomatum as the hairdresser said when 
 they asked him for an estimate of wigs ! 
 
 A. (rising). Never! Juliana, you expect too 
 much. 
 
 /. All right, Nan. But give and take, you 
 know, give and take, as you always say to the 
 
 A. Give and take, indeed. Me give, 
 G 
 
98 Nicknames. 
 
 take, that's what you mean. Look here, Juliana, 
 I have swallowed your smoke 
 
 J. And I thought would have choked 
 you 
 
 A. I have swallowed your cats and dogs 
 
 /. And they don't agree 
 
 A. I will swallow no more! 
 
 J. Can't digest my compromise. Capital ! 
 
 A. To hear you talk one would think you 
 gained nothing by the arrangement. 
 
 / Don't see that I do. 
 
 A. You don't see that you do? Pray, is it 
 nothing to gain the privilege of family life ? 
 
 J. Not if family life is weighted with family 
 names. However, compromise, you know creed 
 of all sensible people and I'm willing to com- 
 promise 
 
 A. (severely). To compromise yourself. I 
 should say you are! When I came to make 
 you the offer of a home, I little thought to be 
 confronted at the outset with the proof of how 
 sadly the better influences of that home are 
 needed! (Takes telegram from her pocket and 
 flourisJies it in f.'s face.} What have you to 
 say to that ? 
 
 /. Tommy's telegram ! What's the meaning 
 of this ? 
 
 A. Meaning of this? The meaning is plain 
 enough, I should say. 
 
 /. Let's have a look. (Reads.} " Do not 
 expect me to-night." 
 
 A. I repeat, what have you to say to that ? 
 
Nicknames. 99 
 
 /. Say ? Why if you'd been good enough 
 leave telegram where you found it. 
 
 A. I found it on the floor. 
 
 J. Then why not leave it on the floor ? And 
 poor Cooey waiting all this time to know if I'll 
 dine at the Bachelor's ! 
 
 A. " Tommy " one moment and " Cooey " the 
 next, and you can stand there and talk to me 
 like that 
 
 J. Can talk just as well sitting, of course ; 
 only, let me wire to Cooey first 
 
 A. (detaining her.} Not till you tell me 
 who " Cooey " is. 
 
 /. Cooey? Cooey's Lady Constance Jinks 
 married Tim Jinks in the Guards, you know. 
 High Jinks they call her, because she's always 
 up to larks and he's called Low Jinks, because 
 he's got a liver and is always in the dumps. 
 
 A. Detestable jargon of nicknames! (Sus- 
 piciously.) So " Cooey " is a woman, is she ? 
 Humph ! Perhaps you'll tell me next that 
 " Tommy " is a woman ? (Points severely to the 
 telegram^) 
 
 J. Why, of course she is. What else should 
 she be ? 
 
 A. What else should she be? Why, a man, 
 1 should say. 
 
 /. But she isn't. You know her, Nan. Girl who 
 does tumbling tricks and plays on the mandolin. 
 
 A. I do not know any girl who does tumbling 
 tricks or who plays on the mandolin. 
 
 /. Yes, you do. What's-her-name Altamont 
 
roo Nicknames. 
 
 A. You don't mean Irene? Don't tell me 
 that any Altamont would condescend to be 
 nicknamed Tommy ! 
 
 /. Well, nobody could expect anybody to 
 call anybody Irene Altamont. 
 
 A. I should think it preferable to being 
 known by a detestable nickname that leaves it 
 an open question whether the bearer be a man 
 or a woman, a dog or a cat ! (Aside.) So 
 there's nothing to bring home to her after all ! 
 (Aloud.} Well, Juliana, good-bye. I must be 
 going or I shall miss my train. Think over my 
 offer of a home, and let this be a lesson to you 
 of the truth of what I said, how misapprehen- 
 sions may be traced to a miserable nickname ! 
 
 J. All right. Good-bye, Nan. Thanks 
 awfully. My love to Jack, and Dot, and Dum, 
 and Dee. Oh ! I say, Nan, as you pass Post 
 Office, just wire for me to Cooey, will you ? 
 
 A. Wire for you to 
 
 /. Cooey. 
 
 A. What do you want said ? 
 
 /. " Lady Cooey Jinks, Hans Place. Will 
 dine. Pussy." There you are. (Gives six- 
 pence?) Thanks awfully. Must fly and dress. 
 Ta-ta. (Exit leisurely^ 
 
 A. "Lady Cooey Jinks, Hans Place. Will 
 dine. Pussy." Certainly not ! I shall put, 
 "Lady Constance Jinks, Hans Place. Have 
 much pleasure in accepting your kind invita- 
 tion to dinner. Juliana." Humph! that's more 
 than sixpence ! (Exit} 
 
The Amateur Fee for each and every representation of this 
 play is hilj- a- guinea, payable in advance to Messrs. SAMUEL 
 FRENCH, LTD., 26, Southampton Street. Strand, London. A'o 
 performance may take place unless a written authority has 
 first been obtained. 
 
 THE 
 
 SCIENCE OF ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 MRS DELAMERE (a young widow). 
 
 Miss FITKINS (her companion). 
 
 AN ELDERLY LADY. 
 
 PERCY PENRHYN (in love with Mrs Delamere). 
 
 JEMMY FITZBRASS (his friend). 
 
 (Mrs Delamere's drawing-room. Doors left 
 and centre. A green parrot in a cage. Some 
 water-colour sketches and two dolls put on 
 one side in a corner of the room. Mrs 
 Delamere and Miss Fitkins seated at a table 
 on which is an MS., etc.) 
 
 Mrs Delamere. There ! I think I've done a 
 very good morning's work. In a few days my 
 book will be ready for the press. Miss Fitkins, 
 have you done as I asked you, and found me a 
 title ? 
 
