The curtain will be lowered for a few moments in the course of the Second Act.

THE “MIND THE PAINT”
GIRL

THE FIRST ACT

The scene is a drawing-room, prettily but somewhat showily decorated. The walls are papered with a design representing large clusters of white and purple lilac. The furniture is covered with a chintz of similar pattern, and the curtains, carpet, and lamp-shades correspond.

In the wall facing the spectator are two windows, and midway between the windows there is the entrance to a conservatory. The conservatory, which is seen beyond, is of the kind that is built out over the portico of a front-door, and is plentifully stocked with flowers and hung with a velarium and green sun-blinds. In the right-hand wall there is another window and, nearer the spectator, a console-table supporting a high mirror; and in the wall on the left, opposite the console-table, there is a double-door opening into the room, the further half of which only is used.

In the entrance to the conservatory, to the right, there is a low, oblong tea-table at which are placed three small chairs; and near-by, on the left, are a grand-piano and a music-stool. Against the piano there is a settee, and on the extreme left, below the door, there is an arm-chair with a little round table beside it. At the right-hand window in the wall at the back is another settee, and facing this window and settee there is a smaller arm-chair.

Not far from the fire-place there is a writing-table with a telephone-instrument upon it. A chair stands at the writing-table, its back to the window in the wall on the right; and in front of the table, opposing the settee by the piano, there is a third settee. On the left of this settee, almost in the middle of the room, is an arm-chair; and closer to the settee, on its right, are two more arm-chairs. Other articles of furniture—a cabinet, “occasional” chairs, etc., etc.—occupy spaces against the walls.

On the piano, on the console-table and cabinet, on the settee at the back, on the round table, and upon the floor, stand huge baskets of flowers, and other handsome floral devices in various forms, with cards attached to them; and lying higgledy-piggledy upon the writing-table are a heap of small packages, several little cases containing jewellery, and a litter of paper and string. The packages and the cases of jewellery are also accompanied by cards or letters.

A fierce sunlight streams down upon the velarium, and through the green blinds, in the conservatory.

[Note: Throughout, “right” and “left” are the spectators’ right and left, not the actor’s.]

Lord Farncombe, his gloves in his hand, is seated in the arm-chair in the middle of the room. He is a simple-mannered, immaculately dressed young man in his early twenties, his bearing and appearance suggesting the soldier. He rises expectantly as Gladys, a flashy parlourmaid in a uniform, shows in Lionel Roper, a middle-aged individual of the type of the second-class City man.

Roper.

To Farncombe. Hul-lo! I’m in luck! Just the chap I’m hunting for. Shaking hands with Farncombe. How d’ye do, Lord Farncombe?

Farncombe.

How are you, Roper?

Gladys.

To Roper, languidly. I’ll tell Mrs. Upjohn you’re here.

Roper.

Ta. Gladys withdraws. Phew, it’s hot!

Farncombe.

Miss Parradell’s out.

Roper.

Taking off his gloves. She won’t be long, I dare say.

Farncombe.

I’ve brought her a few flowers.

Roper.

Have you? I’ve sent her a trifle of jewellery.

Farncombe.

Glancing at the writing-table. She seems to have received a lot of jewellery.

Roper.

Bustling across to the table. By Jove, doesn’t she! Ah, there’s my brooch!

Farncombe.

Modestly. I didn’t consider I’d a right to offer her anything but flowers, on so slight an acquaintance.

Roper.

Exactly; but I’m an old friend, you know. Turning to Farncombe. Perhaps, by her next birthday——

Farncombe.

Smiling. I hope so.

Roper.

Approaching Farncombe and taking him by the lapel of his coat. What I want to say to you is, doing anything to-night?

Farncombe.

I—I shall be at the theatre.

Roper.

Oh, we shall all be at the theatre, to shout Many Happy Returns. Later, I mean.

Farncombe.

Nothing that I can’t get out of.

Roper.

Good. Look here. Smythe is giving her a bit of supper in the foyer after the show, a dance on the stage to follow. About five-and-twenty people. ’Ull you come?

Farncombe.

If Mr. Smythe is kind enough to ask me——

Roper.

