Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes

In the Chinese Drawing-room. Time—About 9.45 P.M.

Mrs. Earwaker. Yes, dear Lady Lullington, I've always insisted on each of my girls adopting a distinct line of her own, and the result has been most satisfactory. Louisa, my eldest, is literary; she had a little story accepted not long ago by The Milky Way; then Maria is musical—practices regularly three hours every day on her violin. Fanny has become quite an expert in photography—kodaked her father the other day in the act of trying a difficult stroke at billiards; a back view—but so clever and characteristic!

Lady Lullington (absently). A back view? How nice!

Mrs. Earwaker. He was the only one of the family who didn't recognize it at once. Then my youngest Caroline—well, I must say that for a long time I was quite in despair about Caroline. It really looked as if there was no single thing that she had the slightest bent or inclination for. So at last I thought she had better take up religion, and make that her speciality.

Lady Lullington (languidly). Religion! How very nice!

Mrs. Earwaker. Well, I got her a Christian Year and a covered basket, and quantities of tracts, and so on; but, somehow, she didn't seem to get on with it. So I let her give it up; and now she's gone in for poker-etching instead.

Lady Lullington (by an act of unconscious cerebration). Poker-etching! How very, very nice!

[Her eyelids close gently.

Lady Rhoda. Oh, but indeed, Lady Culverin, I thought he was perfectly charmin': not a bit booky, you know, but as clever as he can stick; knows more about terriers than any man I ever met!

Lady Culverin. So glad you found him agreeable, my dear. I was half afraid he might strike you as—well, just a little bit common in his way of talking.

Lady Rhoda. P'raps—but, after all, one can't expect those sort of people to talk quite like we do ourselves, can one?

Lady Cantire. Is that Mr. Spurrell you are finding fault with, Albinia? It is curious that you should be the one person here who—— I consider him a very worthy and talented young man, and I shall most certainly ask him to dinner—or lunch, at all events—as soon as we return. I dare say Lady Rhoda will not object to come and meet him.

Lady Rhoda. Rather not. I'll come, like a shot!

Lady Culverin (to herself). I suppose it's very silly of me to be so prejudiced. Nobody else seems to mind him!

Miss Spelwane (crossing over to them). Oh, Lady Culverin, Lady Lullington has such a delightful idea—she's just been saying how very, very nice it would be if Mr. Spurrell could be persuaded to read some of his poetry aloud to us presently. Do you think it could be managed?

Lady Culverin (in distress). Really, my dear Vivien, I—I don't know what to say. I fancy people would so much rather talk—don't you think so, Rohesia?

Lady Cantire. Probably they would, Albinia. It is most unlikely that they would care to hear anything more intellectual and instructive than the sound of their own voices.

Miss Spelwane. I told Lady Lullington that I was afraid you would think it a bore, Lady Cantire.

Lady Cantire. You are perfectly mistaken, Miss Spelwane. I flatter myself I am quite as capable of appreciating a literary privilege as anybody here. But I cannot answer for its being so acceptable to the majority.

Lady Culverin. No, it wouldn't do at all. And it would be making this young man so much too conspicuous.

Lady Cantire. You are talking nonsense, my dear. When you are fortunate enough to secure a celebrity at Wyvern, you can't make him too conspicuous. I never knew that Laura Lullington had any taste for literature before, but there's something to be said for her suggestion—if it can be carried out; it would at least provide a welcome relief from the usual after-dinner dullness of this sort of gathering.

Miss Spelwane. Then—would you ask him, Lady Cantire?

Lady Cantire. I, my dear? You forget that I am not hostess here. My sister-in-law is the proper person to do that.

Lady Culverin. Indeed I couldn't. But perhaps, Vivien, if you liked to suggest it to him, he might——

Miss Spelwane. I'll try, dear Lady Culverin. And if my poor little persuasions have no effect, I shall fall back on Lady Cantire, and then he can't refuse. I must go and tell dear Lady Lullington—she'll be so pleased! (To herself, as she skims away.) I generally do get my own way. But I mean him to do it to please Me!

Lady Cantire (to herself). I must say that girl is very much improved in manner since I last saw anything of her.

Mrs. Chatteris (a little later, to Lady Maisie). Have you heard what a treat is in store for us? That delightful Mr. Spurrell is going to give us a reading or a recitation, or something, from his own poems; at least Miss Spelwane is to ask him as soon as the men come in. Only I should have thought that he would be much more likely to consent if you asked him.

