And of the Major Bouncer, too!
SOPRANO ET TENOR.
BASSI.
COX.
Equal to any Horse Guard Blue.
ALL.
From this happy bridal day.
COX.
BOX.
PENELOPE ANNE.
Ah!
BOX AND COX (together).
Oh! Rataplan Penelope Anne,
Oh! Rataplan Penelope-ĕlŏpĕ
Anne, Anne, Anne!
Chorus (including the Waiter, all at table standing up, glasses in hand convivially).
Oh! Rataplan Penelope Anne!
Oh! Rataplan Penelope-ĕlŏpĕ
Anne, Anne, Anne!
Tableau.—Bouncer on chair, with dish-cover and carving-knife. Waiter at side, waving napkin. Penelope between Cox and Box in centre.
Curtain descends.
CHAPTER XXIII.
AFTER THE PERFORMANCE, CONVERSATION COMMENCES.
our wife played charmingly, Mr. Frimmely.”
Mr. Frimmely smiles, and tries to look as if the merit of her acting was due entirely to his instruction.
Madame Regniati. I don't suppose you chose her dress for her.
Mr. Orby Frimmely (still as if he HAD done so, but allowed her the credit of it). No, no; Mrs. Frimmely has a great taste for theatricals.
Miss Adelaide Cherton (to Miss Medford). Oh, I am sure we ought to be so much obliged to you for playing.
Miss Ada. Oh, it was so good. I really wonder how you could manage to accompany them as you did.
Miss Medford (quite unaffectedly). I am so glad I was able to do it, as I've only been accustomed to play to my brother's singing, that is when he doesn't do it himself.
The Signor (delighted). Oh, my Jo! I 'ave not laugh so much for a long time.
Milburd (who has put on evening dress and joined us, is evidently immensely pleased). No! (Diffidently.) It seemed to go very well.
Mrs. Frampton (a middle-aged lady, coming up to him). I really must congratulate you, Mr. Milburd. I'm a great play-goer, and I haven't seen anything at any one of the London theatres equal to it. You really ought to produce it in Town.
Milburd (foreseeing an extinguisher over Shakespeare). Do you think it good enough?
Mrs. Frampton. Good enough!—why—I was only saying to my daughter—(Julia—Mr. Milburd (introduction))—wasn't I, Julia?
Julia (rather stupidly, but still exhibiting caution). What, mamma?
Mrs. Frampton. Why about Mr. Milburd's capital little farce.
Julia (easily taking up her cue). Oh, yes! (ecstatically.) I was so delighted—and where did you get that wonderful dress?
Milburd (carelessly). Oh, I got it at the costumier's. I had it for another part some time ago.
Jovial Stout Gentleman (refreshing himself, and seeing Captain Byrton). Hallo! Old Bouncer. By Jove! Capital, sir! Capital!
Byrton (much pleased). Did you know me when I came on?
Jovial Stout Person. Know you? Ha! ha! (Skilfully evading the question, and pretending to quote.) “Rataplan, Ratalan!”—eh? Ha! ha!
[They drink.
Mrs. Orby Frimmely appears, gentlemen and ladies crowd about her.
“Oh, charming! Such an admirable costume. You really must let me have a sketch of it.”
Mr. Muntson (an Elderly Beau, with a literary-club reputation). My dear Mrs. Frimmely, I've been saying to your husband, that the stage has positively suffered a loss in your not being . . . as they say . . . on the boards.
Mrs. Orby Frimmely (thinks that his opinion, at all events, is worth having, and says) I'm so glad you liked it.
Mr. Muntson (sees that he has created a most favourable impression and continues). It was delightful. All the vivacity of the French stage—of course you know the French stage well?—(Mrs. Frimmely nods. She has seen Schneider in “La Grande Duchesse,” and takes in a French illustrated paper)—You have—you know the expression—vous avez du chic. (Mrs. Frimmely makes a little curtsey. Elderly Mr. Muntson thinks that Mr. Frimmely is quite out of the race now that he has stept in. He goes on.) We have no actresses now—and if you went on to the stage it would simply be a triumph.
