[To himself.] He always presumes with his confounded fiddle when I’m going to entertain. He knows that his fiddle’s never hoarse and that I am, sometimes.
Darbey.
[To himself.] Tarver always tries to cut me out with his elderly Chest C. He ought to put it on the Retired List.
Tarver.
I’ll sing him off his legs to-night—I’m in lovely voice.
[He walks into the Library and is heard trying his voice, singing “Come into the garden, Maud.”
Darbey.
[To himself.] He needn’t bother himself. While he was dozing in the carriage I threw his music out of the window.
Tarver re-enters triumphantly.
Blore re-enters, carrying a violin-case and a leather music roll. Darbey takes the violin-case, opens it, and produces his violin and music. Blore hands the music roll to Tarver and goes out.