He does ask you, through me. He’s left all the arrangements to me and Morrie Cooling. Carlton never did anything in his life; I egged him on to this. I’ve been sweating at it since eleven o’clock this morning. Haven’t been near the City; not near it. Well?

Farncombe.

His eyes glowing. I shall be delighted.

Roper.

Splendid. Been trying to get on to you all day. I’ve called twice at your club and at St. James’s Place.

Farncombe.

Sorry you’ve had so much trouble.

Roper.

Dropping on to the settee in front of the writing-table and wiping his brow. There’ll be the Baron, Sam de Castro, Bertie Fulkerson, Stew Heneage, Jerry Grimwood, Dwarf Kennedy, Colonel and Mrs.

Farncombe.

I—I should like to.

Roper.

Because if Jeyes should happen to drop in while you’re here——

Farncombe.

Captain Jeyes?

Roper.

Nicko Jeyes—or if you knock up against him to-night at the theatre—mum about this.

Farncombe.

About the supper?

Roper.

Nodding. Um. We don’t want Nicko Jeyes; we simply don’t want him. And if he heard that you and some of the boys are coming, he might wonder why he isn’t included.

Farncombe.

He strikes me as being rather a surly, ill-conditioned person.

Roper.

A regular loafer.

Farncombe.

He appears to live at Catani’s. I never go there without meeting him.

Roper.

Exactly. Catani’s and a top, back bedroom in Jermyn Street, and hanging about the Pandora; that’s Nicko Jeyes’s life.

Farncombe.

He’s an old friend of Mrs. Upjohn’s and Miss Parradell’s too, isn’t he?

Roper.

Evasively. Known ’em some time. That’s it; Lily’s so faithful to her old friends.

Farncombe.

Smiling. You oughtn’t to complain of that.

Roper.

Oh, but I’m a real friend. I’ve always been a patron of the musical drama—it’s my fad; and I’ve kept an eye on Lily from the moment she sprang into prominence— singing “Mind the paint! Mind the paint!” —looked after her like a father. Uncle Lal she calls me. Reassuringly. I’m a married man, you know; Farncombe nods but the wife has plenty to occupy her with the kids and she leaves the drama to me. She prefers Bexhill. Leaning forward and speaking with great earnestness. Farncombe, what a charming creature!

Farncombe.

Innocently. Mrs. Roper?

Roper.

No, no, no; Lily. Hastily. Oh, and so’s my missus, for that matter, when she chooses. But Lily Upjohn——!

Farncombe.

In a low voice. Beautiful; perfectly beautiful.

Roper.

Yes, and as good as she’s beautiful; you take it from me. With a wave of the hand. Well, if you see Jeyes, you won’t——?

Farncombe.

Not a word.

Roper.

Rising and walking away to the left. I’ve warned the others. Returning to Farncombe who has also risen. By-the-bye, if Lily should mention the supper in the course of conversation, remember, she’s not in the conspiracy.

Farncombe.

Conspiracy?

Roper.

To shunt Nicko. We’re letting her think there are to be no outsiders.

Farncombe.

Becoming slightly puzzled by Roper’s manner. Why, would she very much like Captain Jeyes to be asked?

Roper.

Rather impatiently. Haven’t I told you, once you’re a friend of Lil’s——! Looking towards the door. Is this Ma? Mrs. Upjohn enters. Hul-lo, Ma!

Mrs. Upjohn.

A podgy little, gaily dressed woman of five-and-fifty with a stupid, good-humoured face. ’Ullo, Uncle!

Roper.

Lord Farncombe——

Mrs. Upjohn.

Advancing and shaking hands with Farncombe. Glad to see you ’ere again. You ’ave been before, ’aven’t you?

Farncombe.

Last week.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Of course; you came with Mr. Bertie Fulkerson. But somebody or other’s always poppin’ in. Pleasantly. Lil sees too many, I say. It’s tirin’ for ’er. Won’t you set?

Roper.

Lord Farncombe’s brought Lily some flowers, Ma. To Farncombe. Where are they?

Farncombe.

Who, after waiting for Mrs. Upjohn to settle herself upon the settee in front of the writing-table, sits in the chair at the end of the settee—pointing to a large basket of flowers. On the piano.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Barely glancing at the flowers. ’Ow kind of ’im! Sech a waste o’ money too! They do go off so quick.

