THE POET LAUREATE OF THE MUSIC HALLS. A STUDY. [See [p. 33.]
Mrs. T. Oh, dear me, Jane! I wish you wouldn't come and startle me with your horrid telegrams—there, give it to me. (Reading.) "Wife down, violent influenza. Must come without her, Toomer." (Resentfully.) Again! and I know she's had it twice since the spring—it's too tiresomely inconsid—no, it isn't—it's the very best thing she could do. Now we shall be only twelve, and I needn't order that man from Blankley's, after all. Poor dear woman, I must really write her a nice sympathetic little note—so fortunate!
Scene II.—Mrs. Tidmarsh's Bedroom—Time 7:15. Mrs. T. has just had her hair dressed by her Maid.
Mrs. T. You might have given me more of a fringe than that, Pinnifer. You don't make nearly so much of my hair as you used to! (Pinnifer discreetly suppress the obvious retort.) Well, I suppose that must do. I shan't require you any more. Go down and see if the lamps in the drawing-room are smelling. (Pinnifer goes; sounds of ablutions are heard from Mr. T.'s dressing-room.) Montague, is that you? I never heard you come in.
Mr. T.'s Voice (indistinctly.) Only just this moment come up, my dear. Been putting out the wine.
Mrs. T. You always will leave everything to the last. No, don't come in. What? How can I hear what you say when you keep on splashing and spluttering like that?
Mr. T.'s Voice (from beneath a towel.) That dozen of Champagne Uncle Gabriel sent has run lower than I thought—only two bottles and a pint left. And he can't drink that Saumur.
Mrs. T. Two bottles and a half ought to be ample, if Seakale manages properly—among twelve.
Mr. T.'s V. Twelve, my love? you mean fourteen!