Mrs. Frimmely (gradually becoming convinced as to what her vocation in life certainly ought to be). But this little part I played to-night . . . it is nothing . . . You can't judge from that.
Muntson. I can, perfectly. I have seen—let me see—I recollect Mrs. Humby and . . .
[Here he begins to be tedious. Mrs. Frimmely wants to talk about herself, not about other people. She welcomes Boodels.
Boodels. We have to thank you—most sincerely—for the great treat you've given us.
Mr. Muntson. I've just been saying that it reminded me—
[Begins an anecdote.
Medford (in a corner with Myself; he gives me his private opinion). The piece would never have gone down without the music.
Myself (rather pooh-poohing it all). No . . . of course not.
Having neither acted nor appeared in any way, except as representative host to do the honours, which, I find, did themselves easily, I am a little bitter. Nobody knew exactly who I was, nor seemed to take any interest in me at all, except old Mrs. Frampton, who thought I was a waiter, and asked me to order her carriage punctually.
Medford. Milburd is so obstinate. You know at first he wouldn't introduce those tunes.
Myself. (Who want to go and talk to Ada Cherton.) Wouldn't he?
Medford. No. (With the air of a genuine critic.) Milburd couldn't touch Cox. Not his line at all. Between ourselves, Chilvern was best as the Waiter.
Myself (decidedly). Oh, a long way. (This is because he was an unimportant character comparatively. With very little to do, that little he did as if it wasn't in a play at all, but merely a bit of fun with the audience.)
Cazell (who is enthusiastic about theatricals after his performance of Don Boxos,—comes up to Medford). I say! I tell you what we ought to do. We ought to get up a good big piece for all of us. (He sees himself in some particular character.)
Medford. Yes (reflectively), we might easily do—let me see—there's the Game of Speculation.
Myself. Ah, yes! I remember. Charles Mathews played in it (I add as a hit at Medford) admirably; and (to crush him with a final blow) inimitably!
Medford (tolerantly). Yes . . . Charley (he never met this excellent comedian, of course; but this is Medford all over) has got some good “business” in the piece . . . but (diffidently) I think I make some points which would rather astonish him. For instance, when, &c. &c.
[Here Medford begins telling us how he is far in advance of every professional actor. Luckily the Signor comes up, and changes the conversation. After a few minutes, Medford shows the Signor his conjuring-trick of the shilling in the glass.
The Signor (entering the drawing-room). O! my Jo! (Everyone turns expecting to hear some startling intelligence. Quite unaware of the excitement he has caused, the Signor continues in his usual high key—appealing to everyone.) O! have you seen de leet-tel shillings, and (smiling all over his face) ze glass; eet ees so clev-ver (without a pause), I nev-ver see so clev-ver ting-in my-life!
Madame (severely). What are you talking about, Mr. Regniati?
The Signor. O, my dear, eet ess Mees-ter-Med-for; he ees so clev-ver! he put ze shillings in ze glass, an' zen he go avays.
Milburd. Do it, Medford.
Medford (his chance at last—modestly). Oh, it's nothing. I dare say most of you have seen it. I'll do it, with pleasure. Will anybody lend me a shilling?
The Signor (delighted, exclaiming to everyone). O, eet ees so clev-ver! Dat leet-tel Medfor', he ees so clev-ver!
(Dat leet-tel Med-for' is half a head, at least, taller than the Signor.)
Medford (refusing a coin from Boodels). No. I must ask the ladies. Will any lady here, lend me a shilling?
Enter our Butler.
Our Butler. Sir Thomas Bobyns's carriage.
Lady Bobyns (to Boodels. She ought to address me, as president, but she doesn't). We really must be going; we've got ten miles to drive, you know; enjoyed themselves so much, &c., &c.