Roper.

Reading the cards attached to the various floral gifts. Where is Lil?

Mrs. Upjohn.

She’s settin’ to a risin’ young artist in Fitzroy Street—Claude Morgan. She won’t be ’ome till past five. So tirin’ for ’er.

Roper.

Never heard of Morgan.

Mrs. Upjohn.

No, nor anybody else. That’s what I tell ’er. Why waste your time givin’ settin’s to a risin’ young artist when the big men ’ud go down on their ’ands and knees to do you? But that’s Lil all over. She’s the best-natured girl in the world, and so she gets imposed on all round.

Farncombe.

Gallantly. I prophesy that Mr. Morgan’s picture of Miss Parradell won’t have dried before he’s quite famous.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Turning a pair of dull eyes full upon him. ’Ow do you mean?

Farncombe.

Disconcerted. Er—I mean—

Mrs. Upjohn.

Why won’t it ’ave dried?

Farncombe.

I mean he will have become celebrated before it has dried.

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Is pictures never do dry, you mean?

Roper.

No, no, Ma!

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Owever, it doesn’t matter. ’E isn’t even goin’ to put ’er name to it.

Roper.

Why not?

Mrs. Upjohn.

You may well ask. ’E’s bent on callin’ it “The ‘Mind the Paint’ Girl.”

Roper.

What’s wrong with that? Everybody’ll recognise who that is.

Unconvinced. ’Er name’s printed on all ’er photos.

Farncombe.

The first time I had the pleasure of seeing your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Upjohn, a man next to me said, “Here comes the ‘Mind the Paint’ girl.”

Mrs. Upjohn.

Cheering up. Oh, well, p’r’aps young Morgan knows ’is own business best. Let’s ’ope so, at any rate.

Roper.

By the tea-table, beckoning to Farncombe. Farncombe——

Farncombe.

To Roper. Eh? To Mrs. Upjohn, rising. Excuse me.

Farncombe joins Roper, whereupon Mrs. Upjohn goes to the writing-table and, seating herself there, examines the jewellery delightedly.

Roper.

To Farncombe, in a whisper. Do me a favour.

Farncombe.

Certainly.

Roper.

Looking at his watch. It’s only half-past four. Take a turn round the Square. I’ve some business to talk over with the old lady.

Farncombe.

Nodding to Roper and then coming forward and addressing Mrs. Upjohn. I—er—I think I’ll go for a little walk and come back later on, if I may.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Contentedly. Oh, jest as you like.

Farncombe.

Moving towards the door. In about a quarter-of-an-hour.

Mrs. Upjohn.

If we don’t see you again, I’ll tell Lil you’ve been ’ere.

Farncombe.

At the door. Oh, but you will; you will see me again.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Well, please yourself and you please your dearest friend, as Lil’s dad used to say.

Farncombe.

Thank you—thank you very much.

He disappears, closing the door after him.

Mrs. Upjohn.

To Roper, looking up. I b’lieve you gave that young man the ’int to go, Uncle.

Roper.

I did; told him I wanted to talk business with you.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Business? Resuming her inspection of the trinkets. This is a ’andsome thing Mr. Grimwood’s sent ’er.

Roper.

His hands in his trouser-pockets, contemplating Mrs. Upjohn desperately. Upon my soul, Ma, you’re a champion!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Now wot ’ave I done!

Roper.

Well, you might spread yourself a little over young Farncombe.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Spread myself! Why should I?

Roper.

Lord Farncombe!

Mrs. Upjohn.

I treat ’em all alike; so does Lil. ’E’s not the first title we’ve ’ad ’ere, not by a dozen.

Roper.

No, but damn it all—! I beg your pardon——

Mrs. Upjohn.

Beaming. So you ought—swearin’ like a trooper.

Roper.

This chap’s in love with her.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Oh, they’re all in love with ’er; or ’ave been, one time or another.

Roper.

Yes, but they’re not all Farncombes and they’re not all marrying men. I’m prepared to bet my boots that if Lil and young Farncombe could be thrown together——! Sitting on the settee in front of the writing-table as Mrs. Upjohn rises and comes forward. Here! Do talk it over.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Placidly. Where’s the use o’ talkin’ it over? It’s wastin’ one’s breath. Moving to the settee by the piano. My Lil doesn’t want to marry—any’ow not yet awhile; she’s ’appy and contented as she is. Sitting and smoothing out her skirt. When she does, I s’pose it’ll be the Captain.