 Miss Fitkins. Let me see, Mrs Delamere. 
 Your incomparable contribution to literature 
 has for its object the practical application of 
 advertisement to the needs of domestic life, has 
 it not ? 
 
 Mrs D. Exactly. Advertise for everything 
 you want in exchange for what you want to 
 get rid of. Only not just now and then, you 
 
1 02 The Science of A dvertisement. 
 
 know, as the fancy takes you, but systematically. 
 Properly understood, it practically reduces the 
 necessity for buying to almost nothing. 
 
 Miss F. Shall we say does away with the 
 necessity of buying altogether, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. Look at my piano. I got that in 
 exchange for some rusty old pistols that be- 
 longed to the late Mr Delamere's great-great- 
 aunt. 
 
 Miss F. Shall we say uncle, Mrs Delamere? 
 
 Mrs D. Uncle, if you prefer it. It doesn't 
 affect the value of the exchange. The point 
 is that I don't use firearms. I'm not musical, 
 myself; but they tell me it's a good one, and 
 one must have a piano, and at anyrate the 
 case looks well. Then there's the side-board 
 in the dining-room ; Chippendale every bit 
 of it, you know only cost me a rare edition 
 of Cato. 
 
 Miss F. Shall we say Plato, Mrs Delamere ? 
 
 Mrs D. Plato, certainly ; if you prefer it, but 
 that doesn't affect the value of the exchange 
 does it ? The point is, I don't read Greek. 
 Then there's that clock Louis XIV. in 
 Buhl's best style, you know got it in ex- 
 change for some hideous Chinese idols that 
 disgraced the chimney-piece. 
 
 Miss F. Shall we say that disgrace our pre- 
 sent civilization, Mrs Delamere ? 
 
 Mrs D. (impatiently}. If you prefer it, but 
 that doesn't affect the value of the exchange, 
 The point is that Chinese idols get on my 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 103 
 
 nerves. And so on, and so on. I've fur- 
 nished nearly the whole of my rooms in this 
 way. 
 
 Miss F. A decidedly new departure in the 
 study of domestic economy, Mrs Delamere. 
 May I suggest " Exchange no robbery " as 
 a suitable title for your little volume? 
 
 Mrs D. It hardly covers the whole ground. 
 
 Miss F. I see. The field is too vast, Mrs 
 Delamere. What do you say to "Ask! ask! 
 ask !" (Mrs D. shakes her head.) Or : " Give ! 
 give! give !' 
 
 Mrs D. I think that you hardly perceive the 
 end that I have in view. 
 
 Miss F. Pardon me, Mrs Delamere. I ap- 
 prehend that you have two ends in view and 
 that your object is to make them meet. 
 
 Mrs D. But you musn't run away with the 
 idea that I'm economical myself, because I'm 
 not a bit, you know. 
 
 Miss F. There is no reason that you should 
 be, Mrs Delamere. I apprehend that I should 
 not have accepted the position of companion to 
 you if there had been. 
 
 Mrs D. But it's my great idea to try and 
 prove a grand principle which may be of use 
 to those who are obliged to be economical. 
 It's unselfish, isn't it ? 
 
 Miss F. Decidedly, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. And unworldly, isn't it ? 
 
 Miss F. Undoubtedly, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. And philanthropic ? 
 
IO4 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 Miss F. Wonderfully so, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. It's so nice to feel of some use to 
 one's poor fellow creatures, and to be able to 
 contribute some scheme to the general fund. 
 
 Miss F. Shall we say some fund to the general 
 scheme, Mrs Delamere, General Booth's 
 scheme ? 
 
 Mrs D. Nothing is anything now-a-days 
 without a scheme. 
 
 Miss F. So true, Mrs Delamere. And shall 
 we say nobody is anybody without a scheme ? 
 
 Mrs D. (meditatively). I'm quite convinced 
 there is a great deal of undeveloped science in 
 advertisement, properly understood, and when I 
 publish my little book people will be forced to 
 admit that there really is something in my 
 scheme ! They may call me mad, do you 
 think they will call me mad, Miss Fitkins? 
 
 Miss F. Impossible, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. I shouldn't mind if they did. 
 
 Miss F. Though just within the bounds of 
 probability of course, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. (taking up newspaper). I wonder if 
 anyone will answer my to-day's advertisements. 
 (Reads.) " I want some real old lace, a green 
 parrot in exchange." " I have some water- 
 colour sketches to exchange for a watch- 
 bracelet." "If anyone has a real sable mufi 
 I will give in exchange two dressed dolls." 
 All signed " Cherryblossom," and who knows 
 who " Cherryblossom " is ? 
 
 Miss F. Really, Mrs Delamere, 1 don't 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 105 
 
 think you will find a better title for your 
 invaluable look than the one I suggested just 
 now : Exchange no robbery. 
 
 Mrs D. It doesn't cover the ground. There 
 are the losses you see. 
 
 Miss F. I am surprised to hear you, Mrs 
 Delamere. I had apprehended that the scheme 
 was one of absolute gain. 
 
 Mrs D. <* So it is, so it is. 
 
 Miss F. Yet you speak of losses. 
 
 Mrs D. (impatiently). Yes, to be sure ; 
 things lost, of course, for which advertisement 
 is necessary. (Sound of voices outside.} Dear 
 me ! I wonder what all that talking is about. 
 Miss Fitkins, kindly go and see, will you. 
 
 Miss F. Certainly, Mrs Delamere. (Miss 
 Fitkins goes to E. C. and returns.} A person 
 asking to see you, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. A person ? What sort of a person ? 
 Man or woman ? 
 
 Miss F I apprehend that a person is invari- 
 ably a woman, Mrs Delamere, though we may 
 safely lay it down that a woman, of course, is 
 not invariably a person. 
 
