MRS. B.-K. (_to her_ SON). Oh, Bob, you must never think of jumping
again--it _is_ such a dangerous amusement!
ROBERT (_who has been cursing the hour in which he informed his parent
of the exact whereabouts of the school_). It's all right with a horse
that knows _how_ to jump. Mine didn't.
THE FRIEND. I _thought_ you seemed to jump a good deal higher than the
horse did. They ought to be trained to keep close under you, oughtn't
they? [ROBERT _wonders if she is as guileless as she looks_.]
CAPT. CROPPER (_to the_ R. M.) Oh, takes about eight months, with a
lesson every day, to make a man efficient in the Cavalry, does it? But,
look here--I suppose four more lessons will put _me_ all right, eh? I've
had _eight_, y' know.
R. M. Well, Sir, if you _arsk_ me, I dunno as another arf dozen 'll do
you any 'arm--but, o'course, that's just as _you_ feel about it.
[CAPTAIN CROPPER _endeavours to extract encouragement from this Delphic
response_.]
The Impromptu Charade-Party.
SCENE--_The Library of a Country-House; the tables and chairs
are heaped with brocades, draperies, and properties of all
kinds, which the Ladies of the company are trying on, while the
men rack their brains for a suitable Word._ _In a secluded
corner_, MR. NIGHTINGALE _and_ MISS ROSE _are conversing in
whispers_.
MR. WHIPSTER (_Stage-Manager and Organizer--self-appointed_). No--but I
say, _really_, you know, we _must_ try and decide on something--we've
been out half-an-hour, and the people will be getting impatient! (_To
the Ladies._) Do come and help; it's really no use dressing up till
we've settled what we're going _to do_. Can't _anybody_ think of a good
Word?
MISS LARKSPUR. We ought to make a continuous story of it, with the same
plot and characters all through. We did that once at the Grange, and it
was awfully good--just like a regular Comedy!
MR. WHIPSTER. Ah, but we've got to hit on _a Word_ first. Come--nobody
got an idea? Nightingale, you're not much use over _there_, you know. I
hope you and Miss Rose have been putting your heads together?
MR. NIGHTINGALE (_confused_). Eh? No, nothing of the sort! Oh, ah--yes,
we've thought of a _lot_ of Words.
MISS ROSE. Only you've driven them all out of our heads again!
[_They resume their conversation._
MR. WH. Well, do make a suggestion, somebody! Professor, won't _you_
give us a Word?
CHORUS OF LADIES. Oh, _do_, Professor--you're sure to think of something
clever!
PROFESSOR POLLEN (_modestly_). Well, really, I've so little experience
in these matters that--A Word _has_ just occurred to me, however; I
don't know, of course, whether it will meet with approval--(_he beams at
them with modest pride through his spectacles_)--it's "Monocotyledonous."
CHORUS OF LADIES. Charming! Monocottle--Oh, can't we _do_ that?
MR. WH. (_dubiously_). We might--but--er--what's it _mean_?
PROF. POLLEN. It's a simple botanical term, signifying a plant which has
only one cup-shaped leaf, or seed-lobe. Plants with _two_ are termed--
MR. WH. I don't see how we're going to act a plant with only one
seed-lobe myself--and then the syllables--"mon"--"oh"--"cot"--"till"--we
shouldn't get done before _midnight_, you know!
PROF. POLLEN (_with mild pique_). Well, I merely threw it out as a
suggestion. I thought it could have been made amusing. No doubt I was
wrong; no doubt.
MR. SETTEE (_nervously_). I've thought of a word. How
would--er--"_Familiar_" do?
MR. WH. (_severely_). Now, _really_, Settee, _do_ try not to footle like
this!
[MR. SETTEE _subsides amidst general disapproval_.
MR. FLINDERS (_with a flash of genius_). I've got it--_Gamboge_!
MR. WH. Gamboge, eh? Let's see how that would work:--"Gam"-"booge." How
do you see it yourself?
[MR. FLINDERS _discovers on reflection, that he doesn't see it, and the
suggestion is allowed to drop_.
MISS PELAGIA RHYS. _I've_ an idea. _Familiar!_ "Fame"-"ill"-"liar," you
know.
[_Chorus of applause._
MR. WH. Capital! The very thing--congratulate you, Miss Rhys!
MR. SETTEE (_sotto voce_). But I say, look here, _I_ suggested that, you
know, and you said--!
MR. WH. (_ditto_). What on earth _does_ it matter who suggests it, so
long as it's right? Don't be an ass, Settee! (_Aloud._) How are we going
to do the first syllable "Fame," eh? [MR. SETTEE _sulks_.
MR. PUSHINGTON. Oh, that's easy. One of us must come on as a Poet, and
all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making a lot of
him, asking him for his autograph, and so on. I don't mind doing the
Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it.
[_He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat inside out,
and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by way of indicating the
eccentricity of genius; the Ladies adorn themselves with a similar
regard to realism, and even more care for appearances._