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 Organiser--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 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._