 Mrs D. Tell the person to call again, I'm 
 busy. (Miss F. going.} What does she want? 
 
 Miss F. She seems to be connected with 
 lace, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. Lace ? Then she's come to answer 
 the advertisement ! Tell her to come in, 
 tell her to come in by all means. (Miss F. 
 goes again to E. C) I knew it, I was 
 
io6 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 positive of it ! Lace versus parrot ! Isn't it 
 delightful ! (Enter Elderly Lady with Miss 
 Fitkins.) Good morning good morning. As 
 I have not had the pleasure of meeting you 
 before may I assume that your visit is in answer 
 to my advertisement. 
 
 Elderly Lady. (interrogatively). Cherry- 
 blossom ? 
 
 Mrs D. Cherryblossom. 
 
 E. L. Old lace wanted ? 
 
 Mrs D. Old lace wanted. 
 
 E. L. Green parrot in exchange ? 
 
 Mrs D. Green parrot in exchange. 
 
 E. L. Lots of lace old woman no use to 
 me love parrots, adore parrots, dote on parrots. 
 There's lace, where's bird ? 
 
 Mrs D. Miss Fitkins. (Signs to Miss F. 
 who places the parrot in cage on the table. Mrs 
 D. examines the lace.) Exquisite ! 
 
 E. L. (examining parrot). Beautiful I 
 
 Mrs D. Priceless ! 
 
 E. L. Splendid ! 
 
 Mrs D. It will be the envy of all my friends! 
 
 E. L. It will be the plague of all my neigh- 
 bours ! 
 
 Mrs D. So charmingly yellow ! 
 
 E. L. Gloriously green ! 
 
 Mrs D. (surprised). Green ? Yellow. 
 
 E. L. Green. Look at it. (Points to parrot.) 
 
 Mrs D. Oh ! you mean the parrot. (Exam- 
 ining lace as before?) Hundreds and hundreds 
 of years old 1 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 107 
 
 E. L. (examining parrot as before). Hun- 
 dreds of years old ? 
 
 Mrs D. Why yes, I should say so, 
 
 E. L. Don't tell me it's hundreds of years 
 old! 
 
 Mrs D. But that's the very thing. Look at 
 it. (Points to lace.) 
 
 E. L. Oh ! you mean the lace. (Parrot 
 chiickles) Excellent imitation ! 
 
 Mrs D. Imitation ? 
 
 E. L. Why yes ; what else d'you call it ? 
 
 Mrs D. Imitation ! Don't tell me it's imita- 
 tion ! 
 
 E. L. But that's the very thing. Listen to 
 it. (Points to parrot)) 
 
 Mrs D. Oh ! you mean the parrot. (Exam- 
 ining lace as before?) Well, one doesn't get 
 such a bargain every day in the week. My 
 friends positively won't believe me. They'll 
 die of disgust, won't it be delightful ? Really it 
 is too exquisite. It ought to be under a glass 
 case. 
 
 E. L. (examining parrot as before). Time 
 enough for that when it's stuffed. Does very 
 well in a cage. 
 
 Mrs D. (as before). Of real historical value, 
 I haven't a doubt. Oh ! what a story it might 
 tell if only it could speak. (Holding up lace and 
 apostrophizing it.) I wonder what you were in 
 a previous state of existence ? 
 
 E. L. (apostrophizing parrot). What you 
 were in a previous state of existence ? A 
 
io8 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 chattering, flighty, feather-headed woman, 1 
 shouldn't wonder. But someone's heart was 
 true to Poll, even then, I daresay. Someone's 
 heart is true to Poll now. (Looks significantly 
 at Mrs D) Good morning, Mrs Delamere. 
 Remember, parrots apart, fine feathers don't 
 always make fine birds. Yet that whatever 
 happens his heart is true to 
 
 Mrs D. Miss Fitkins ? * 
 
 Miss F. Certainly, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. The lady would like a cab called for 
 the parrot. 
 
 Miss F. Certainly, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 E. L. Stop, Parrot shall call his own cab. 
 (Goes toivards E. C. cage in hand. At the door, 
 turns, and says impressively?) Remember, Mrs 
 Delamere, whatever happens you will find that 
 his heart is true to 
 
 Mrs D. Poll, yes, I know. I'm so glad to 
 hear it I'm sure Poll will have a most happy 
 home. Thanks so much. Good-morning. 
 (Aside.) I think she must be mad ! (Elderly 
 lady goes out followed by Miss Fitkins.) Well, 
 certainly, I'm most awfully lucky! I really 
 must add another paragraph to my book. 
 (Seats herself at the table and writes : ) " Even 
 valuable articles such as old lace may be 
 had in this comparatively inex-pen-sive 
 Why, I declare ! here's a letter I've never 
 opened all the morning! i From Papa too! 
 (Reads.) "My dear Gwendolen a word in 
 season we are told is good." (So are oysters 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 109 
 
 and pheasants; but they've a close season 
 whereas a word seems to be in season all the 
 year round !) " And I am sure you will listen 
 patiently to the advice of your old father and 
 accept my age and the position in which I stand 
 towards yourself as excuse for what in anyone 
 else might be deemed impertinence." (It's the 
 usual excuse for prosiness and personalities any- 
 how.) " I am old-fashioned enough to maintain 
 that women are not formed for independence 
 that in fact urn urn." (Oh bother all this ! ) 
 " In plain words I should like to see you 
 married again." (I daresay ! ) " And it has 
 caused me real trouble that you have not re- 
 ceived Percy Penrhyn." (Percy Penrhyn in- 
 deed ! ) " Percy Penrhyn's attentions in the 
 way I had hoped you would." (Dear old Dad ! 
 what is he dreaming of!) "Good-looking" 
 (Never could see it.) "Well off" (I'm very 
 well off as I am.) "um um um solitary 
 life fate of flirts um um. Hoping you are 
 well this cold weather. Your affectionate 
 Father." Oh dear ! will Papa never leave off 
 troubling himself about my future? Does he 
 imagine I'm independent ? What's Fitkins 
 here for ? Why, I'm dependent on Fitkins 
 for everything. That really was rather a good 
 title she suggested for my book. " Exchange 
 no robbery." Percy Penrhyn indeed ! Poor 
 dear old Dad ! He means well oh, of course, 
 that's the worst of it. I never trained up my 
 parent in the way he should go and this is the 
 
