Lady Cant. Hush, please, everybody! Mr. Spurrell is going to read. My dear Dr. Rodney, if you wouldn't mind just—— Lord Lullington, can you hear where you are? Where are you going to sit, Mr. Spurrell? In the centre will be best. Will somebody move that lamp a little, so as to give him more light?
Spurr. (to himself, as he sits down). I wonder what we're supposed to be playing at! (Aloud.) Well, what am I to read, eh?
Miss Spelw. (placing an open copy of "Andromeda" in his hands with a charming air of deferential dictation). You might begin with this—such a dear little piece! I'm dying to hear you read it!
Spurr. (as he takes the book). I'll do the best I can! (He looks at the page in dismay.) Why, look here, it's Poetry! I didn't bargain for that. Poetry's altogether out of my line! (Miss Spelwane opens her eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page.) I say, this is rather curious! Who the dickins is Clarion Blair? (The company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips.) Because I never heard of him; but he seems to have been writing poetry about my bull-dog.
Miss Spelw. (faintly). Writing poetry—about your bull-dog!
Spurr. Yes, the one you've all been praising up so. If it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be—Andromeda!
[Tableau.
"You might begin with this—such a dear little piece!"