General disturbance in consequence of Lady Bobyns being an uncommonly fine woman, and not to be moved without a considerable amount of rustle.
The party now leaving, consists of Sir Thomas Bobyns, Lady Bobyns, and Miss Bobyns. Milburd and Cazell are most assiduous in their attentions to Miss Bobyns, in order that she may be ‘quite warm’ before she starts.
There is also a considerable amount of delay, in the hall, consequent upon the ceremony of packing up Sir Thomas for his long journey—a melancholy phrase—and Lady Bobyns' great fear lest her husband should take cold.
Sir Thomas looks something between the diver at the Polytechnic in his armour, an Esquimaux, an old Watchman, and a monk.
Here is the result.
They have gone. But other carriages are waiting at the door, and there is a general move. As the last person departs, we see Medford standing at a table in the drawing-room, with a tumbler and a shilling.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHILVERN'S BALLAD—THE MORAL.
Chilvern has got a Ballad which Medford sets to music. It is illustrated by tableaux vivants, performed by Miss Adelaide Cherton, Cazell, and Milburd.
“Farewell,” said Molly, to him;
“You're going,” says she,
“I'm going,” says he,
“To fight in Tartary Crim.”
(Sadly.) “To fight in Tartary Crim!”
“You're eyes with weeping are dim.”
“No, no,” says she,
“Don't stop for me,
But go to Tartary Crim.”
(More sadly.) “Oh! go to Tartary Crim!”
“I have a young friend called Jim,
He'll act to you,
Like a brother would do,
While I'm in Tartary Crim.”
(Most sadly.) “While you're in Tartary Crim.”
Was strong and not too slim;
He was a tar,
On a man-of-war,
Arrived from Tartary Crim.
(Cheerfully.) Arrived from Tartary Crim.
He took a holiday whim;
“Oh, let's be jolly,
While he's in Tartary Crim.”
(Jovially.) “While he's in Tartary Crim.”
“I've got some news of Tim;
His ship, three-decked,
Was smashed and wrecked,
On leaving Tartary Crim.”
(Dubiously.) “On leaving Tartary Crim.”
Then Molly sang a hymn.
“Now, Jim,” says she,
“You'll marry me,
And bother Tartary Crim.”
(Decidedly.) “And bother Tartary Crim.”
Appeared a figure grim.
Cries she, “'Tis T——!”
“It is,” says he;
“I've come from Tartary Crim.”
(Spectrally.) “I've come from Tartary Crim.”
“That corporals could swim
But ghosts know how
To swim—I'm now—
(Spectrally.) My ghost!—from Tartary Crim.”
Had fins on every limb;
His feet went squish—
Cries Jim, “I wish
I was in Tartary Crim.”
(Excitedly.) “Away to Tartary Crim!”
Right on to a vessel's rim;
She made a tack,
And he never came back,
To her or Tartary Crim.
(With certainty.) To her or Tartary Crim.
Took Molly away with him,
And plunged in the sea,
And there they be,
Two ghosts in Tartary Crim.
Moral (sung by the ghost of Molly).
Is drowned, don't marry Jim,
Or else, like me,
You'll have to be
A ghost in Tartary Crim.”
CHAPTER XXV.
IN AND OUT.—BEFORE THE FIRE.—MEDITATIONS.—SURPRISES.—HAPPY THOUGHTS.—AWAKENINGS.—SLUMBERS.—BELL-PULLS.—BOOTS.—VALET. DIFFICULTIES.—MRS. REGNIATI.—WHAT'S ON THE TAPIS?—MATCH-MAKING.—CUPID.