Roper.

Between his teeth. The Captain! Quietly. Ma, the day Lil marries Nicko Jeyes, you and she’ll see the last o’ me.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Oh, don’t say that, Uncle.

Roper.

I do say it. The disappointment ’ud be more than I could stand. Selfish, designing beggar!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Now, no low abuse.

Roper.

A fellow who gets on the soft side of Lil before she’s out of her teens—before she’s made any position to speak of; and when she has made a position, and he’s practically on his uppers, sticks to her like a limpet!

Mrs. Upjohn.

She sticks to ’im, too. It meant a deal to Lil in ’er ’umble days, reck’lect—receivin’ attentions from a gentleman in the army. She doesn’t forget that.

Roper.

Jumping up and walking about. It’s cruel; that’s what it is—it’s cruel. Here’s Gwennie Harker and Maidie Trevail both married to peers’ sons, and Eva Shafto to a baronet—all of ’em Pandora girls; and Lil—she’s left high and dry, engaged to a nobody! It’s cruel!

Mrs. Upjohn.

She’s not ackshally engaged.

Roper.

Ho, ho!

Mrs. Upjohn.

The ideer was, when ’e shirked goin’ to India an’ gave up soldierin’, so as to be near ’er, that ’e should get something to do in London; then they were to be engaged.

Roper.

Sarcastically. Oh, to be just, I admit he’s in no hurry. He’s been a whole year looking for something to do in London—looking for it at Catani’s and at the Pandora bars!

Mrs. Upjohn.

’E ’as to be on the spot at night, to bring Lil ’ome after ’er work.

Roper.

Exactly! And when a decent, eligible young chap comes along, and means business, he’s choked off by finding Nicko Jeyes in possession. Stopping before Mrs. Upjohn. But, I say!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Wot?

Roper.

Farncombe hasn’t tumbled to it yet.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Indifferently. ’Asn’t ’e?

Roper.

Bertie Fulkerson’s held his tongue about it; so have the other boys who’re friends of Farncombe’s. They see he’s hard hit. Enthusiastically. Oh, they’re good boys; they’re good, loyal boys! There’s not one of them who wouldn’t

Mrs. Upjohn.

Startled. Hey?

Roper.

Dropping his voice. This little spree to-night at the theatre—Lil thinks it’s to be merely among the members of the Company.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Ain’t it?

Roper.

Sitting beside her. You keep quiet, now. No, it isn’t.

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Oo——?

Roper.

The boys—and Farncombe.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Disturbed. Gracious! There’ll be an awful fuss with the Captain to-morrer.

Roper.

Snapping his fingers. Pishhh!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Rising and walking away to the right. ’E’s so ’orribly jealous. When Lil tells ’im ’oo was at the party, there’ll be a frightful kick-up!

Roper.

Falling into despondency. Oh, I dare say I’m a fool for my pains, Ma. Nothing’ll come of it. Rising and pacing the room again. Farncombe’s as shy as a school-girl; he’d be on a desert island with a pretty woman for a month without squeezing her hand.

Mrs. Upjohn.

In an altered tone. Uncle.

Roper.

Hullo!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Thoughtfully. I shouldn’t raise any objection, bear in mind, if Lil could be weaned away from the Captain and took a fancy to young Farncombe.

Roper.

Objection!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Sitting on the settee in front of the writing-table. All said an’ done, to be Lady F., with no need to work if you’re not disposed to, is better than bein’ Mrs. Captain Jeyes an’ ’avin’ to linger on the stage, p’r’aps, till you drop, to ’elp keep the pot a’ boilin’. Opening her eyes widely. Lady F.!

Roper.

Coming to her. And Countess of Godalming when his father dies.

Mrs. Upjohn.

I s’pose there’d be any amount of unpleasantness with the fam’ly?

Roper.

Disdainfully. The family!

Mrs. Upjohn.

There’s generally a rumpus in sech cases.

Roper.

