THE MAN FROM BLANKLEY'S.
A Story In Scenes.
Scene III.—Mrs. Tidmarsh's Drawing-room. Wall-paper of big grey peonies sprawling over a shiny pale salmon ground. Over-mantel in black and gold. Large mirrors: cut-glass gaselier, supplemented by two standard lamps with yellow shades. Furniture upholstered in yellow and brown brocade. Crimson damask hangings. Parian statuettes under glass, on walnut "What-nots"; cheap china in rosewood cabinets. Big banner-screen embroidered in beads, with the Tidmarsh armorial bearings, as recently ascertained by the Heralds' College. Time, twenty minutes to eight. Mrs. Tidmarsh is seated, flushed and expectant, near the fire, her little daughter, Gwendolen, aged seven, is apparently absorbed in a picture-book close by. Miss Seaton is sitting by a side-table, at some distance from them. Enter Mr. Tidmarsh, who, obeying a sign from his wife, approaches the hearth-rug, and lowers his voice to a cautious under-tone.
Mr. Tid. It's all right, Seakale got in at Blankley's just as they were closing. They said they would send round and stop the person, if possible—but they couldn't say, for certain, whether he mightn't have started already.
Mrs. Tid. Then he may come, even now! May I ask what you intend to do if he does, Montague?
Mr. Tid. Well, that's what I rather wanted to ask you, my dear. We might tell Seakale to send him away.
Mrs. Tid. If you do, he'll be certain to send away the wrong person—Uncle Gabriel, as likely as not!
Mr. Tid. Um——yes, I never thought of that—no, he must be shown up. Couldn't you explain to him, quietly, that we have made up our party and shan't require his—hem—services?
Mrs. Tid. I? Certainly not, Montague. You hired him, and you must get rid of him yourself!