Captain Byrton is out hunting. The Signor and Milburd are out shooting. Mrs. Frimmely is out walking with Medford and Cazell. Miss Adelaide Cherton and her sister are in the garden with Chilvern and Boodels. Miss Medford is trying some new music. Madame is seated by the drawing-room fire, engaged upon some mysterious wool-work, which may eventuate in a cigar-case, slippers, a banner fire-screen, or a pair of fancy-pattern'd braces for the Signor. Jenkyns Soames is supposed to be in his room writing something on “Numbers,” but whether in refutation of Dr. Colenso's later Pentateuchical views, or in support of his earlier Arithmetical treatises, nobody has inquired, and nobody, particularly, cares.
I am engaged very busily in thinking. It occurs to me that I will join Miss Medford in the morning-room. There are some days when one finds it very difficult to immediately follow thoughts with action. On such occasions time doesn't fly, but slides noiselessly down an inclined plane, and one is in a state of perpetual surprise.
Surprise the first.—You wake and are surprised to find it so early.
Happy Thought.—Go to sleep again.
You turn round, snuggle down, and snooze. A mere snooze until they call you. It being their duty to call you, let 'em do it manfully, and you'll do yours.
Second Surprise.—To awake again. Later than you had expected. Must get up.
Happy Thought.—No use getting up, though, until you've been properly called, and the hot water's there. Besides, you'll be the only one down. Employ the time, until the servant comes, in thinking. Think what you'll do to-day. Think what you'll do first. Put things in order in your mind, then when you get up you'll only have to do them one after the other, and there you are—or there you will be. Excellent plan, this. These arrangements being satisfactorily made mentally, you suddenly find yourself very warm, and then very wakeful, so much so that it is a
Third Surprise—on looking at your watch again—to find that it's an hour since you last consulted it. Odd. You must have been to sleep again. Very odd. And “it's too bad of them;” (of course) they've never called you.
Happy Thought.—Ring the bell for some one to come and call me.
If the bell is by the bed, this is simple. If it isn't, certain arrangements are as necessary as if you were going to make a journey. Inquiries, as it were, concerning the route from the bed to the bell-pull have to be made. This ascertained, and the exact line you have to travel being now clear before you, it is evident that you cannot be so venturesome as to attempt the excursion without your slippers and dressing-gown.
Here commence manœuvres to obtain both articles, while incurring the smallest possible danger of catching the slightest possible cold, or chill.
Then after a series of gymnastic efforts, during which you have nearly begun your day out of bed on your head, you are successful. It is then requisite to pause and take breath. This cessation of energy affords an opportunity for the servant to appear with your hot water, without your inconveniencing yourself any further.
However he doesn't come, and so you get out. Here the freshening breeze which blows over the threshold, under the door, and across the carpet, causes you, for one second, to hesitate, and then foreseeing that the longer you stop out, en deshabille, the worse it would be, you take precautions for the future, inspired by a
Happy Thought.—“Cover the bed up carefully, so that it will be warm when I come back again.” Aha! Then to the bell-pull.
Fourth Surprise.—Odd. You had never noticed before, that this, which you thought was the bell-rope, is nothing of the sort; being a cord attached to the old-fashioned catch on the door, and originally hung within reach of the bed, which was of course in exactly the opposite position to where it is now. Where is the bell? You cannot see the rope anywhere. Bother.
Happy Thought.—To trace the wire running round the room at the top.
You do trace it. It goes out at a hole and disappears. Trace it back again. It goes all round, and as there is no sign of a bell-rope, this article must be behind the bed.
It is. Struggle with heavy bedstead. Dust. There at last is the bell-rope. You pull it. You pull it again. You hear it ring. This is satisfactory.
Happy Thought.—Get into bed again. Do so. Warm. Arrange mentally for reprimanding the servant severely. Such a waste of time. Here you have been awake since, goodness knows when, and no hot water, no clothes, nothing! And you may add, you put 'em outside the door so carefully last night, on purpose that they shouldn't be forgotten.
Knock at door. “Come in.” Door shaken.
Fifth Surprise.—Why doesn't he come in?——Door shaken again. Angrily, “Come in!”