Lady Maisie. Would you? I'm sure I don't know why.

Mrs. Chatteris (archly). Oh, he took me in to dinner, you know, and it's quite wonderful how people confide in me, but I suppose they feel I can be trusted. He mentioned a little fact, which gave me the impression that a certain fair lady's wishes would be supreme with him.

Lady Maisie (to herself). The wretch! He has been boasting of my unfortunate letter! (Aloud.) Mr. Spurrell had no business to give you any impression of the kind. And the mere fact that I—that I happened to admire his verses——

Mrs. Chatteris. Exactly! Poets' heads are so easily turned; and, as I said to Captain Thicknesse——

Lady Maisie. Captain Thicknesse! You have been talking about it—to him!

Mrs. Chatteris. I'd no idea you would mind anybody knowing, or I would never have dreamed of—— I've such a perfect horror of gossip! It took me so much by surprise, that I simply couldn't resist. But I can easily tell Captain Thicknesse it was all a mistake; he knows how fearfully inaccurate I always am.

Lady Maisie. I would rather you said nothing more about it, please; it is really not worth while contradicting anything so utterly absurd. (To herself.) That Gerald—Captain Thicknesse—of all people, should know of my letter! And goodness only knows what story she may have made out of it!

Mrs. Chatteris (to herself, as she moves away). I've been letting my tongue run away with me, as usual. She's not the original of "Lady Grisoline," after all. Perhaps he meant Vivien Spelwane—the description was much more like her!

Pilliner (who has just entered with some of the younger men, to Miss Spelwane). What are you doing with these chairs? Why are we all to sit in a circle, like Moore and Burgess people? You're not going to set the poor dear Bishop down to play baby-games? How perfectly barbarous of you!

Miss Spelwane. The chairs are being arranged for something much more intellectual. We are going to get Mr. Spurrell to read a poem to us, if you want to know. I told you I should manage it.

Pilliner. There's only one drawback to that highly desirable arrangement. The songster has unostentatiously retired to roost. So I'm afraid you'll have to do without your poetry this evening—that is, unless you care to avail yourself again of my services?

Miss Spelwane (indignantly). It is too mean of you. You must have told him!

[He protests his innocence.

Lady Rhoda. Archie, what's become of Mr. Spurrell? I particularly want to ask him something.

Bearpark. The poet? He nipped upstairs—as I told you all along he meant to—to scribble some of his democratic drivel, and (with a suppressed grin) I don't think you'll see him again this evening.

Captain Thicknesse (to himself, as he enters). She's keepin' a chair next hers in the corner there for somebody. Can it be for that poet chap?... (He meets Lady Maisie's eye suddenly.) Great Scott! If she means it for me!... I've half a mind not to—— No, I shall be a fool if I lose such a chance! (He crosses, and drops into the vacant chair next hers.) I may sit here, mayn't I?

Lady Maisie (simply). I meant you to. We used to be such good friends; it's a pity to have misunderstandings. And—and I want to ask you what that silly little Mrs. Chatteris has been telling you at dinner about me.

Captain Thicknesse. Well, she was sayin'—and I must say I don't understand it, after your tellin' me you knew nothing about this Mr. Spurrell till this afternoon——

Lady Maisie. But I don't. And I—I did offer to explain, but you said you weren't curious!

Captain Thicknesse. Didn't want you to tell me anything that perhaps you'd rather not, don't you know. Still, I should like to know how this poet chap came to write a poem all about you, and call it "Lady Grisoline," if he never——

Lady Maisie. But it's too ridiculous! How could he? When he never saw me, so far as I know, in all his life before!

Captain Thicknesse. He told Mrs. Chatteris you were the original of his "Lady Grisoline" anyway, and really——

Lady Maisie. He dared to tell her that? How disgracefully impertinent of him. (To herself.) So long as he hasn't talked about my letter, he may say what he pleases!

Captain Thicknesse. But what was it you were goin' to explain to me? You said there was somethin'——

Lady Maisie (to herself). It's no use; I'd sooner die than tell him about that letter now! (Aloud.) I—I only wished you to understand that, whatever I think about poetry—I detest poets!