J 10 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 result. He's a well-meaning person. / never 
 mean anything. I flirt with Percy, of course 
 it amuses me but I don't mean anything. 
 (Rising and coming fonvard.) No! If Percy 
 Penrhyn really cares for me, let him do some- 
 thing great to show it. I will throw down my 
 glove into the lion's den, and he shall go down 
 like Daniel to pick it up (Jemmy Fitzbrass 
 appears in the dooi~way E. C. t but disguised so 
 that she does not recognise him.) 
 
 Fitz. Will you permit me to come in, Madam? 
 
 Mrs D. (startled). Come in ? Yes no I'm 
 not sure. Where's Miss Fitkins ? 
 
 Fitz. I haven't the smallest idea. (Advances?) 
 Have 1 the honour of addressing " Cherry- 
 blossom," who advertises for a watch-bracelet ? 
 
 Mrs D. Oh yes ! in exchange for some water- 
 colour sketches 
 
 Fitz. Precisely so, Madam, and I have ven- 
 tured to call in the hope 
 
 Mrs D. But I think Miss Fitkins had better 
 be present. I'm dependent on Fitkins for 
 everything 
 
 Fitz. Indeed. I thought Fitkins was depen- 
 dent on you. (Mrs D. stares ; he goes on rapidly.) 
 So, as you are the lady who offers some water- 
 colour sketches in exchange for a watch-bracelet, 
 I have ventured to call in the hope of con- 
 cluding a satisfactory bargain. Allow me, 
 Madam. (Presents her with a watch-bracelet.} 
 
 Mrs D. How sweet ! Just the very thing ! 
 If it had been made for me it couldn't have 
 
The Science of Advertisement. \ 1 1 
 
 been better ! are you negotiating the bargain 
 for some poor person ? 
 
 Fitz. (aside). Well, I don't know if poor 
 Percy would like to be called a poor person ! 
 (Aloud.) Oh dear no, Madam. By profession 
 I am a speculator ; by nature and taste an 
 artist ; by necessity, turning nature and taste to 
 account, a worker in gold. Nineteenth century 
 Benvenuto Cellini and consequently an ana- 
 chronism. When I meet with a lady of your 
 original way of thinking, my heart leaps for 
 joy. It is by you, and such as you, that 
 anachronisms, such as I, live. (Bows.) Mr 
 Charles Chattaway at your service, Madam 
 and I am proud to make your acquaintance. 
 
 Mrs D. (aside). Dosen't quite know his 
 place, I think. (Aloud.) This really is most 
 beautifully designed. 
 
 Fitz. One of many trifles, Madan ; designed 
 in odd and idle moments when the tea is 
 standing when I cannot sleep when my wife 
 is putting on her bonnet. But my true love is 
 for the divine art of painting, and I fully 
 appreciate real art treasures such as these. 
 (Points to sketches.) 
 
 Mrs D. How awfully funny ? Now to me 
 these are trifles and this an art treasure. 
 
 Fitz. Then, Madam, we are even. Permit me 
 to invest you with this trifle. (Aside) Percy's 
 words were "clasp it on her wrist," and by 
 George! I will. It's a neat little wrist. (He 
 clasps the bracelet and surveys it with exaggerated 
 
1 1 2 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 admiration holding Mrs D.'s hand.} Excuse the 
 feelings of an artist, Madam ! excuse the feel- 
 ings of an artist ! but anything more perfectly 
 adapted than this bracelet to a wrist so ex- 
 quisitely turned could not well be imagined. 
 
 Mrs D. (angrily extricating her hand}. Mr 
 Chatterpie I did not ask your opinion on my 
 wrist as an artist or otherwise. (Aside.) 
 Insufferable bore !> I wish he'd take the draw- 
 ings and be off. 
 
 Fitz. No offence meant, Madam, none taken, 
 I trust. Would you permit me, Madam, to 
 glance over this invaluable collection of sketches. 
 (Takes up sketcfies.} Much obliged. Take a 
 seat ? Thank you with pleasure. (Sits.) 
 
 Mrs D. (aside). Impertinent wretch ! I 
 never asked him to sit 
 
 Fitz. (examining sketches critically). Good 
 very good, indeed. A leetle more depth of 
 colouring required here. Foreground excellent. 
 A slight wash of cobalt would improve this 
 distance throw it back. Would you allow me, 
 Madam, to make a suggestion ? 
 
 Mrs D. (with an annoyed air). There's not 
 the smallest necessity. I've taken your bracelet 
 without any suggestions, you know, and a 
 bargain's a bargain. 
 
 Fitz. But if I might just give a hint. 
 
 Mrs D. If you would take a hint it would be 
 more to the point. 
 
 Fitz. In the cause of art, you know, in the 
 cause of art. If you would onlv take a chair, 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 1 1 3 
 
 Madam, you would be so much better able to 
 see what I am anxious to point out. 
 
 Mrs D. (much offended.} Mr Chatter box 
 I am not accustomed to be invited to sit in 
 my own house. If I stand, it is because I pre- 
 fer standing. As, however, you seem to have 
 made yourself so thoroughly at home, pray 
 don't let me disturb you on any account ; but 
 I have other things to attend to. I wish you 
 good morning. (Exit Mrs D., L. E.). 
 
