pavement, if I did.

BERNSTEIN.

It looks very vine. [Quoting.] "Miss Gonstance Delaporte as Queen Honorine, in Otto Bernstein's new Gomic Opera, 'Pierrette,' her vurst abbearance in London."

MISS DYOTT.

Oh, how disgraceful!

BERNSTEIN.

Disgraceful! To sing such melodies! No—no, please. Disgraceful! Vy did you appeal to me, dree weeks ago, to put you in the vay of getting through the Christmas vacation?

MISS DYOTT.

[Tearfully.] You don't know everything. Sit down! I can trust you. You are my oldest friend, and were a pupil of my late eminent father. Mr. Bernstein, I am no longer a single woman.

BERNSTEIN.

Oh, I am very bleased. I wish you many happy returns of the—eh—no—I congratulate you.

MISS DYOTT.

I am married secretly—secretly, because my husband could never face the world of fashion as the consort of the proprietress of a scholastic establishment. You will gather from this that my husband is a gentleman.

BERNSTEIN.

H'm—so—is he?

MISS DYOTT.

It had been a long-cherished ambition with me, if ever I married, to wed no one but a gentleman. I do not mean a gentleman in a mere parliamentary sense—I mean a man of birth, blood, and breeding. Respect my confidence—I have wedded the Honourable Vere Queckett.

BERNSTEIN.

[Unconcernedly.] Ah! Is he a very nice man?

MISS DYOTT.

Nice! Mr. Bernstein, you are speaking of a brother of Lord Limehouse!

BERNSTEIN.

Oh, am I? Lord Limehouse—let me tink—he is very—very—vot you gall it?—very popular just now. Yah—yah—he is in the Bankruptcy Court!

MISS DYOTT.

[With pride.] Certainly. So is Harold Archideckne Queckett, Vere's youngest brother. So is Loftus Martineau Queckett, Vere's cousin. They have always been a very united family. But, dear Mr. Bernstein, you have accidentally probed the one—I won't say fault—the one most remarkable attribute of these great Saxon Quecketts.

BERNSTEIN.

Oh yes, I see; you have to pay your husband's leedle pills.

MISS DYOTT.

Quite so—that is it. I have the honour of being employed in the gradual discharge of liabilities incurred by Mr. Vere Queckett since the year 1876. I am also engaged in the noble task of providing Mr. Queckett with the elaborate necessities of his present existence.

BERNSTEIN.

I know now vy you vanted mine help.

MISS DYOTT.

Ah, yes! Volumnia College is not equal to the grand duty imposed upon it. It is absolutely necessary that I should increase my income. In my despair at facing this genial season I wrote to you.

BERNSTEIN.

Proposing to turn your cabital voice to account, eh?

MISS DYOTT.

Quite so—and suggesting that I should sing in your new Oratorio..

BERNSTEIN.

Well, you are going to do zo.

MISS DYOTT.

What! When you have induced me to figure in a comic opera!

BERNSTEIN.

Yah, yah—but I have told you I have used the music of my new Oratorio for my new Gomic Opera.

MISS DYOTT.

Ah, yes—that is my only consolation.

BERNSTEIN.

Vill your goot gentleman be in the stalls to-night?

MISS DYOTT.

In the stalls—at the theatre! Hush, Mr. Bernstein, it is a secret from Vere. Lest his suspicions should be aroused by my leaving home every evening, I have led him to think that I am visiting a clergyman's wife at Hereford. I shall really be lodging in Henrietta Street, Covent Garden.

BERNSTEIN.

Oh, vy not tell him all about it?

MISS DYOTT.

Nonsense! Vere is a gentleman; he would insist upon attending me to and from the theatre.

BERNSTEIN.

Veil, I should hope so.

MISS DYOTT.

No—no. He is himself a graceful dancer. A common chord of sympathy would naturally be struck between him and the coryphées. Oh, there is so much variety in Vere's character.

BERNSTEIN.

Veil, you are a plucky woman; you deserve to be happy zome day.

MISS DYOTT.

Happy! Think of the deception I am practising upon dear Vere! Think of the people who believe in the rigid austerity of Caroline Dyott, Principal of Volumnia College. Think of the precious confidence reposed in me by the parents and relations of twenty-seven innocent pupils. Give an average of eight and a half relations to each pupil; multiply eight and a half by twenty-seven and you approximate the number whose trust I betray this night!

BERNSTEIN.

Yes, but tink of the audience you will delight tonight in my Oratorio—I mean my Gomic Opera. Oh, that reminds me. [Taking out a written paper from a pocket-book.] Here are two new verses of the Bolitical Song for you to commit to memory before this evening. They are extremely goot.

MISS DYOTT.

Looking at the paper. Mr. Bernstein, surely here is a veiled allusion to—yes, I thought so. Oh, the unwarrantable familiarity! I can't—I can't—even vocally allude to a perfect stranger as the Grand Old Man!

BERNSTEIN.

Oh, now, now—he von't mind dat!

MISS DYOTT.

But the tendency of the chorus—[reading] "Doesn't he wish he may get it!" is opposed to my stern political convictions! Oh, what am I coming to? [Queckett's voice is heard.]

QUECKETT.

[Calling outside.] Caroline! Caroline!

MISS DYOTT.

Here's Vere! [Hurriedly to Bernstein.] Goodbye, dear Mr. Bernstein—you understand why I cannot present you.

BERNSTEIN.

[Bustling.] Good-bye—till to-night. Marks my vord, you vil make a great hit.

QUECKETT.

[Calling.] Caroline!

MISS DYOTT.

[Unlocking the centre door.] Go—let yourself out.

BERNSTEIN.

Goot luck to you!

MISS DYOTT.

[Opening the door.] Yes, yes.

BERNSTEIN.

And success to my new Oratorio—I mean my Gomic Opera.

MISS DYOTT.

Oh, go! [She pushes him out and closes the door, leaning against it faintly.]

QUECKETT.

[Rattling the other door.] I say, Caroline!

MISS DYOTT.

[Calling to him.] Is that my darling Vere?

QUECKETT.

[Outside.] Yes. [She comes to the other door, unlocks and opens it. Vere Queckett enters. He is a fresh, breezy, dapper little gentleman of about forty-five, with fair curly hair, a small waxed moustache, and a simple boyish manner. He is dressed in the height of fashion and wears a flower in his coat, and an eyeglass.]

QUECKETT.

Good-morning, Caroline, good-morning.

MISS DYOTT.

How is my little pet to-day? [Kissing his cheek, which he turns to her for the purposed] Naughty Vere is down later than usual. It isn't my fault, dear, the florist was late in sending my flower.

MISS DYOTT.

What a shame!

QUECKETT.

[Shaking out a folded silk handkerchief.] Oh, by-the-bye, Carrie, I want some fresh perfume in my bottles.

MISS DYOTT.

My Vere shall have it.

QUECKETT.

Thank you—thank you. [Sitting before the fire, opening the newspaper, and humming a tune.] Let me see—let me see. Ah, here we are—"Court of Bankruptcy—before the Official Receiver." Lime-house came up again for hearing yesterday. How they bother him! They bothered me in '75. Now, here's a coincidence, Carrie. In 1875 my assets were nil—in 1885 dear old Bob's assets are nil. Now that's deuced funny.

MISS DYOTT.

Vere, dear, have you forgotten what to-day is?

QUECKETT.

[Referring to the head of paper.] December the twenty-second.

MISS DYOTT.

Yes, but it's the day on which I am to quit my Verey.

QUECKETT.

Oh, you've stuck to going, then! Well, I daresay you're right, you know. You've a very bad cold. Nothing like change for a bad