Lady Cantire. Yes, as you say, Bishop, a truly Augustan mode of recreation. Still, Mr. Spurrell doesn't seem to have come in yet, so I shall have time to hear anything you have to say in defence of your opposition to Parish Councils.

[The Bishop resigns himself to the inevitable.

Archie (in Pilliner's ear). Ink and flour—couldn't possibly miss him; the bard's got a matted head this time, and no mistake.

Pilliner. Beastly bad form, I call it—with a fellow you don't know. You'll get yourself into trouble some day. And you couldn't even bring your own ridiculous booby-trap off, for here the beggar comes, as if nothing had happened.

Archie (disconcerted). Confound him! The best booby trap I ever made!

The Bishop. My dear Lady Cantire, here is our youthful poet, at the eleventh hour. (To himself.) "Sic me servavit Apollo!"

[Miss Spelwane advances to meet Spurrell, who stands surveying the array of chairs in blank bewilderment.

In a Gallery near the Verney Chamber. Time—Same as that of the preceding Part.

Spurrell (to himself). I must say it's rather rough luck on that poor devil. I get his dress suit, and all he comes in for is my booby-trap! (Phillipson, wearing a holland blouse over her evening toilette, approaches from the other end of the passage; he does not recognise her until the moment of collision.) Emma!! It's never you! How do you come to be here?

Phillipson (to herself). Then it was my Jem after all! (Aloud, distantly.) I'm here in attendance on Lady Maisie Mull, being her maid. If I was at all curious—which I'm not—I might ask you what you're doing in such a house as this; and in evening dress, if you please!

Spurrell. I'm in evening dress, Emma, such as it is (not that I've any right to find fault with it); but I'm in evening dress (with dignity) because I've been included in the dinner party here.

Phillipson. You must have been getting on since I knew you. Then you were studying to be a horse-doctor.

Spurrell. I have got on. I am now a qualified M.R.C.V.S.

Phillipson. And does that qualify you to dine with bishops and countesses and baronets and the gentry, like one of themselves?

Spurrell. I don't say it does, in itself. It was my Andromeda that did the trick, Emma.

Phillipson. Andromeda? They were talking of that downstairs. What made you take to scribbling, James?

Spurrell. Scribbling? how do you mean? My handwriting's easy enough to read, as you ought to know very well.

Phillipson. You can't expect me to remember what your writing's like; it's so long since I've seen it!

Spurrell. Come, I like that! When I wrote twice to say I was sorry we'd fallen out; and never got a word back!

Phillipson. If you'd written to the addresses I gave you abroad——

Spurrell. Then you did write; but none of the letters reached me. I never even knew you'd gone abroad. I wrote to the old place. And so did you, I suppose, not knowing I'd moved my lodgings too, so naturally—— But what does it all matter, so long as we've met and it's all right between us? Oh, my dear girl, if you only knew how I worried myself, thinking you were—— Well, all that's over now, isn't it?

[He attempts to embrace her.

Phillipson (repulsing him). Not quite so fast, James. Before I say whether we're to be as we were or not, I want to know a little more about you. You wouldn't be here like this if you hadn't done something to distinguish yourself.

Spurrell. Well, I don't say I mayn't have got a certain amount of what they call "kudosh," owing to Andromeda. But what difference does that make?

Phillipson. Tell me, James, is it you that's been writing a pink book all over silver cutlets?

Spurrell. Me? Write a book—about cutlets—or anything else! Emma, you don't suppose I've quite come down to that! Andromeda's the name of my bull-dog. I took first prize with her; there were portraits of both of us in one of the papers. And the people here were very much taken with the dog, and—and so they asked me to dine with them. That's how it was.

Phillipson. I should have thought, if they asked one of you to dine, it ought to have been the bull-dog.

Spurrell. Now what's the good of saying extravagant things of that sort? Not that old Drummy couldn't be trusted to behave anywhere!

Phillipson. Better than her master, I dare say. I heard of your goings on with some Lady Rhoda or other!

Spurrell. Oh, the girl I sat next to at dinner? Nice chatty sort of girl; seems fond of quadrupeds——

Phillipson. Especially two-legged ones! You see, I've been told all about it!

Spurrell. I assure you, I didn't go a step beyond the most ordinary civility. You're not going to be jealous because I promised I'd give her a liniment for one of her dogs, are you?