 Fitz. (alone). Well, hang it ! When Percy 
 Penrhyn sent me on this fool's errand, I didn't 
 think I should have got so much fun out of the 
 whole business. There's no one like you, Fitz- 
 brass, my boy, for doing a thing of this sort. 
 My get-up is perfect, and she didn't recognise 
 me a bit. (Looks at himself in the glass and 
 removes his wig; at the same moment enter 
 Miss Fit kins, L. E. y as if looking for something 
 on the floor?) Now I suppose I must carry these 
 art treasures to poor lovesick Percy. Good 
 heavens ! what awful daubs they are ! Is it a 
 law of nature that a lover must be a fool ? 
 (Turns and perceives Miss F.) Dear Miss Fit- 
 kins ! How d'ye do ? 
 
 Miss F. Mr Fitzbrass ! 
 
 Fitz. Lost something ? 
 
 Miss F. So discerning of you, Mr Fitzbrass ! 
 Mrs Delamere, I am sorry to say, has lost 
 
 Fitz. Her head ? 
 
 Miss F. Penetrating as usual, Mr Fitzbrass ! 
 But there is something else just at present, 
 H 
 
1 14 The Science of Advertisement 
 
 shall we say, on the carpet. Mrs Delamere has 
 lost her 
 
 Fitz. Her temper ? 
 
 Miss F. Penetrating again, Mr Fitzbrass, but 
 
 Fitz. Dear Miss Fitkins ! If Mrs Delamere's 
 head or Mrs Delamere's temper could be found 
 and restored to her, I would go down on my 
 knees to look for them. Mrs Delamere with no 
 head and less temper must be such a bore for 
 you ! 
 
 Miss F. Facetious as usual, Mr Fitzbrass. 
 Mrs Delamere's losses do not end with her head 
 or her temper. She has lost 
 
 Fitz. Not her heart, surely ? 
 
 Miss F. There I am not so certain, Mr Fitz- 
 brass; but she has lost, what may be shall 
 we say? very near her heart. She has lost 
 a ring. Four eyes are better than two, Mr 
 Fitzbrass ; would you mind taking that side of 
 the room, while I take this ? (They search round 
 different ways.) 
 
 Fitz. What kind of a ring ? 
 
 Miss F. Her wedding ring, Mr Fitzbrass. 
 Awkward, is it not ? 
 
 Fitz. Deuced ! How long has she lost it ? 
 
 Miss F. A day or so, possibly longer. 
 
 Fitz. Haven't you searched here before ? 
 
 Miss F. Twenty times, Mr Fitzbrass, but the 
 fact is, it has got on her nerves. 
 
 Fitz. Ah ! then you'll never find it. There's 
 nothing so difficult to get at as the nerves. 
 
 Miss F. And when Mrs Delamere is put out 
 
The Science oj Advertisement. 115 
 
 she insists on a fresh search being made for the 
 ring. 
 
 Fitz. Then she's put out at present ? What's 
 put her out ? (Tliey meet in their search face to 
 face in the middle of tJie room.) 
 
 Miss F. Shall we say the offensive manners 
 of a vulgar stranger who pushed himself into 
 her presence on the pretext of answering an 
 advertisement. But she lays herself open to 
 misconstruction. 
 
 Fitz. (aside). If it comes to that, so have I. 
 
 Miss F. By the way, I don't think she knows 
 you are here. 
 
 Fits. I don't think she does. 
 
 Miss F. Shall I go and tell her ? 
 
 Fit z. Not on any account. I'm not here. 
 Dear Miss Fitkins, don't breathe it ; /am the 
 vulgar stranger with the offensive manners. 
 
 Miss F. Not you, Mr Fitzbrass ! 
 
 Fits. I am Charles Chattaway. / brought 
 her a watch-bracelet. 
 
 Miss F. What for ? 
 
 Fits. Who for ? might be more to the point. 
 / criticised her drawings 
 
 Miss F. You didn't ? 
 
 Fitz. I did. / took a chair 
 
 Miss F. Why? 
 
 Fitz. Can't explain. Secret's not mine. Only 
 don't breathe it. (Aside.} I think poor Percy 
 might like to know about that lost ring. (Aloud.) 
 You'll promise me, dear Miss Fitkins not a 
 breath ! 
 
1 1 6 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 Miss F. Certainly, Mr Fitzbrass ; only why not 
 a breath ? 
 
 Fitz. (at the door). Might take the wind out 
 of somebody's sails. You understand. Good- 
 bye. (Exit, E. C. y with sketches?) 
 
 Miss F. I apprehend a mystery and it goes 
 without saying that a man is behind it all. 
 There's a man behind the piano. There's a 
 man behind the sideboard. That old lace masks 
 a man 
 
 (Enter Mrs D., L. E.). 
 
 Mrs D. Oh ! He has gone. I never had to 
 do with such a presumptuous idiot in my life. 
 Not found my lost ring, I suppose, Miss Fitkins? 
 
 Miss F. Sorry to say not, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. What am I do ? 
 
 Miss F. (archly}. Get another, I should say, 
 Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. That's easier said than done. 
 
 Miss F. For some ladies, I daresay, Mrs 
 Delamere, but hardly for you. 
 
 Mrs D. But how ? Through whom ? 
 
 Miss F. Through a gentleman, I apprehend, 
 Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. But I could never think of propos- 
 ing 
 
 Miss F. No ; but he might. You have 
 advertised it, of course ? 
 
 Mrs D. Of course. And offered a reward. 
 
 Miss F. And the terms of the reward ? 
 
 Mrs D. I didn't offer any particular reward; 
 I only put " shall be rewarded." 
 