Why, Ma, these tiptop families ought to feel jolly grateful that we’re mixing the breed for them a bit. Look at the two lads who’ve married Gwennie Harker and Maidie Trevail—Kinterton and Glenroy; and Fawcus—Sir George Fawcus—Eva Shafto’s husband; they haven’t a chin or a forehead between ’em, and their chests are as narrow as a ten-inch plank.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Quite true.

Roper.

Farncombe himself, he’s inclined to be weedy. I maintain it’s a grand thing for our English nobs that their slips of sons have taken to marrying young women of the stamp of Maidie Trevail and Gwennie Harker—or Lil; keen-witted young women full of the joy of life, with strong frames, beautiful hair and fine eyes, and healthy pink gums and big white teeth. Sneer at the Pandora girls! Great Scot, it’s my belief that the Pandora girls’ll be the salvation of the aristocracy in this country in the long run!

Captain Nicholas Jeyes lounges in. He is a man of about five-and-thirty, already slightly grey-haired, who has gone to seed. Roper sits in the chair in the middle of the room rather guiltily and Mrs. Upjohn puts on a propitiatory grin.

Jeyes.

Nodding to Mrs. Upjohn and Roper as he closes the door. Afternoon, Mrs. Upjohn. How’r’you, Roper?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Ah, Captain!

Roper.

Hullo, Nicko!

Jeyes.

Advancing. Lily not in?

Mrs. Upjohn.

No; she’s in Fitzroy Street, settin’ to Morgan.

Jeyes.

Frowning. Why didn’t she ask me to go with her?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Dun’no, I’m sure. She’s took Miss Birch.

Jeyes.

With a grunt. Oh? Looking round. Flowers.

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Eaps of ’em, ain’t there?

Roper.

Jerking his head towards the writing-table. Yes, and some nice presents over here.

Mrs. Upjohn.

She’s beat ’er record this year, Lil ’as, out an’ out.

Jeyes goes to the writing-table and Roper and Mrs. Upjohn rise and wander away, the former to the conservatory, the latter to the settee by the piano.

Jeyes.

Scowling at the presents. Very nice. Picking up a case of jewellery. Ve-ry nice. Throwing the case down angrily. Confound ’em, what the devil do they take her for!

Roper.

At the entrance to the conservatory. I may remark that one of those gifts is from me, Jeyes.

Jeyes.

Oh, I’m not alluding to you.

Roper.

Stiffly. Much obliged.

Jeyes.

Coming forward and addressing Mrs. Upjohn. I’ve called in to ask Lily whether she’ll come out to supper with me to-night, to Catani’s, to celebrate her birthday. Luigi’s decorating a table for me specially. Mr. and Mrs. Linthorne’ll come, and Jack Wethered. To Roper. Are you free, Roper? Mrs. Upjohn sits uneasily on the settee by the piano and Roper finds some object to interest him near the tea-table. I suppose it’s no good asking you, Mrs. Upjohn?

Mrs. Upjohn.

N-n-o, thank you, Captain, and I—I’m afraid——

Jeyes.

Afraid——?

Mrs. Upjohn.

I’m afraid Lil can’t manage it either.

Jeyes.

Why not?

Mrs. Upjohn.

I—I’m surprised she didn’t mention it to you ’erself when you brought ’er ’ome last night.

Jeyes.

Mention what?

Mrs. Upjohn.

They’re givin’ ’er a supper to-night at the theatre.

Jeyes.

The theatre?

Roper.

Advancing. Yes, Carlton’s standing a little spread in

Jeyes.

When was it fixed up?

Roper.

Late last night.

Jeyes.

The fact is, Lily and I had a slight tiff coming home last night. Sitting on the settee in front of the writing-table. Ha! I suppose she kept it from me to pay me out. Sharply. Who’s invited?

Roper.

Er—only the principal members of the Company, I understand.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Moistening her lips with her tongue. Yes, only the members of the Company, Lil says.

Roper.

With Morrie Cooling and Vincent Bland thrown in.

Jeyes.

Looking at Roper. You seem to know a lot about it, Roper.

Roper.

I was behind when Morrie was going round to the dressing-rooms.

Jeyes.

To Roper, suspiciously. Are you asked?

Roper.

Taken aback. E—eh?

Jeyes.