Phillipson. Liniment! You always were a flirt, James! But I'm not jealous. I've met a very nice-spoken young man while I've been here; he sat next to me at supper, and paid me the most beautiful compliments, and was most polite and attentive—though he hasn't got as far as liniment, at present.

Spurrell. But, Emma, you're not going to take up with some other fellow just when we've come together again?

Phillipson. If you call it "coming together," when I'm down in the housekeeper's room, and you're up above, carrying on with ladies of title!

Spurrell. Do you want to drive me frantic? As if I could help being where I am! How could I know you were here?

Phillipson. At all events, you know now, James. And it's for you to choose between your smart lady friends and me. If you're fit company for them, you're too grand for one of their maids.

Spurrell. My dear girl, don't be unreasonable! I'm expected back in the drawing-room, and I can't throw 'em over now all of a sudden without giving offence. There's the interests of the firm to consider, and it's not for me to take a lower place than I'm given. But it's only for a night or two, and you don't really suppose I wouldn't rather be where you are if I was free to choose—but I'm not, Emma, that's the worst of it!

Phillipson. Well, go back to the drawing-room, then; don't keep Lady Rhoda waiting for her liniment on my account. I ought to be in my ladies' rooms by this time. Only don't be surprised if, whenever you are free to choose, you find you've come back just too late—that's all!

[She turns to leave him.

Spurrell (detaining her). Emma, I won't let you go like this! Not before you've told me where I can meet you again here.

Phillipson. There's no place that I know of—except the housekeeper's room; and of course you couldn't descend so low as that.... James, there's somebody coming! Let go my hand—do you want to lose me my character!

[Steps and voices are heard at the other end of the passage; she frees herself, and escapes.

Spurrell (attempting to follow). But, Emma, stop one—— She's gone!... Confound it, there's the butler and a page-boy coming! It's no use staying up here any longer. (To himself, as he goes downstairs.) It's downright torture—that's what it is! To be tied by the leg in the drawing-room, doing the civil to a lot of girls I don't care a blow about; and to know that all the time some blarneying beggar downstairs is doing his best to rob me of my Emma! Flesh and blood can't stand it; and yet I'm blest if I see any way out of it without offending 'em all round.

[He enters the Chinese Drawing-room.

In the Chinese Drawing-room.

Miss Spelwane. At last, Mr. Spurrell! We began to think you meant to keep away altogether. Has anybody told you why you've been waited for so impatiently?

Spurrell (looking round the circle of chairs apprehensively). No. Is it family prayers, or what? Er—are they over?

Miss Spelwane. No, no; nothing of that sort. Can't you guess? Mr. Spurrell, I'm going to be very bold, and ask a great, great favour of you. I don't know why they chose me to represent them; I told Lady Lullington I was afraid my entreaties would have no weight; but if you only would——

Spurrell (to himself). They're at it again! How many more of 'em want a pup! (Aloud.) Sorry to be disobliging, but——

Miss Spelwane (joining her hands in supplication). Not if I implore you? Oh, Mr. Spurrell, I've quite set my heart on hearing you read aloud to us. Are you really cruel enough to refuse?

Spurrell. Read aloud! Is that what you want me to do? But I'm no particular hand at it. I don't know that I've ever read aloud—except a bit out of the paper now and then—since I was a boy at school!

Lady Cantire. What's that I hear? Mr. Spurrell professing incapacity to read aloud? Sheer affectation! Come, Mr. Spurrell, I am much mistaken if you are wanting in the power to thrill all hearts here. Think of us as instruments ready to respond to your touch. Play upon us as you will; but don't be so ungracious as to raise any further obstacles.

Spurrell (resignedly). Oh, very well, if I'm required to read, I'm agreeable.

[Murmurs of satisfaction.

Lady Cantire. Hush, please, everybody! Mr. Spurrell is going to read. My dear Bishop, if you wouldn't mind just—— Lord Lullington, can you hear where you are? Where are you going to sit, Mr. Spurrell? In the centre will be best. Will somebody move that lamp a little, so as to give him more light?

Spurrell (to himself, as he sits down). I wonder what we're supposed to be playing at! (Aloud.) Well, what am I to read, eh?

Miss Spelwane (placing an open copy of "Andromeda" in his hands with a charming air of deferential dictation). You might begin with this—such a dear little piece! I'm dying to hear you read it!

