_Tom._
[_Placing the chair below the table, and blowing his nose with his
handkerchief, with a flourish._] My way of showing homage, Mossop.
_Mrs. Mossop._
Miss Parrott has sat on them often enough, when she was an honored
member of the "Wells"--haven't you, Miss Parrott.
_Imogen._
[_Sitting, with playful dignity. _] I suppose I must have done so. Don't
remind me of it. I sit on nothing nowadays but down pillows covered with
cloth of gold.
[_Mrs. Mossop and Ablett prepare to withdraw._]
_Mrs. Mossop._
[_At the door, to Imogen._] Ha, ha! ha! I could fancy I'm looking at
Undine again--Undine, the Spirit of the Waters. She's not the least
changed since she appeared as Undine--is she, Mr. Ablett?
_Ablett._
[_Joining Mrs. Mossop._] No--or as Prince Cammyralzyman in the
pantomine. I never 'ope to see a pair o' prettier limbs----
_Mrs. Mossop._
[_Sharply._] Now then!
[_She pushes him out; they disappear._]
_Imogen._
[_After a shiver at Ablett's remark._] In my present exalted station
I don't hear much of what goes on at the "Wells," Wrench. Are your
abilities still--still----
_Tom._
Still unrecognized, still confined within the almost boundless and yet
repressive limits of Utility--General Utility? [_Nodding._] H'm, still.
_Imogen._
Dear me! a thousand pities! I positively mean it. Tom.
Thanks.
_Imogen._
What do you think! You were mixed up in a funny dream I dreamt one night
lately.
_Tom._
[_Bowing._] Highly complimented.
_Imogen._
It was after a supper which rather--well, I'd had some strawberries sent
me from Hertfordshire.
_Tom._
Indigestion levels all ranks.
_Imogen._
It was a nightmare. I found myself on the stage of the Olympic in that
wig you--oh, gracious! You used to play your very serious little parts
in it----
_Tom._
The wig with the ringlets?
_Imogen._
Ugh I yes.
_Tom._
I wear it to-night, for the second time this week, in a part which is
very serious--and very little.
_Imogen._
Heavens! it is in existence then!
_Tom._
And long will be, I hope. I've only three wigs, and this one
accommodates itself to so many periods.
_Imogen._
Oh, how it used to amuse the gallery-boys!
_Tom._
They still enjoy it. If you looked in this evening at
half-past-seven--I'm done at a quarter-to-eight--if you looked in at
half-past seven, you would hear the same glad, rapturous murmur in the
gallery when the presence of that wig is discovered. Not that they fail
to laugh at my other wigs, at every article of adornment I possess, in
fact! Good God, Jennny--!
_Imogen._
[_Wincing._] Ssssh!
_Tom._
Miss Parrott--if they gave up laughing at me now, I believe I--I believe
I should--_miss it_. I believe I couldn't spout my few lines now in
silence; my unaccompanied voice would sound so strange to me. Besides,
I often think those gallery-boys are really fond of me, at heart. You
can't laugh as they do--rock with laughter sometimes!--at what you
dislike.
_Imogen._
Of course not. _Of course_ they like you, Wrench. You cheer them, make
their lives happier----
_Tom._
And to-night, by the bye, I also assume that beast of a felt hat--the
gray hat with the broad brim, and the imitation wool feathers. You
remember it?
_Imogen._
Y-y-yes.
_Tom._
I see you do. Well, that hat still persists in falling off, when I most
wish it to stick on. It will tilt and tumble to-night--during one of
Telfer's pet speeches; I feel it will.
_Imogen._
Ha, ha, ha!
_Tom._