The Science of Advertisement. \ 1 7 
 
 Miss F. Very wise, Mrs Delamere. The 
 reward would depend so much on the individual 
 who replaced the ring, would it not ? Did I 
 understand you to say you might have lost it in 
 church ? 
 
 Mrs D. In church, very likely. 
 
 Miss F. Then you will very likely find it in 
 church, Mrs Delamere. 
 
 Mrs D. That is as it may be. In the mean- 
 time kindly go and search once more in my 
 bedroom. (Voices outside.) 
 
 Miss F. Certainly, Mrs Delamere. (At tlie 
 door?) Somebody else to see you. 
 
 Mrs D. Whoever it is can come in. (Exit Miss 
 F. E. C.). Really these continued excitements 
 are almost more than I can bear ! Talk of the 
 excitements of the Stock Exchange! This beats 
 it all ! (Enter Percy Penrhyn disguised as an old 
 man. He carries a large box which Jie deposits at 
 the back of the stage. Retains a muff-box in his 
 hand.) 
 
 Perry. Hem ! Hem ! 
 
 Mrs D. Oh ! Good morning. (Aside.) Now 
 what in the name of fortune can he want ? 
 
 Percy (in a feigned voice). I beg pardon if 
 I intrude, but I think you have advertised for a 
 muff, ma'am. 
 
 Mrs D. Oh yes ! a real sable muff. (Aside) 
 Now who would ever have thought that this old 
 fellow was the muff! 
 
 Percy. Perhaps you may think it strange that 
 one of my age and appearance should under- 
 
r 1 8 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 stand what is requisite hem and commend- 
 able in a muff but you will find it very good fur 
 very good fur indeed. 
 
 Mrs D. Oh! it's beautiful fur. (Aside.) How 
 in the world can I offer two dressed dolls to an 
 old fellow like this? (Aloud.) Oh! it's lovely, 
 perfectly lovely but I don't think you could 
 quite have understood the advertisement. I 
 offered in exchange two dressed dolls. Do you 
 I mean did you mean that is, will you 
 
 Percy. It seems a little incongruous, I admit, 
 but you see I make it a business to answer 
 advertisements, and I risk the consequences. 
 Hem ! Hem ! 
 
 Mrs D. You have grandchildren I daresay ? 
 
 Percy, (aside). Happy thought ! (Aloud.) 
 Yes, I have grand children, of all ages and 
 sizes and shapes a large assortment on hand 
 (Aside.) What the dickens am I to say next? 
 (Aloud.) I am sure you will find it very good 
 fur very good fur indeed. In fact I make it 
 a business to answer all advertisements, and 
 I run all the risks. (Takes tJie dolls) 
 
 Mrs D. (aside). If he makes it a business 
 of course he expects to be paid. Now I 
 wouldn't mind paying if he'd get me back 
 my wedding ring. (Aloud.) You say you 
 make it a business. Do you find it answer ? 
 
 Percy. Perfectly. I answer it answers 
 like an echo. I rarely fail. I have negotiated 
 exchanges of all kinds ; I have recovered lost 
 articles of great value. 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 119 
 
 Mrs. D. (nervously). I have lost something 
 of great value to me at least In fact it's my 
 wedding-ring, and it's very awkward, as I have 
 been married, to be without my wedding-ring, 
 you know. I don't know what people will 
 think. Do you think you could recover that 
 for me ? I wouldn't mind what price I paid ! 
 
 Percy, (earnestly). Wouldn't you ? I haven't 
 a doubt I can, and if before to-morrow I have 
 not brought you back your ring I will give you 
 leave to laugh at me for an impostor and to 
 treat me accordingly ! 
 
 Mrs D. (aside). How very earnest he be- 
 comes over a matter of business. (Aloud.} 
 You are very wonderful. Is nothing too hard 
 for you ? 
 
 Percy. Nothing ! If you advertise " lost," I 
 will recover even a wedding-ring ! If you 
 advertise " wanted," I would procure the de- 
 sired article, even though it might be a 
 husband ! 
 
 Mrs D. (laughing). Supposing I wanted 
 anything so useless as a husband, how would 
 this sound ? " I want a Husband. I will give 
 my Liberty in exchange." Ha ! Ha ! 
 
 Percy, (very earnestly). Do you ? Will 
 you ? 
 
 Mrs D. (aside). I don't like his manner. 
 Where's Miss Fitkins, I wonder ? 
 
 Percy, (as before). And can you suppose 
 I would not answer that advertisement on the 
 spot ? (Partly pulls off his beard and bald head. 
 
1 20 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 Mrs D. screams?) Gwendolen ! Mrs De1a- 
 mere ! Don't you know me ? 
 
 Mrs D. Percy! Mr Penrhyn ! Good 
 Heavens! What is the meaning of this 
 strange this unaccountable I am totally 
 at a loss to understand your extraordinary 
 conduct. Explain yourself, Mr Penrhyn ! 
 
 Percy, (on one knee, still clasping the dolls}. 
 Mrs Delamere, won't you forgive me ? Won't 
 you make the exchange to which you referred 
 just now ? 
 
 Mrs D. No, Mr Penrhyn, I won't. I said 
 u supposing " and " if/' and I spoke simply in 
 jest. I have not advertised for a husband yet. 
 When I do, it will be time enough for you to 
 answer the advertisement. Now, pray get up 
 and don't make yourself ridiculous. You have 
 behaved in a most ungentlemanlike way. You 
 have forced yourself into my presence and taken 
 a mean advantage. Yes, Sir, I repeat it, a mean 
 advantage 
 
 Percy. But let me explain 
 
 Mrs D. I won't let you explain. Nothing 
 can excuse your unwarrantable behaviour in 
 thrusting yourself into my presence. The 
 best thing you can do is to go, and I beg you 
 will do so at once. 
 