Are you asked?

Roper.

With an attempt at airiness. Oh, yes, they’ve dragged me into it.

Jeyes.

Since when have you been a member of the Company?

Roper.

No, but—dash it, I’ve done business for Carlton in the City for twenty years or more——!

Jeyes.

That doesn’t make you one.

Roper.

And I’m an old friend of Lil’s.

Jeyes.

Not older than I. Violently. Why the blazes doesn’t Smythe invite me?

Roper.

Extending his arms. My dear Nicko, I’m not giving the party. Really, you do jump down a man’s throat——!

Jeyes.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Leaning back and thrusting his hands into his pocket. Well, I’ll put Jack and the Linthornes off. They don’t want to sup with me; I shouldn’t amuse ’em. Gazing at the carpet. Her birthday, though! It’ll be the first time I shall have been out of that for—how many years?—six years. I—— Raising his head, he detects Mrs. Upjohn and Roper eyeing each other uncomfortably. Anything the matter?

Roper.

T-t-the matter?

Jeyes.

Taking his hands from his pockets and sitting upright. Any game on?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Game?

Jeyes.

At my expense?

Mrs. Upjohn.

I dun’no wot you’re drivin’ at, Captain.

Jeyes.

Harshly. How long’s Lily sitting this afternoon?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Till five.

Jeyes.

Looking at his watch. What’s Morgan’s number in Fitzroy Street?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Sixty.

Jeyes.

Rising. I’ll fetch her.

As he makes a movement towards the door, it is thrown open and Lily Parradell enters with a rush—an entrancing vision of youth, grace, and beauty. She is followed by Jimmie Birch, a petite, bright-eyed girl in an extremely chic costume.

Lily.

Tearing off her gloves as she enters. Wh-e-e-w! I’m dead! Giving her hand to Jeyes carelessly. Ah, Nicko! To Mrs. Upjohn. I couldn’t stand the heat in the studio any longer, mother. Finding Roper beside her, she offers her cheek to him and he kisses it. Mon Oncle!

Jimmie.

Closing the door. That young man Morgan ought to paint the infernal regions.

Lily.

Taking her scarf from her shoulder. He might finish with the angels first, though. To Jeyes, softly, as Roper turns to shake hands with Jimmie. You in a better temper to-day?

Jeyes.

In her ear. You drove me wild last night.

Lily.

Making a face at him. Served you right. Passing him. For God’s sake, let me lie down. She throws herself upon the settee in front of the writing-table, and Jeyes moves away as Mrs. Upjohn and Roper go to her. Don’t come near me. Give me my fan. Jimmie, where’s my fan?

Jimmie.

Oh, I’ve left it in Fitzroy Street!

Lily.

Beast!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Hurrying to the writing-table. There’s one ’ere, among your presents.

Lily.

Unpinning her hat. Uncle Lal, what an adorable ring that is you’ve sent me!

Roper.

Taking the fan from Mrs. Upjohn. Ring! A brooch!

Lily.

Somebody’s sent me a ring.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Sitting in the chair at the end of the settee by the writing-table. There’s three rings.

Lily.

Of course! One of them’s from Nicko! To Jeyes. Did you get my sweet telegram, Nicko?

Jeyes.

Who has greeted Jimmie and is now seated in the chair on the extreme left—sulkily. I had your telegram, but it’s a pendant I sent you.

Jimmie.

Sitting upon the settee by the piano and pulling off her gloves. Ha, ha, ha!

Lily.

You shut up, Jimmie. Snatching the fan from Roper. How on earth am I to remember! Fanning herself. Who’s given me this pretty thing?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Mr. Monty Levine.

Lily.

Bless him! He’s a dear little man, though he does bite his nails. Gladys appears with Vincent Bland, who saunters in after her. Seeing Lily, Gladys advances to her. Hallo, Vincent!

Bland.

A thin, delicate looking man of eight-and-thirty, not over smartly dressed, wearing an eye-glass—nodding to Lily casually. You needn’t have cut me, almost on your door-step. To Jimmie and Jeyes. H’lo, Jimmie! H’lo, Nicko!

Gladys.

Viewing Lily with an elevation of the brows. Oh, are you home?

Lily.

Returning Gladys’s stare. Apparently.