Spurrell (as he takes the book). I'll do the best I can! (He looks at the page in dismay.) Why, look here, it's poetry! I didn't bargain for that. Poetry's altogether out of my line!

[Miss Spelwane opens her eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he begins to read in a perfunctory monotone, with deepening bewilderment and disgust—

(After the murmur of conventional appreciation has died away.) Well, of course, I don't set up for a judge of such things myself, but I must say, if I was asked my opinion—of all the downright tommy-rot I ever—— (The company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page.) I say, though, I do call this rather rum! Who the dickens is Clarion Blair? Because I never heard of him—and yet it seems he's been writing poetry on my bull-dog!

Miss Spelwane (faintly). Writing poetry—about your bull-dog!

Spurrell. Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be—Andromeda!

[Tableau.

After Spurrell's ingenuous comments upon the volume in his hand, a painful silence ensues, which no one has sufficient presence of mind to break for several seconds.

Miss Spelwane (to herself). Not Clarion Blair! Not even a poet! I—I could slap him!

Pilliner (to himself). Poor dear Vivien! But if people will insist on patting a strange poet, they mustn't be surprised if they get a nasty bite!

Lady Maisie (to herself). He didn't write Andromeda! Then he hasn't got my letter after all! And I've been such a brute to the poor dear man! How lucky I said nothing about it to Gerald!

Captain Thicknesse (to himself). So he ain't the bard!... Now I see why Maisie's been behavin' so oddly all the evenin'; she spotted him, and didn't like to speak out. Tried to give me a hint, though. Well, I shall stay out my leave now!

Lady Rhoda (to herself). I thought all along he seemed too good a sort for a poet!

Archie (to himself). It's all very well; but how about that skit he went up to write on us? He must be a poet of sorts.

Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris (to herself). This is fearfully puzzling. What made him say that about "Lady Grisoline"?

The Bishop (to himself). A crushing blow for the Countess; but not unsalutary. I am distinctly conscious of feeling more kindly disposed to that young man. Now why?

[He ponders.

Lady Lullington (to herself). I thought this young man was going to read us some more of his poetry; it's too tiresome of him to stop to tell us about his bull-dog. As if anybody cared what he called it!

Lord Lullington (to himself). Uncommonly awkward, this! If I could catch Laura's eye—but I suppose it would hardly be decent to go just yet.

Lady Culverin (to herself). Can Rohesia have known this? What possible object could she have had in—— And oh, dear, how disgusted Rupert will be!

Sir Rupert (to himself). Seems a decent young chap enough! Too bad of Rohesia to let him in for this. I don't care a straw what he is—he's none the worse for not being a poet.

Lady Cantire (to herself). What is he maundering about? It's utterly inconceivable that I should have made any mistake. It's only too clear what the cause is—Claret!

Spurrell (aloud, good-humouredly). Too bad of you to try and spoof me like this before everybody, Miss Spelwane! I don't know whose idea it was to play me such a trick, but——

Miss Spelwane (indistinctly). Please understand that nobody here had the least intention of playing a trick upon you!

Spurrell. Well, if you say so, of course—— But it looked rather like it, asking me to read when I've about as much poetry in me as—as a pot hat! Still, if I'm wanted to read aloud, I shall be happy to——

Lady Culverin (hastily). Indeed, indeed, Mr. Spurrell, we couldn't think of troubling you any more under the circumstances! (In desperation.) Vivien, my dear, won't you sing something?

[The company echo the request with unusual eagerness.

Spurrell (to himself, during Miss Spelwane's song). Wonder what's put them off being read to all of a sudden? My elocution mayn't be first-class, exactly, but still—— (As his eye happens to rest on the binding of the volume on his knee.) Hullo! This cover's pink, with silver things, not unlike cutlets, on it! Didn't Emma ask me——? By George, if it's that! I may get down to the housekeeper's room, after all! As soon as ever this squalling stops I'll find out; I can't go on like this! (Miss Spelwane leaves the piano; everybody plunges feverishly into conversation on the first subject—other than poetry or dogs—that presents itself, until Lord and Lady Lullington set a welcome example of departure.) Better wait till these county nobs have cleared, I suppose—there goes the last of 'em—now for it!... (He pulls himself together, and approaches his host and hostess.) Hem, Sir Rupert, and your ladyship, it's occurred to me that it's just barely possible you may have got it in your heads that I was something in the poetical way.

