The Magistrate: A Farce in Three Acts

by Arthur Wing Pinero

Cis.

[Winking at Beatie.] Well, if I play that again, will you kiss me?

Beatie.

[Demurely.] I don’t know, I’m sure. [To Agatha Posket.] May I promise that, ma’am?

[Sits in the window recess. Cis, joining her, puts his arm round her waist.

Agatha Posket.

No, certainly not. [To herself, watching them.] If I could only persuade Æneas to dismiss this protégée of his, and to engage a music-master, it would ease my conscience a little. If this girl knew the truth, how indignant she would be! And then there is the injustice to the boy himself, and to my husband’s friends who are always petting and fondling and caressing what they call “a fine little man of fourteen!” Fourteen! Oh, what an idiot I have been to conceal my child’s real age! [Looking at the clock.] Charlotte is late; I wish she would come. It will be a relief to worry her with my troubles.

Mr. Posket.

[Talking outside.] We smoke all over the house, Bullamy, all over the house.