cold—change of scene, change of pocket-handkerchiefs, and so on.

MISS DYOTT.

But you don't say anything about your own lonely Christmas. I have married a man who is too unselfish.

[The centre door opens slightly, and the heads of the three girls, Peggy, Gwendoline, and Ermyntrude appear one above the other, spying.]

QUECKETT.

[Putting down his paper.] Lonely? By Jove, these inquisitive pupils of yours won't let a fellow be lonely! Upon my soul, they are vexing girls.

MISS DYOTT.

But they are a source of income, dear.

QUECKETT.

They are a source of annoyance. I've never had the measles. I've half a mind to catch it and give it to 'em. Now if I could only while away my evenings somewhere, these vexing girls wouldn't so much matter. [He rises, the heads disappear, and the door closes. Listening.] What was that?

MISS DYOTT.

The front door, I think.

QUECKETT.

I thought it might be those vexing girls—they're always prying about. I was going to say, Carrie, why not let me withdraw my resignation at the Junior Amalgamated Club and continue my membership?

MISS DYOTT.

Ten guineas a year for such an object I cannot afford and will not pay, Vere.

QUECKETT.

Upon my soul, I might just as well be nobody, the way I'm treated.

MISS DYOTT.

Oh, my king, don't say that! Have you thought about the Christmas expenses?

QUECKETT.

Frankly, my dear, I have not.

MISS DYOTT.

Have you forgotten that my rent is due on Friday?

QUECKETT.

Completely.

MISS DYOTT.

And then think—only think of your boots!

QUECKETT.

Oh, dash it all—what man of any position ever thinks of his boots? [Producing a letter.] The fact is, Caroline, I have had a note—sent on to me from the club—from my friend, Jack Mallory. He is first-lieutenant on the "Pandora," you know, and just home after four years at Malta. He reached London yesterday, and writes me—[Reading] "Now, old chap, do let's have one of our old rollicking nights together, and"—

MISS DYOTT.

What!

QUECKETT.

Eh? [Correcting himself ] He writes me—[Referring to the letter.] "Now, old chap, do let me give you the details of our new self-loading eighty-ton gun." Well, Carrie, what the deuce am I to do? It seems a nice gun. [She shrugs her shoulders.] Carrie, what is your Vere to do? [She makes no answer, he approaches her and touches her on the shoulder.']Carrie. Carrie, look at your Vere. Vere speaks to you. [He sits on her lap, she looks up affectionately.] Carrie, darling, you know old Jack is such a devil—

MISS DYOTT.

Eh?

QUECKETT.

A nice devil, you know—an exceedingly nice devil. Now I can't show up at the Club after sending in my resignation—they'd quiz me awfully. But I must entertain poor old Jack. [Coaxingly.] Eh? Resignation sent in through misunderstanding, eh? [Pinching her cheek.] Ten little ginny. winnies, eh?

MISS DYOTT.

Not a ginny-winriy! For a Club, not half a ginny-winny!

QUECKETT.

Caroline, you forget what is due to me.

MISS DYOTT.

I wish I could forget what is due to everybody. Don't be cross, Vere. I'll fetch your hat and coat, and Vere shall go out for his little morning stroll. And if he promises not to be angry with his Caroline, there are five shillings to spend. [She gives him some silver; he looks up beamingly again.]

QUECKETT.

My darling!

MISS DYOTT.

[Taking his face between her hands and kissing him.] Um—you spoilt boy! [She runs out.]

QUECKETT.

Now what am I to do about Jack? I can't ask him here. Carrie would never allow it, and if she would I couldn't stand the chaff about marrying a Boarding School. No, I can't ask Jack here. Why can't I ask Jack here? Everybody in bed at nine o'clock—square the boy Tyler to wait. Bachelor lodgings, near Portland Place. Extremely good address. Jack shall give me the details of that eighty-ton gun. Yes—and we'll load it, too. While I'm out I'll send this wire to Jack.

QUECKETT.

[Taking a telegraph form from the stationery-cabinet, and writing.] "Come up to-night, dear old boy. Nine-thirty, sharp. Diggings of humble bachelor. 80, Duke Street, Portland Place. Bring two or three good fellows. Vere." How much does that come to? [Counting the words rapidly.] One—two—three—four—five—no. [Getting confused.] One—two—three—four—five—six—no. One—two—three—four—five—six. [Counting to the end.] I think it is one and something half-penny—but it's all luck under the new regulations. Oh, and I haven't addressed it! Where's Jack's letter? [He takes the letter from his pocket. Peggy enters quietly. Seeing Queckett, she draws back, watching him.]

PEGGY.

[To herself] What is he doing now—the Guy Fawkes?

QUECKETT.

[Referring to the letter.] Ah, "Rovers' Club"! [Addressing the telegram.] "John Mallory, Rover's Club." Let me see—that's in Green Street, Piccadilly. [Writing.] "Green Street, Piccadilly." Or am I thinking of the "Stragglers'"? I've a Club list upstairs—I'll go and look at it. [Humming an air, he shuts up the telegraph form in the blotting-book, and rises, still with his back to Peggy.] I feel so happy! [He goes out.]

PEGGY.

[Advances to the blotting-book, carrying some luggage labels.] Miss Dyott has sent me to address her luggage labels. I am compelled to open that blotting-book. [She sits on the chair lately vacated by Queckett, and opens the blotting-book mischievously with her forefinger and thumb. Seeing the telegraph form.] Ah! [Reading it greedily, with exclamations.] Oh! "Dear old boy!" Oh! "Diggings of humble bachelor!" Oh! "Bring two or three good fellows!" Oh-oh! [Sticking the telegraph form prominently against the stationery cabinet, facing her, and addressing a luggage label.] "Miss Dyott, passenger to Hereford."

QUECKETT.

[Re-entering gaily.] It is in Green Street, Piccadilly.

[He sees Peggy, and stands perplexed, twisting his little moustache.]

PEGGY.

[Writing solemnly.] "Miss Dyott, passenger to Hereford."

QUECKETT.

[Coughing anxiously.] H'm! I fancy I left an eighty-ton gun—I mean, I think I've mislaid a—er——-[Without looking up, Peggy re-adjusts the telegraph form against the cabinet.] Oh! H'm! That's it. [He makes one or two fidgety attempts to take it, when Peggy rises with it in her hand. She reads it silently, forming the words with her lips.] Oh, you vexing girl! What do you think of doing about it? [She commences to fold the form very neatly.] You know I sha'n't send it. I never meant to send it. I say, I shall not send it. [Nervously holding out his hand.] Shall I? [Peggy doubles up the form into another fold without speaking.] You are a vexing girl.

MISS DYOTT.

[Calling outside.] Miss Hesslerigge! [Peggy quietly slips the telegraph form into her pocket.]

QUECKETT.

Oh! You won't tell my wife? You will not dare to tell my wife! [Mildly.] Will you?

MISS DYOTT.

[Calling again.] Miss Hesslerigge!

QUECKETT.

[In agony.] Oh! [Between his teeth.] Do you—do you know any bad language?

PEGGY.

I went to the Lord Mayor's Show once; I heard a little.

QUECKETT.

Then I regret to say I use it to you, Miss Hesslerigge—I use it to you! [Miss Dyott enters, carrying Queckett's hat, gloves and overcoat.]

MISS DYOTT.

You can address the labels in another room, Miss Hesslerigge, please.

QUECKETT.

[To himself.] Will she tell?