Sir Rupert (to himself). Not this poor young chap's fault; must let him down as easily as possible! (Aloud.) Not at all—not at all! Ha—assure you we quite understand; no necessity to say another word about it.

Spurrell (to himself). Just my luck! They quite understand! No housekeeper's room for me this journey! (Aloud.) Of course I knew the Countess, there, and Lady Maisie, were fully aware all along—— (To Lady Maisie, as stifled exclamations reach his ear.) You were, weren't you?

Lady Maisie (hastily). Yes, yes, Mr. Spurrell. Of course! It's all perfectly right!

Spurrell (to the others). You see, I should never have thought of coming in as a visitor if it hadn't been for the Countess; she would have it that it was all right, and that I needn't be afraid I shouldn't be welcome.

Lady Culverin. To be sure—any friend of my sister-in-law's——

Lady Cantire. Albinia, I have refrained from speech as long as possible; but this is really too much! You don't suppose I should have introduced Mr. Spurrell here unless I had had the strongest reasons for knowing, however he may be pleased to mystify us now, that he, and nobody else, is the author of Andromeda! And I, for one, absolutely decline to believe in this preposterous story of his about a bull-dog.

Spurrell. But your ladyship must have known! Why, you as good as asked me on the way here to put you down for a bull-pup!

Lady Cantire. Never, never! A bull-pup is the last creature I should ever dream of coveting. You were obliging enough to ask me to accept a presentation copy of your verses.

Spurrell. Was I? I don't exactly see how I could have been, considering I never made a rhyme in my life!

Sir Rupert. There, there, Rohesia, it was your mistake; but as we are indebted to it for the pleasure of making Mr. Spurrell's acquaintance——

Lady Cantire. I am not in the habit of making mistakes, Rupert. I don't know what you and Albinia and Maisie may know that I am in ignorance of, but, since you seem to have been aware from the first that Mr. Spurrell was not the poet you had invited here to meet me, will you kindly explain what has become of the real author?

Sir Rupert. My dear Rohesia, I don't know and I don't care!

Lady Cantire. There you are wrong, Rupert, because it's obvious that if he is not Mr. Spurrell, the real poet's absence has to be accounted for in some way.

Spurrell. By Jove, I believe I can put you on the track. I shouldn't wonder if he's the party these dress clothes of mine belong to! I dare say you may have noticed they don't look as if they were made for me?

Lady Cantire (closing her eyes). Pray let us avoid any sartorial questions! We are waiting to hear about this person.

Spurrell. Well, I found I'd got on his things by mistake, and I went up as soon as I could after dessert to my room to take 'em off, and there he was, with a waste-paper basket on his head——

Lady Cantire. A waste-paper basket on his head! And pray what should he have that for?

Spurrell. I'm no wiser than your ladyship there. All I know is he said he wouldn't take it off till he saw me. And I never saw any one in such a mess with ink and flour as he was!

Lady Cantire. Ink and flour, indeed! This rigmarole gets more ridiculous every moment! You can't seriously expect any one here to believe it!

[Archie discreetly retires to the smoking-room.

Spurrell. Well, I rather think somebody must have fixed up a booby-trap for me, you know, and he happened to go in first and get the benefit of it. And he was riled, very naturally, thinking I'd done it, but after we'd had a little talk together, he calmed down and said I might keep his clothes, which I thought uncommonly good-natured of him, you know. By the way, he gave me his card. Here it is, if your ladyship would like to see it.

[He hands it to Lady Culverin.

Lady Culverin. "Mr. Undershell!"... Rohesia, that is Clarion Blair! I knew it was something ending in "ell." (To Spurrell.) And you say Mr. Undershell is here—in this house?

Spurrell. Not now. He's gone by this time.

The Others (in dismay). Gone!

Spurrell. He said he was leaving at once. If he'd only told me how it was, I'd have——

Lady Cantire. I don't believe a single word of all this! If Mr. Spurrell is not Clarion Blair, let him explain how he came to be coming down to Wyvern this afternoon!

Spurrell. If your ladyship doesn't really know, you had better ask Sir Rupert; he'll tell you it's all right.

Lady Cantire. Then perhaps you will be good enough to enlighten us, Rupert?

Sir Rupert (driven into a corner). Why, 'pon my word, I'm bound to say that I'm just as much in the dark as anybody else, if it comes to that!

