Trelawny of The "Wells": A Comedietta in Four Acts

by Arthur Wing Pinero

Tom.

Miss Parrott—if they gave up laughing at me now, I believe I—I believe I should—miss it. I believe I couldn't spout my few lines now in silence; my unaccompanied voice would sound so strange to me. Besides, I often think those gallery-boys are really fond of me, at heart. You can't laugh as they do—rock with laughter sometimes!—at what you dislike.

Imogen.

Of course not. Of course they like you, Wrench. You cheer them, make their lives happier——

Tom.

And to-night, by the bye, I also assume that beast of a felt hat—the gray hat with the broad brim, and the imitation wool feathers. You remember it?

Imogen.

Y-y-yes.

Tom.

I see you do. Well, that hat still persists in falling off, when I most wish it to stick on. It will tilt and tumble to-night—during one of Telfer's pet speeches; I feel it will.