Answer from outside, like the voice in a ventriloquist's entertainment, “I can't come in, sir; the door's locked.”
Yourself (in bed).—“No, it isn't. Push it.”
Answer from without, as before, “No, sir, you've let down the latch. If you pull the string, I can come in.”
Nuisance. Out of bed again. Pull up latch-string. Into bed again. Less warm now.
Yourself (or myself, severely, from bed).—“You didn't call me this morning. And where are my things?”
Valet.—“They've been standing houtside, sir, this 'our and a 'arf. I knocked twice, sir, but the latch was down, and so I couldn't get in. 'Ot water, sir, 's cold as hice. Better bring you some fresh.”
[Exit.
There's still an entr'acte between his bringing the hot water and my getting up.
Happy Thought.—Well, I dare say it's all the better for me that I've overslept myself a little this morning. If Nature sleeps, depend upon it Nature knows what she's about.
*****
This is in fact how it has happened that all the others, except the three mentioned, are out of doors. They've breakfasted hours ago. I haven't.
Madame Regniati puts down her work, looks towards the window, through which we can see the garden-party, and then refers to me inquisitively. Presently she asks mysteriously,
“Do you see anything going on here?”
I can't help returning with, “Here, Madame Regniati! where?”
“Oh,” she replies, in her short way, “you see it, I know you do. Even Mr. Regniati has noticed it to me. For my part,” she adds, rubbing her nose with the tip of a long knitting-pin, “I think it's a case.”
I begin to understand.
“Miss Adelaide——” I venture.
“Yes. And with whom, eh?” she asks, with her head a little on one side, and her thin lips compressed, as if she had got the information on the tip of her tongue, and was preventing its escape by sheer force.
“Well,” I begin, thinking to myself it's very odd I haven't noticed it, “well, I should say”—really, I shouldn't say anything.
Madame nods at me. “Come,” she says; “I know you've got penetration. You're an observer of character. You're a thinker. My nephew has told me you're writing a philosophical work. Now, I want you to lend me your sagacity, and confirm my suspicions.”
Happy Thought.—Look sagacious. Smile in deprecation of too much sagacity. I feel that, being right as far as mentioning Miss Adelaide goes, my next guess will probably be wrong. Risk it.
I say, “Miss Adelaide and Cazell, eh?” (They are walking together.)
Madame shakes her head. I have gone down in her estimation, evidently.
Happy Thought.—To assume my own penetration. Say to Madame, “Ah, well, you'll see”—meaning, you'll find I'm right and you're wrong.
“No, no,” she replies. “Mr. Cazell and Miss Bella, Mr. Chilvern and Miss Adelaide.”
“H'm,” I say, dubiously. Madame Regniati, classical, lover of high art as she is, is, when occasion offers, is simply a match-maker. I believe it's a feminine instinct.
“They've both got money,” she adds. She has summed it all up, and arranged it.
CHAPTER XXVI.
AT DINNER.—WEIGHT.—WATCHING.—JOKES.—PROTEST.—AWKWARD SITUATION.—AN ANNOUNCEMENT.—INQUIRY.—ARRIVAL.—PRACTICAL JOKES.
This weighs on my mind. I can't help looking from one to the other—from Chilvern to Miss Adelaide, from Miss Bella to Cazell.
Milburd is more attentive to the latter than Chilvern, who seems to me to be making up to Miss Medford, if to anyone; while Byrton sits next to Miss Bella at dinner, and monopolizes her entirely.
Sly things are passing; I notice that. As President, I have to sit at the head of the table, and can't join in any of the fun. They have got a joke among them that I can't make out. The joke flies about, like an invisible shuttlecock, between Cazell, Miss Adelaide, Chilvern, Miss Bella, and Byrton.
Jenkyns Soames sits on my right, and will talk arithmetic and science to me.
The Medfords and the Frimmelys make another joke-party as it were, and I cannot understand what's going on.
