MRS. B. Why—yes—I—
COX. From the appearance of his outward man, I should unhesitatingly set him down as a gentleman connected with the printing interest.
MRS. B. Yes, sir—and a very respectable young gentleman he is.
COX. Well, good-morning, Mrs. Bouncer.
MRS. B. You’ll be back at your usual time, I suppose, sir?
COX. Yes—nine o’clock. You needn’t light my fire in future, Mrs. B., I’ll do it myself. Don’t forget the bolster! (Going, stops.) A halfpenny worth of milk, Mrs. Bouncer; and be good enough to let it stand—I wish the cream to accumulate.
[Exit at L. C.
MRS. B. He’s gone at last! I declare I was all in a tremble for fear Mr. Box would come in before Mr. Cox went out. Luckily, they’ve never met yet; and what’s more, they’re not very likely to do so; for Mr. Box is hard at work at a newspaper office all night, and doesn’t come home till the morning, and Mr. Cox is busy making hats all day long, and doesn’t come home till night; so that I’m getting double rent for my room, and neither of my lodgers is any the wiser for it. It was a capital idea of mine—that it was! But I haven’t an instant to lose. First of all, let me put Mr. Cox’s things out of Mr. Box’s way. (She takes the three hats, COX’S dressing-gown and slippers, opens door at L. and puts them in, then shuts door and locks it.) Now, then, to put the key where Mr. Cox always finds it. (Puts the key on the ledge of the door, L.) I really must beg Mr. Box not to smoke so much. I was so dreadfully puzzled to know what to say when Mr. Cox spoke about it. Now, then, to make the bed; and don’t let me forget that what’s the head of the bed for Mr. Cox becomes the foot of the bed for Mr. Box—people’s tastes do differ so. (Goes behind the curtains of the bed, and seems to be making it; then appears with a very thin bolster in her hand.) The idea of Mr. Cox presuming to complain of such a bolster as this! (She disappears again behind curtains.)
BOX (without). Pooh—pooh! Why don’t you keep your own side of the staircase, sir? (Enters at back, dressed as a printer. Puts his head out at door again, shouting.) It was as much your fault as mine, sir! I say, sir—it was as much your fault as mine, sir!
MRS. B. (emerging from behind the curtains of bed). Lor, Mr. Box! what is the matter?