 Percy. But if you only knew 
 
 Mrs D. I do know. I wish I didn't. Am I 
 to be compelled to leave the room first ? 
 Because if you don't, I shall. 
 
 Percy, (with great passion). No, I will not 
 
The Science of A dvertisemcnt. 1 2 1 
 
 annoy you by my presence a moment longer. 
 I will only say that if you will look in that box, 
 (points to box) you will find proofs of a 
 stronger devotion than is shown by most men 
 a constant desire to gratify your slightest 
 wish at any cost ! (Rushes out E. C., hugging the 
 dolls, his beard and bald head all awry.) 
 
 Mrs D. (marching up and down). Insinuat- 
 ing, unscrupulous, horrid, unprincipled wretch. 
 Forcing himself into my presence in that mean, 
 unmanly way ! And this is the man my father 
 would like me to marry! .Man did I say? 
 Serpent ! Devotion, such as is shown by few 
 other men a constant desire to gratify my 
 slightest wish ! the language of an unmiti- 
 gated serpent ? (Nearly tumbles over the box) 
 Bother the box ! What business has he to 
 feave a box here ? What did he mean by 
 telling me to look in that box ? Of course I 
 don't care, he's mad he must be mad but 
 still I should just like to see. (Pulls the box 
 forward and opens it) What are these? 
 Sketches ! Humph ! the artist hasn't much 
 notion of colour. Why, they're not yes, they 
 are no, they're not yes, they are. They're 
 my own that chattering idiot took in exchange 
 for the bracelet, and here are the old Greek 
 books, and the hideous Chinese idols, and 
 good gracious firearms ! (Screams and drops 
 a pistol?) The late Mr Delamere's great-aunt's 
 pistols ! Now, what does it all mean ? How 
 have they all got together like this ? (Suddenly 
 
1 2 2 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 springing up.) Oh! I know what it means i 
 Percy has answered all my advertisements 
 himself! He has made me presents of all 
 these beautiful things and taken my rubbish 
 himself. And there have I been writing a 
 book about rny scheme, and there's no scheme 
 at all in it. I shall tear the whole thing up. 
 (Tears up MS. and throws it on the floor^ 
 And it was very nice and devoted of him ; and 
 there are not many men who would do as 
 much; and he really is not at all bad-looking; 
 and of course it was only natural he should 
 come and see how I took it ; and the sable 
 muff and all ! And I've sent him away, and I 
 wouldn't listen, and he can revenge himself by 
 making a good story out of the whole thing, 
 and I shall be laughed at all over London, and 
 oh, Percy ! Percy ! I wish you'd come back and 
 we'd keep the secret of my scheme between us ! 
 (Begins to cry. Enter Miss Fitkins, E.C.) Oh ! 
 there's Miss Fitkins ! I musn't let her see me 
 like this. (Exit Mrs Z>., L. E.) 
 
 Miss F. Humph ! Mrs Delamere avoiding 
 my scrutiny. Mrs Delamere's drawing-room 
 carpet scattered with promiscuous articles ; 
 whether I may breathe it or not, there is 
 something in the wind. (Percy enters quietly, 
 E. C.) Mrs Delamere is negotiating another 
 exchange the exchange of my companionship 
 for that of (perceives Percy) Mr Penrhyn ! 
 
 Percy. If she only would exchange your 
 companionship for mine 1 (Aside.} She has 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 123 
 
 opened the box, I see. (Aloud.) Has Mrs 
 Delamere gone out ? 
 
 Miss F. Gone out ? Yes, Mr Penrhyn. 
 Gone out of her mind, I should say. 
 
 Percy. Not so bad as that, I hope. I've 
 found her lost ring. Do you think she would 
 be very angry at seeing me again ? 
 
 Miss F. Impossible to say, Mr Penrhyn. I 
 heard Mrs Delamere express a wish that you 
 would return. 
 
 Percy. Oh, she did. (Aside.) Then I shall 
 have another try with the ring. (Aloud.) 
 Would you mind letting Mrs Delamere know 
 that I am here. She needn't see me, of course, 
 if she'd rather not. 
 
 Miss F. Certainly, Mr Penrhyn. (Exit Miss 
 F., L.E) 
 
 Percy, (alone). So ! she wished me back 
 again. So far, so good. But I can't for the 
 life of me resist teasing her a little to pay her 
 out for the shameful way in which she has 
 treated me all along. (Enter Mrs D. Percy 
 takes no notice?) 
 
 Mrs D. What is the matter, Mr Penrhyn ? 
 (Pauses.) Has anything happened to put you 
 out ? (Pauses.) Percy are you dumb ? 
 
 Percy, (aside). It's "Percy" this time. 
 
 Mrs D. I'm afraid the way I treated you 
 just now may have made you angry. 
 
 Percy, (aside). Oh, you're beginning to 
 think so ! 
 
 Mrs D. Isn't it true, Percy ? 
 
1 24 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 Percy, (turning towards her). Yes ; since you 
 oblige me to speak, it is ; and I am come to 
 tell you that you shall not enjoy the pleasure 
 of triumphing over me. You shall not boast 
 that you have driven me away. I shall have 
 great difficulty in conquering my love for you, 
 but I shall conquer it ; and I would rather cut 
 my throat than be guilty of the weakness of 
 returning again to see you. (Going.} 
 
 Mrs D. But I want to tell you that the real 
 reason (Following him.} 
 
 Percy. I'd rather not hear it. (Going.) 
 
 Mrs D. But I assure you 
 
 Percy. I tell you no 
 
 Mrs D. But listen ! 
 
 Percy. I don't want to listen. 
 
 Mrs D. But Percy 
 
 Percy. No ! 
 