Happy Thought.—Look as if I did. Smile, nod, say “I know.” Milburd asks, almost rudely, “Do you? What is it?” As I don't, I merely smile again, and say “Yes” to Jenkyns Soames, who is giving me his reasons for supposing, by calculation, that vegetables have had a pre-adamite existence, and that even a turnip may have a glorious future before it, when man has disappeared from the face of the earth.
[I shall protest against my term of office being protracted beyond the five weeks, after Christmas, that I undertook to stop here. Three have expired. I begin to hate Jenkyns Soames.]
A servant brings in a card for Mr. Milburd.
Baron Booteljak.
“By Jove!” exclaims Milburd, “I am so glad. That's capital.”
Everyone puzzled.
The Signor (after reading the card).—“O! eet ees a fonny name. I nev-ver 'ear soch an-name-bef-fore. Deeek! eet ees your non-sense.”
Milburd returns. He has shown the new guest to his room. He will join us directly. He explains that sending in his card “Baron Booteljak” is “his fun.” “Such an amusing chap,” says Milburd; “he has cards of all sorts of names, printed to leave on his friends, and puzzle 'em. He tells me that he's brought down a box of practical jokes with him, all labelled, numbered, and ready for use.”
This intelligence is not received with that warmth which Milburd evidently had thought it would have elicited.
Further discussion is stopped by the entrance of
CHAPTER XXVII.
FIFTH WEEK—DIFFICULTIES—HINTS—BOODELS' SECRET—ARRIVAL OF JIMMY LAYDER—A CHANGE—PRACTICAL JOKES—PLAYING THE FOOL—DRESSING UP—MORE JOKES—CHEMICAL LECTURE—EXPERIMENTS—RESULTS—OPEN WINDOWS—COLDS—DEPARTURES—SMALL BY DEGREES—BEAUTIFULLY LESS—THE SHILLING AND THE TUMBLER—BOODELS' LAST—TWO'S COMPANY—CONCLUSION.
ote. Fifth week of our being here.
Very happy generally, Miss Medford remarkably nice. Misses Adelaide and Bella are always out with Cazell, Milburd and Chilvern. We've given Jenkyns Soames several hints to go. He won't.
If I wasn't President—I should like to—but Byrton's always out with Miss Medford. I wonder that a girl with brains, as she evidently has, can be taken by a fellow, who really seems to think of nothing but riding, driving, and—
“Her,” says Boodels, to whom I utter secretly my complaint. I admit the truth of this. Boodels informs me that he's going to be married. I congratulate him. When? When his house is done up. Do I know the lady? Yes. Anyone here?—Ah, he won't say, and begs me to consider this communication strictly confidential.
Jimmy Layder is becoming a nuisance. He is perpetually practically joking. Once and away it's very good fun—when he performs on somebody else, not me. He comes down-stairs quietly (this is one of his favourite tricks—so stupid, too!) and slaps you on the back suddenly, immediately afterwards begging your pardon, and explaining that he mistook you for somebody else.
Then the second day he was here, he changed all the boots. The third day I could not find a single thing in its place when I went to dress in a hurry. On my complaining to him, he pretends to be the Clown in the Pantomime (whom he emulates in everything—and really, most dangerously, with a genuine hot poker—so childish, and worse), and putting his hand on his heart he declares “on his honour he didn't do it.” I know, that, when I turn, he sets them all (Miss Medford, too) laughing by making some grotesque face, and, if I face about suddenly, he is staring at nothing on the ceiling, or pretending to catch a fly. He puts oranges in boots, spoons and corkscrews in people's pockets—generally mine—and has an irritating trick of calling out “Hi!” and beckoning; then, when you come, he asks you what you want?
Happy Thought.—To speak to him quietly, alone. He listens. He owns that his exuberance of animal spirits often leads him away. [Happy Thought.—Wish they'd take him away altogether.] He says he thinks it's owing to the bracing air; adding, that I take a joke so well, he is sure I shan't be angry. I tell him that I don't speak on my own account, but for the sake of others. He promises he will be quiet and serious.
