_The Performers return from the drawing-room, followed by faint
applause._
MR. PUSHINGTON. Went capitally, that syllable, eh? (_No response._) You
might have played up to me a little more than you did--you others. You
let me do everything!
MISS LARKSPUR. You never let any of us get a word in!
MR. PUSHINGTON. Because you all talked at once, that was all. Now
then--"ill." I'll be a celebrated Doctor, and you all come to me one by
one, and say you're _ill_--see?
[_Attires himself for the role of a Physician in a dressing-gown and an
old yeomanry helmet._
MR. WHIPSTER (_huffily_). Seems to me I may as well go and sit with the
audience--I'm no use _here_!
MR. PUSHINGTON. Oh, yes, Whipster, I want you to be my confidential
butler, and show the patients in.
[MR. W. _accepts--with a view to showing_ PUSHINGTON _that other people
can act as well as he_.