Spurrell (eagerly). But you wired me to come, sir! About a horse of yours! I've been wondering all the evening when you'd tell me I could go round and have a look at him. I'm here instead of Mr. Spavin—now do you understand, Sir Rupert? I'm the vet.

[Suppressed sensation.

Sir Rupert (to himself). This is devilish awkward! Don't quite know what to do. (Aloud.) To—to be sure you are! Of course! That's it, Rohesia! Mr. Spurrell came down to see a horse, and we shall be very glad to have the benefit of his opinion by and bye.

[He claps him amicably on the shoulder.

Lady Cantire (in a sepulchral tone). Albinia, I think I will go to bed.

[She withdraws.

Sir Rupert (to himself). There'll be no harm in letting him stay, now he is here. If Rohesia objects, she's got nobody but herself to blame for it!

Spurrell (to himself). They won't want to keep me upstairs much longer after this! (Tredwell enters, and seems to have something of importance to communicate to Sir Rupert in private.) I wonder what the dooce is up now!

[Partial reaction in company.

Sir Rupert (to Tredwell). Well, what is it?

Tredwell (in an undertone). With reference to the party, Sir Rupert, as represents himself to have come down to see the 'orse, I——

Sir Rupert (aloud). You mean Mr. Spurrell? It's all right. Mr. Spurrell will see the horse to-morrow. (Tredwell disguises his utter bewilderment.) By the way, we expected a Mr. —— What did you say the name was, my dear?... Undershell? To be sure, a Mr. Undershell, to have been here in time for dinner. Do you know why he has been unable to come before this?

Tredwell (to himself). Do I know? Oh, Lor! (Aloud.) I—I believe he have arrived, Sir Rupert.

Sir Rupert. So I understand from Mr. Spurrell. Is he here still?

Tredwell. He is, Sir Rupert. I—I considered it my dooty not to allow him to leave the house, not feeling——

Sir Rupert. Quite right, Tredwell. I should have been most seriously annoyed if I had found that a guest we were all anxiously expecting had left the Court, owing to some fancied—— Where is he now?

Tredwell (faintly). In—in the Verney Chamber. Leastways——

Sir Rupert. Ah. (He glances at Spurrell.) Then where——? But that can be arranged. Go up and explain to Mr. Undershell that we have only this moment heard of his arrival; say we understand that he has been obliged to come by a later train, and that we shall be delighted to see him, just as he is.

Spurrell (to himself). He was worth looking at just as he was, when I saw him!

Pilliner (to himself). By a later train? Then, how the deuce did his clothes——? Oh, well, however it was, it don't concern me.

Tredwell. Very good, Sir Rupert. (To himself, as he departs.) If I'm not precious careful over this job, it may cost me my situation!

Spurrell. Sir Rupert, I've been thinking that, after what's occurred, it would probably be more satisfactory to all parties if I shifted my quarters, and—took my meals in the housekeeper's room.

[Lady Maisie and Lady Rhoda utter inarticulate protests.

Sir Rupert. My dear sir, not on any account—couldn't hear of it! My wife, I'm sure, will say the same.

Lady Culverin (with an effort). I hope Mr. Spurrell will continue to be our guest precisely as before—that is, if he will forgive us for putting him into another room.

Spurrell (to himself). It's no use; I can't get rid of 'em; they stick to me like a lot of blooming burrs! (Aloud, in despair.) Your ladyship is very good, but—— Well, the fact is, I've only just found out that a young lady I've long been deeply attached to is in this very house. She's a Miss Emma Phillipson—maid, so I understand, to Lady Maisie—and, without for one moment wishing to draw any comparisons, or to seem ungrateful for all the friendliness I've received, I really and truly would feel myself more comfortable in a circle where I could enjoy rather more of my Emma's society than I can here!

Sir Rupert (immensely relieved). Perfectly natural! and—hum—sorry as we are to lose you, Mr. Spurrell, we—ah—mustn't be inconsiderate enough to keep you here a moment longer. I've no doubt you will find the young lady in the housekeeper's room—any one will tell you where it is.... Good night to you, then; and, remember, we shall expect to see you in the field on Tuesday.

Lady Maisie. Good night, Mr. Spurrell, and—and I'm so very glad—about Emma, you know. I hope you will both be very happy.

[She shakes hands warmly.