At night he keeps his word by coming down dressed like the proverbial methodist Mawworm. An enormous white tie, doubled. His hair combed sadly straight. A high black waistcoat, his trousers shortened, white stockings and shoes.
They encourage him by laughing. He addresses everyone as “My Christian Brother,” or “Sister,” and informs them that the Head of the Establishment has requested him to be serious.
He insists upon a serious evening, and tells us that Mr. Jenkyns Soames has consented to give a Chemical Lecture “with,” he adds impressively, “experiments.”
It appears that Layder and Milburd have undertaken to assist the Professor.
After dinner, Layder announces that he has an entertainment to commence with. He takes me on one side. We go into the library, which he has prepared as a sort of dressing-room.
Happy Thought.—Humour him, and then he'll play practical jokes on somebody else—not me.
He says, “Look here, you and I will dress up, and be the lecturer's servants.” Very harmless and funny, seeing that the dresses (which he has brought with him) are a mantle spangled, two or three pairs of tights and Cavalier boots, and a cocked hat. He says he's got a charade, and Milburd will dress up too, and we'll have it before the Lecture.
He offers to do my face for me; and does it at once with burnt cork, red and white.
Then he goes to dress.
I am alone. It is a good idea enlisting under, as it were, his banner, then he won't annoy me. The fire's out here, and changing my dress at this time has made me cold.
Meditations by myself when in a costume something between a naval officer, a Spanish grandee, and Richard the Third.—What can be the fun of dressing up? It is so much more comfortable in your own things. And a charade's a bore. At least, it bores the audience, I'm sure. And if there are people acting who say all sorts of nonsense, and do anything, there's no art in it. . . Nine o'clock. I wish he'd brought a longer candle, and would be quicker in dressing. He's gone to his own room, perhaps, to dress, or is arranging the performance. . . . . . . . It's a melancholy thing to be in these clothes. I wonder if they were made for some great actor, or whether they were once the real thing? No, that's impossible. . . . . I wish Miss Medford was going to take a part—perhaps she is. . . . unless that's her touch on the piano. The overture probably. . . . . It's so cold in here, I must walk about. . . . . The candle is burning down.
Happy Thought.—Ring and ask for another candle, and for Mr. Layder.
Maid servant enters . . . gives a shriek and a start, and then—poor girl! . . . . faints.
There is no water at hand. . . .
I don't like to touch her.
I've got an idea that people in that state bite, scratch, and kick, if touched.
Happy Thought.—Let ill alone.
I ring violently.
Enter Butler. Fortunately Madame Regniati's maid passes, with salts. The girl recovers consciousness. She revives and says I frightened her. I ask the butler to look for Mr. Layder.
Butler thinks they're all in the theatre-room hearing some lecture. 10 o'clock.
I wait a quarter of an hour.
It's too bad. I'll take these stupid things off.
Enter Boodels. “Hallo!” he cries. “What on earth are you got up like this for?”
I say, testily, “I don't know.”
Boodels continues. “Miss Cherton's maid 's been complaining, and says you've been playing tricks on her. Come! Do take off those things.”
Do! I don't want pressing. I have been for an hour and a half dressed up here, with my face painted like a Red Indian, and as cold as ice.
Layder enters. “Oh, my dear fellow, a thousand pardons. I quite forgot you were here; and we suddenly—I mean the ladies, suddenly altered the programme and wanted me to sing and do some nonsense, so I could not refuse.”
Happy Thought.—(I'll vote against his invitation being renewed after this week). Say nothing.
I find that Jenkyns Soames, induced to put on a sort of Conjuror's dress, has been waiting to deliver his lecture the same time that I have; he is equally cold, but not cross, as he anticipates being a means of instruction to the party.