WRITING THE QUEEN'S SPEECH.
Little Gwendolen (drawing Miss Seaton into a corner). Oh, Miss Seaton, what do you think? Mother's going to let you dine downstairs with them—won't that be nice for you? At least, she's going to, if somebody comes, and you're to go down with him. He isn't like a regular dinner-guest, you know. Papa hired him from Blankley's this morning, and Mother and he both hope he mayn't come, after all; but I hope he will, because I want to see what he's like. Don't you hope he'll come? Don't you, Miss Seaton, dear?
Miss Seaton (to herself). Then that was why! And I can't even refuse! (Aloud.) My dear Gwennie, you shouldn't tell me all these things—they're secrets, and I'm sure your Mother would be very angry indeed if she heard you mention them to anybody!
Gwen. Oh, it was only to you, Miss Seaton, and you're nobody, you know! And I can keep a secret, if I choose. I never told how Jane used to——[Miss Seaton endeavours to check these disclosures.
Uncle Gab. (out of temper, on the hearth-rug). Seven minutes past the hour, Monty—and, if there's a thing I'm particular about, it's not being kept waiting for my dinner. Are you expecting somebody else? or what is it?
Mr. Tid. (nervously). Well, I half thought—but we won't wait any longer for him—he is not worth it—ha! there he is—I think I heard the front door—so perhaps I may as well give him——eh?
Uncle Gab. Just as you like—my dinner's spoilt as it is. (Catching sight of the banner-screen.) What have you stuck this precious affair up for, eh?
Mr. Tid. To—to keep the fire off. Maria's idea. Uncle—she thought our—hem—crest and motto would look rather well made up like this.
Uncle Gab. (with a snort). Made up! I should think it was! Though what you want to make yourself out one of those good-for-nothing aristocrats for is beyond me. You know my sentiments about 'em—I'm a thorough-going Radical, and the very sound of a title——
Seakale (with a fine combination of awe and incredulity). Lord Strathsporran!
[There is a perceptible flutter in the company, as a ruddy-haired and rather plain young man enters with an apologetic and even diffident air, and pauses in evident uncertainty as to his host and hostess.
Uncle Gab. (to himself.) A Lord! Bless my soul! Monty and Maria are getting up in the world!
Guests (to themselves.) A Lord! No wonder they kept the dinner back!
Miss Seaton (after a hurried glance—to herself.) Good Heavens! Douglas Claymore!—reduced to this! [She lowers her head.
Mr. Tid. (to himself.) They might have told me they were going to send us a Lord—I never ordered one! I wonder if he's genuine—he don't look it. If I could only find out, quietly!
Mrs. Tid. (to herself.) Gracious! And I was going to send him in with the Governess! (To her Husb. in a whisper.) Montague, what are you about? Go and be civil to him—do!
[She rings the bell twice: Mr. Tidmarsh advances, purple with indignation and embarrassment, to welcome the new-comer, who shakes him warmly by the hand.
(End of Scene III.)
Her Way of Putting It.—Mrs. R. thinks she has an excellent memory for riddles. She was delighted with that somewhat old conundrum about "What is more wonderful than Jonah in the whale?" to which the answer is, "Two men in a fly," and determined to puzzle her nephew with it the very next time she met him. "Such a capital riddle I've got for you, John!" she exclaimed, "Let me see. Oh, yes—I remember—yes, that's it;" and then, having settled the form of the question, she put it thus—"What is more wonderful than two men in an omnibus?" And when she gave the answer, "Jonah in a fly," and correcting herself immediately, said, "No—I mean, 'Jonah in a whale,'" her nephew affectionately recommended his excellent relative to lie down and take a little rest.
Railway Rates.—What better rate can there be than that of the Flying Dutchman to the South, and the Flying Scotchman to the North; the two hours and a-half express to Bournemouth, and the Granville two hours to Ramsgate? The word "Rates" is objectionable as being associated with taxes—and to avoid the taxes the Fishermen are going to employ smacks and boys. Poor boys! there are a lot of smacks about. As the Pantomime and Music-hall poet sang, "Tooral looral lido, whacky smacky smack!" But though they, the Fishermen, hereby avoid the Rails, yet they can't do without their network of lines.
When an actor has to make love to an actress on the stage, it is "purely a matter of business." Real "love-making" is never a matter of business; most often 'tis very much the contrary. The "matter of business" comes in with "making an uncommonly good marriage," but the love-making has little to do with this, except as it is, on the stage, "a matter of business."