VOCES POPULI.
Scene—An Italian Restaurant—anywhere in the Metropolis. Only a few of the small dining-tables are occupied as Scene opens. Near the buffet is a small lift communicating with the kitchen, and by the lift a speaking-tube.
Enter an Adorer with his Adored; he leads the way down the centre of the room, flushed and jubilant—he has not been long engaged, and this is the very first time he has dined with Her like this.
Adorer (beaming). Where would you like to sit, Pussy?
Pussy (a fine young woman—but past the kitten stage). Oh, it's all the same to me!
Adorer (catching an aggrieved note in her tone). Why, you don't really think I'd have kept you waiting if I could help it? There's always extra work on Foreign Post nights! (Pussy turns away and arranges hat before mirror). Waiter! (A Waiter who has been reading the "Globe" in the corner, presents himself with Menu.) What shall we have to begin with, eh, Pussy?
[The Waiter, conceiving himself appealed to, disclaims the responsibility with a shrug, and privately reflects that these stiff Englishmen can be strangely familiar at times.
Pussy. Oh, I don't feel as if I cared much about anything—now.
Adorer. Well, I've ordered Vermicelli Soup, and Sole au gratin. Now, you must try and think what you'd like to follow. (Tentatively.) A Cutlet?
Pussy (with infinite contempt for such want of originality). A Cutlet—the idea!
Adorer (abashed). I thought perhaps—but look down the list. (Pussy glances down it with eyes which she tries to render uninterested.) "Vol au vent à l' Herbaliste,"—that looks as if it would be rather good. Shall we try that?
Pussy. You may if you like—I shan't touch it myself.
Adorer. Well, look here, then, "Rognons sautés Venézienne,"—Kidneys, you know—you like kidneys.
Pussy (icily). Do I? I was not aware of it.
Adorer. Come—it's for you to say. (Reads from list.) "Châteaubriand Bordelaise," "Jugged Hare and Jelly," "Salmi of Partridge." (Pussy, who is still suffering from offended dignity, repudiates all these suggestions with scorn and contumely.) Don't like any of them? Well, (helplessly) can't you think of anything you would like?
Pussy. Nothing—except—(with decision)—a Cutlet.
Adorer (relieved by this condescension). The very thing! (Tenderly.) We will both have Cutlets.
Waiter (who has been waiting in dignified submission). Two Porzion Cutlet, verri well—enni Pottidoes?
Pussy (sharply). Potted what?
Adorer (to Waiter). Yes. (To Pussy, aside, in same breath.) Potatoes, darling. (The Waiter suspects he is being trifled with.) Do you prefer them sautés, fried, or in chips,—or what?
Pussy (with the lofty indifference of an ethereal nature). I'm sure I don't care how they're done!
Adorer. Then—Potato-chips, Waiter.
Pussy (as Waiter departs). Not for me—I'll have mine sautés!
Adorer (when they are alone, leaning across table). I've been looking forward to this all day!
Pussy (unsympathetically). Didn't you have any lunch then?
Adorer. I don't mean to the dinner—but to having you to talk with, quite alone by our two selves.
Pussy (who has her dignity to consider). Oh, I daresay. I wish you'd do something for me, Joshua.
Adorer (fervently). Only tell me what it is, darling!
Pussy. It's only to get me that Graphic—I'm sure that gentleman over there has done with it.
[The Adorer fetches it with a lengthening face: Pussy retires behind the "Graphic," leaving him outside in solitude. At length he asserts himself by fetching "Punch," (which he happens to have seen) from an adjoining table. A Bachelor dining lonely and unloved on the opposite side of the room, watches them with growing sense of consolation.