 Mrs D. Stop, do ! 
 
 Percy. No, I tell you. 
 
 Mrs D. Half-a-Minute. 
 
 Percy, (at the door). I can't. 
 
 Mrs D. (at the door). Just two words. 
 
 Percy. There's nothing more to be said. 
 
 Mrs D. (coming back}. Very well. If you 
 won't listen go. 
 
 Percy, (following). Let's hear then ? 
 
 Mrs D. (as before). Don't choose to tell 
 you now. 
 
 Percy, (as before}. Tell me 
 
 Mrs D. No ; shan't say anything. 
 
 Percy. Please do ! 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 125 
 
 Mrs D. No. 
 
 Percy. I entreat you ! 
 
 Mrs D. No, I tell you. 
 
 Percy. Gwendolen ! 
 
 Mrs D. Don't call me Gwendolen. 
 
 Percy. For pity's sake ! 
 
 Mrs D. I won't. 
 
 Percy. (turning and going.) Very well. 
 Vou have seen me for the last time. I shall 
 go far, far away to die of grief and love 
 (going.) 
 
 Mrs D. (following), Percy ! 
 
 Percy. Oh, don't call me Percy, please. 
 
 Mrs D. Where are you going ? 
 
 Percy. Where I told you. 
 
 Mrs D. Going to die ? 
 
 Percy. Yes to die since you wish it 
 
 Mrs D. I ? / wish you to die ? 
 
 Percy. Well, if you didn't, you'd give me the 
 explanation I ask for. 
 
 Mrs D. Give me yours first. That box of 
 things justifies me in asking. Afterwards you 
 shall have mine. 
 
 Percy. I have little to explain. Cast down 
 by your uncertain behaviour I thought I would 
 do something great to prove my devotion. I 
 knew your scheme. 
 
 Mrs D. Don't talk about my scheme. I 
 hate it ! 
 
 Percy. And I watched for your signature 
 " Cherryblossom." It was I who sent the 
 piano and the Chippendale sideboard 
 
1 26 The Science of Advertisement. 
 
 Mrs D. You did ! 
 
 Percy. I got my Aunt who is very fond of me 
 and of parrots to bring you the lace 
 
 Mrs D. Your Aunt ! 
 
 Percy. And I sent my friend Jemmy Fitz- 
 brass 
 
 Mrs D. Mr Fitzbrass ! 
 
 Percy. Yes, and there perhaps I was to 
 blame but when I came myself with the muff 
 I hardly thought you would have been so very 
 angry at the little deception I had practised. 
 But of course you were quite justified. 
 
 Mrs D. No I wasn't and I've been a great 
 goose and I treated you shamefully and I'm 
 very sorry and I want to know if you'll for- 
 give me ? 
 
 Percy, (aside). Oh hang it, you know! I 
 can't stand this sort of thing from her! 
 (Aloud.) Me ? I've nothing to forgive. I 
 came to ask your forgiveness, and to see if I 
 couldn't buy my pardon by bringing you this. 
 (Holds up her ring?) 
 
 Mrs D. My wedding ring ! Oh, I never ex- 
 pected that, and I don't deserve it ! 
 
 Percy. You'll grant me the promised reward, 
 won't you ? 
 
 Mrs D. There wasn't any particular reward 
 promised. 
 
 Percy. Then may I be allowed to claim one ? 
 
 Mrs D. Yes. 
 
 Percy. May I claim the privilege of re- 
 placing the ring on your finger ? May I, 
 
The Science of Advertisement. 127 
 
 Gwendolen ? I may call you Gwendolen now, 
 mayn't I ? 
 
 Mrs D. Yes, if you like, Percy. I will call 
 you Percy now. (A pause.) And you'll promise 
 me never to say a single word again about that 
 silly scheme of mine. 
 
 Percy. Just as you like about that, dearest, 
 but I shall bless it to my dying day. It was 
 my only chance of success. 
 
 Mrs D. But I made such exchanges ! And 
 Miss Fitkins knows. (Enter Miss Fitkins?) 
 
 Percy. Ah ! here she comes ! Miss Fitkins, 
 Mrs Delamere says that you know 
 
 Miss F. (significantly). I apprehend I do, 
 Mr Penrhyn, and I have come to inform Mrs 
 Delamere that I have taken a leaf out of her 
 book. 
 
 Mrs D. (pointing to torn MS. on the floor), 
 You're welcome to as many as you like. My 
 scheme has fallen to the ground. 
 
 Miss F. You misapprehend me, Mrs Delamere. 
 Shall we say, I have followed your lead. I have 
 advertised for a husband. 
 
 Mrs D. I never advertised for a husband. 
 
 Miss F. Not intentionally perhaps, Mrs 
 Delamere. I did. I put an advertisement in 
 the Matrimonial Herald 
 
 Mrs D. Well, I hope you may find it 
 answer. 
 
 Miss F. (triumphantly). It has answered, 
 Mrs Delamere. There it is. (Holds up a photo- 
 graph.} 
 
r 2 8 The Science of A dvertisement. 
 
 Mrs D. Oh really? Then I am to con- 
 gratulate you ? Dear Miss Fitkins, I'm sure I 
 wish you every happiness. {Shakes hands with 
 Miss F.\ 
 
 Miss F. Thank you, Mrs Delamere. The 
 same to you and many of them. 
 
 Percy, (taking Mrs D!s hands in his). You 
 won't mind my saying, just this once, will 
 you 
 
 Mrs D. I think I'd rather you didn't 
 
 Percy. Just this once and I'm sure Miss 
 Fitkins will agree with me that this really 
 has been the Science of Advertisement 
 
 AIL Properly understood. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 MRS D, PERCY. Miss R 
 
Y/l 0*751