[Dinner proceeds with animation. Bootles' Baby, Little Jim, Paul Dombey, and the Heavenly Twins come in to dessert, and are more or less troublesome.
Sir Lyon (aside, to Secretary, when the ladies have retired). I say, you know I am afraid this is going to hang fire. It's nothing less than a miracle for a social affair to go off well when the people are not in the same set. Old Pickwick's been asking for "a wassail bowl." I haven't got such a thing about me; and I should have thought '74 champagne would have been good enough, but he says it's like our humour—too new! The children are bothering to know why there isn't a Christmas-tree.
Secretary. Tell them to go to the—Haymarket. The reward will be—swift. Might I suggest mistletoe? I should be very pleased to go under it with Madame Bovary, just to show the others how to——
Sir Lyon (stiffly). Much obliged, but I will not give you that trouble. If anyone goes under the mistletoe with Madame Bovary it will be myself. Remember that.
Secretary. Oh, certainly! I merely meant——How about crackers? I could set the thing going by pulling one with Miss Olivia. The old Vicar said just now, in his pointed, Gothic way, something about times having changed, and——
Sir Lyon. Yes, we'll have crackers, but you can leave me to pull the first one with Miss Olivia. It would look better. Perhaps we'd better let the Ghosts give their entertainment now—eh?
Secretary. I'll arrange it at once.
Scene III.—In the Hall, in which is a temporary theatre; all the Modern Celebrities are seated on rows of chairs, chattering, flirting, and discussing Insomnia and the New Criticism. Behind the scenes the Ghosts are disputing as to which shall recite first, the order of precedence depending entirely on the question as to which is the most completely defunct. Finally, Ernest Maltravers and Tom Jones go on together, and the Curtain goes up.
Ernest Maltravers (musingly, in a low yet ringing voice, in which Pride struggles with Emotion). Let us learn, from yon dinner-table, o'er which brooded the spirits of the Novelists of all time, to lift ourselves on the wings of Romanticism back to Bombastic and Primeval Prose. (Breaks off suddenly. Aside, to Tom Jones.) I cannot go on like this. We ought to have had a scenario.
Tom Jones (suppressing laughter, aside). Why, thou foolish scoundrel, is there not one in front? How else could be seated there so many fair ladies and gallant gentlemen?