_Imogen._
Wonder--what?
_Tom._
Whether they would.
_Imogen._
The public!
_Tom._
The public. Jenny, I wonder about it sometimes so hard that that little
bedroom of mine becomes a banqueting hall, and this lodging house a
castle.
[_There is a loud and prolonged knocking at the front door._]
_Imogen._
Here they are, I suppose.
_Tom._
[_Pulling himself together._] Good Lord! Have I become disheveled?
_Imogen._
Why, are you anxious to make an impression, even down to the last,
Wrench?
_Tom._
[_Angrily._] Stop that!
_Imogen._
It's no good your being sweet on her any longer, surely?
_Tom._
[_Glaring at her._] What cats you all are, you girls!
_Imogen._
[_Holding up her hands._] Oh! oh, dear! How vulgar--after the Olympic!
[_Ablett returns, carrying three more chairs._]
_Ablett._
[_Arranging these chairs on the left of the table._] They're all 'ome!
they're all 'ome! [_Tom places the four chairs belonging to the room at
the table. To Imogen._] She looks 'eavenly, Miss Trelawny does. I was
jest takin' in the ale when she floated down the Crescent on her lover's
arm. [_ Wagging his head at Imogen admiringly._] There, I don't know
which of you two is the----
_Imogen._
[_Haughtily._] Man, keep your place!
_Ablett._
[_Hurt._] H'as you please, miss--but you apperently forget I used to
serve you with vegetables.
[_He takes up a position at the door as Telfer and Gadd enter. Telfer is
a thick-set, elderly man, with a worn, clean-shaven face and iron-gray
hair "clubbed" in the theatrical fashion of the time. Sonorous, if
somewhat husky, in speech, and elaborately dignified in bearing, he
is at the same time a little uncertain about his H's. Gadd is a
flashily-dressed young man of seven-and-twenty, with brown hair arranged
à la Byron and mustache of a deeper tone._]
_Telfer._
[_Advancing to Imogen, and kissing her paternally._] Ha, my dear child!
I heard you were 'ere. Kind of you to visit us. Welcome! I'll just put
my 'at down----
[_He places his hat on the top of the piano, and proceeds to inspect the
table._]
_Gadd._
[_Coming to Imogen, in an elegant, languishing way._] Imogen, my
darling. [_Kissing her._] Kiss Ferdy!
_Imogen._
Well, Gadd, how goes it--I mean how are you?
_Gadd._
[_Earnestly._] I'm hitting them hard this season, my darling. To-night,
Sir Thomas Clifford. They're simply waiting for my Clifford.
_Imogen._
But who on earth is your Julia?
_Gadd._
Ha! Mrs. Telfer _goes on_ for it--a venerable stopgap. Absurd, of
course; but we daren't keep my Clifford from them any longer.
_Imogen._
You'll miss Rose Trelawny in business pretty badly, I expect, Gadd?
_Gadd._
[_With a shrug of the shoulders._] She was to have done Rosalind for
my benefit. Miss Fitzhugh joins on Monday; I must pull _her_ through it
somehow.
I would reconsider my bill, but they're waiting for my Orlando, waiting
for it--
[_Colpoys enters--an insignificant, wizen little fellow who is unable to
forget that he is a low-comedian. He stands L., squinting hideously at
Imogen and indulging in extravagant gestures of endearment, while she
continues her conversation with Gadd._]
_Colpoys._
[_Failing to attract her attention._] My love! my life!
_Imogen._
[_Nodding to him indifferently._] Good-afternoon, Augustus.
_Colpoys._
[_Ridiculously._] She speaks! she hears me!
_Ablett._
[_Holding his glove before his mouth, convulsed with laughter._] Ho, ho!
oh, Mr. Colpoys! oh, reelly, sir! ho, dear!
_Gadd._
[_To Imogen, darkly._] Colpoys is not nearly as funny as he was last
year. Everybody's saying so. We want a low-comedian badly.
[_He retires, deposits his hat on the wig-block, and joins Telfer and
Tom._]
_Colpoys._
[_Staggering to Imogen and throwing his arms about her neck._] Ah--h--h!
after all these years!
_Imogen._
[_Pushing him away._] Do be careful of my things, Colpoys!
[Illustration: 0043]
_Ablett._
[_Going out, blind with mirth._] Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho!
[_He collides with Mrs. Telfer, who is entering at this moment.
Mrs. Telfer is a tall, massive lady of middle age--a faded queen of
tragedy._]
_Ablett._
[_As he disappears._] I'm sure I beg your pardon, Mrs. Telfer, ma'am.
_Mrs. Telfer._
Violent fellow! [_Advancing to Imogen and kissing her solemnly._] How is
it with you, Jenny Parrott?
_Imogen._
Thank you, Mrs. Telfer, as well as can be. And you?
_Mrs. Telfer._
[_Waving away the inquiry._] I am obliged to you for this response to
my invitation, It struck me as fitting that at such a time you should
return for a brief hour or two to the company of your old associates----
[_Becoming conscious of Colpoys, behind her, making grimaces at
Imogen._] Eh--h--h?
[_Turning to Colpoys and surprising him._] Oh--h--h! Yes, Augustus
Colpoys, you are extremely humorous off.
_Colpoys._
[_Stung._] Miss Sylvester--Mrs. Telfer!
_Mrs. Telfer._
On the stage, sir, you are enough to make a cat weep.
_Colpoys._
Madam! from one artist to another! well, I--! 'pon my soul! [_Retreating
and talking under his breath. _] Popular favorite! draw more money than
all the--old guys----
_Mrs. Telfer._
[_Following him._] What do you say, sir! Do you mutter!
[_They explain mutually. Avonia Bunn enters--an untidy, tawdrily-dressed
young woman of about three-and-twenty, with the airs of a suburban
soubrette._]
_Avonia._
[_Embracing Imogen._] Dear old girl!
_Imogen._
Well, Avonia?
_Avonia._
This is jolly, seeing you again. My eye, what a rig-out! She'll be up
directly. [_With a gulp._]She's taking a last look-round at our room.
_Imogen._
You've been crying, 'Vonia.
_Avonia._
No, I haven't. [_Breaking down._] If I have I can't help it. Rose and
I have chummed together--all this season--and part of last--and--it's a
hateful profession! The moment you make a friend----------!
[_Looking toward the door._] There! isn't she a dream? I dressed her----
[_She moves away, as Rose Trelawny and Arthur Gower enter. Rose is
nineteen, wears washed muslin, and looks divine. She has much of the
extravagance of gesture, over-emphasis in speech, and freedom of manner
engendered by the theatre, but is graceful and charming nevertheless.
Arthur is a handsome, boyish young man--"all eyes" for Rose._]
_Rose._
[_Meeting Imogen._] Dear Imogen!
_Imogen._
[_Kissing her._] Rose, dear!
_Rose._
To think of your journeying from the West to see me make my exit from
Brydon Crescent! But you're a good sort; you always were. Do sit down
and tell me--oh--! let me introduce Mr. Gower. Mr. Arthur Gower--Miss
Imogen Parrott. _The_ Miss Parrott of the Olympic.
_Arthur._
[_Reverentially._] I know. I've seen Miss Parrott as Jupiter, and as--I
forget the name--in the new comedy-----[_Imogen and Rose sit below the
table._]
_Rose._
He forgets everything but the parts _I_ play, and the pieces _I_ play
in--poor child! don't you, Arthur?
_Arthur._
[_Standing by Rose, looking down upon her._] Yes--no. Well, of course I
do! How can I help it, Miss Parrott? Miss Parrott won't think the worse
of me for that--will you, Miss Parrott?
_Mrs. Telfer._