Mr. Wh. (ditto). What on earth does it matter who suggests it, so long as it's right? Don't be an ass, Settee! (Aloud.) How are we going to do the first syllable "Fame," eh? [Mr. Settee sulks.
Mr. Pushington. Oh, that's easy. One of us must come on as a Poet, and all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making a lot of him, asking him for his autograph, and so on. I don't mind doing the Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it.
[He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat inside out, and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by way of indicating the eccentricity of genius; the Ladies adorn themselves with a similar regard to realism, and even more care for appearances.
AFTER THE FIRST SYLLABLE.
The Performers return from the drawing-room, followed by faint applause.
Mr. Pushington. Went capitally, that syllable, eh? (No response.) You might have played up to me a little more than you did—you others. You let me do everything!
Miss Larkspur. You never let any of us get a word in!
Mr. Pushington. Because you all talked at once, that was all. Now then—"ill." I'll be a celebrated Doctor, and you all come to me one by one, and say you're ill—see?
[Attires himself for the rôle of a Physician in a dressing-gown and an old yeomanry helmet.
Mr. Whipster (huffily). Seems to me I may as well go and sit with the audience—I'm no use here!