The Magistrate: A Farce in Three Acts

by Arthur Wing Pinero

[Taking the dish.] Thanks, old fellow. [He returns to the table and lifts the cover.] Soles—they look tempting. If there are only some lemons! Surely they are not so brutal as to have forgotten the lemons. Where are they? [He returns to the sideboard.] Where are they? [In an undertone to Vale.] Have you seen any lemons?

Agatha Posket.

Pray, think less of us, Colonel Lukyn. Let me take care of you.

Lukyn.

You’re very kind. I wish you would let me ring for some lemons.

[Vale’s hand comes as before from behind the curtain to the sideboard, finds the dish of lemons, and holds it out at arm’s length.

Vale.

[In a whisper.] Lemons.

[Agatha Posket is helping Lukyn, when suddenly Charlotte, with her fork in the air, leans back open-mouthed, staring wildly at Vale’s arm extended with the dish.