Gladys.

I’ll whistle up to Maud.

Lily.

Don’t, if it’s too severe a strain on you.

Mrs. Upjohn.

To Gladys, as the girl moves to the door. Gladys, we’ll ’ave tea.

Gladys.

At the door. You can’t till it’s ready.

Lily.

Calmly. Cheek!

Gladys retires.

Bland.

Who has strolled across to Lily, indolently. Why do you retain the services of that tousled-headed hussy?

Lily.

With conviction. Oh, she’s a little under the weather, but she’s a perfect servant.

Bland.

To Mrs. Upjohn. Ma, you look blooming.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Wish I could return the compliment, Mr. Bland.

Bland.

To Roper, who is wearing a waistcoat of rather a pronounced pattern. Congratulations on your waistcoat, Lal.

Roper.

Joining Jimmie, annoyed. Now, no personalities.

Lily.

Giving Bland her hand. Vincent, yours is one of the loveliest presents I’ve had to-day. Remerciement! How’s that for a French accent?

Bland.

Dropping his eyeglass. You cat!

Lily.

Why——?

Bland.

You know I’ve given you nothing, not even a penny nosegay.

Jimmie.

Ha, ha, ha!

Lily.

Raising herself on her elbow. On my honour—! Vincent dear, I swear I thought——!

Bland.

The funds are too low. Replacing his eyeglass. I did go so far as to price a bangle at Sellby’s, but that was before a certain event yesterday.

Jimmie.

What horses did you back, Vincent? I won a fiver, through Jerry Grimwood.

Roper.

To Bland. You are a patent ass. Why don’t you leave betting alone?

Bland.

To Roper, flaring up. Why don’t you leave your City muck alone?

Lily.

Putting her feet to the floor, imperiously. That’ll do. Be quiet, you two! I won’t have any wrangling in my house. Run away and play, all of you. I want to speak to Vincent for a minute privately. With a gesture. Uncle Lal—Jimmie—Nicko— To Mrs. Upjohn. Scoot, mother!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Oh, dear, wot a child!

Roper, Jimmie, Jeyes, and Mrs. Upjohn move away and Lily beckons to Bland.

Lily.

Vin.

Bland.

Close to her, with a wry face. Mercy!

Lily.

In a low voice. You’ve broken your word to me, then? Through her teeth. Those damned horses!

Bland.

Cooling had a tip from the stable——

Lily.

Cooling! Morrie Cooling has no children; only a fat wife. You’ve a darling little wife and three kiddies. How much did you drop yesterday?

Bland.

Shan’t say.

Lily.

Rising and touching his arm. Oh, Vincent!

She looks round, to assure herself that she is unobserved. Mrs. Upjohn and Roper are seated at the tea-table with their heads together, talking; Jimmie is at the piano, fingering out a piece of music; Jeyes is half hidden in the arm-chair facing the settee at the back. Lily tiptoes to the writing-table and seats herself there as Gladys reappears showing in the Baron von Rettenmayer.

Von Rettenmayer.

A tall, fair young man of three-and-thirty, speaking in thick, guttural tones—advancing to Lily. Aha, goddess! Gladys withdraws. Many habby returns of the day!

Lily.

H’sh! I’m busy for a moment, Baron.

Von Rettenmayer.

To Lily—shaking hands with Bland. A thousand bardons.

Lily.

Talk to mother and Jimmie.

Von Rettenmayer.

With bleasure. Going to Mrs. Upjohn and Roper and shaking hands with them. How are you, my dear Ma? How are you, Jimmie? Waving a hand to Roper and Jeyes. My dear Rober! My dear Neegolas!

Jimmie.

To Von Rettenmayer, mimicking him. Rober! Neegolas! Why don’t they provide you with throat lozenges at the Embassy, Baron?

Von Rettenmayer laughs. Lily has quickly opened a drawer in the writing-table and produced a cheque-book. After another glance over her shoulder, she sweeps the presents aside and writes. Then she replaces the cheque-book, rises, and returns to Bland. Again there is a loud guffaw from Von Rettenmayer in response to some sally of Jimmie’s.

Lily.

To Bland, folding a cheque and slipping it into his hand. Promise—promise you won’t make another bet.

Bland.